Stafford looked at it with admiration mingled with pity. In the light
of the story the landlord had told him he realised the full pathos of
its antique grandeur. It was not a ruin by any means: but it was grim
with the air of neglect, of desolation, of solitude. In two only, of
the many windows, was there any light; there was no sound of life about
the vast place; and the moonlight showed up with cruel distinctness the
ravages made in stone-work and wood-work by the clawlike hand of Time.
A capital of one of the pillars of the still handsome portico had
crumbled, several of the pillars were broken and askew; the great door
was blistered and cracked by the sun; evidently no paint had touched
the place for years. The stone balustrade of the broad terrace had
several gaps in it, and the coping and the pillars were lying where
they had fallen; the steps of the terrace had grass growing in the
interstices of the stones; one of the lions which had flanked the steps
had disappeared, and the remaining one was short of a front leg. The
grass on the lawn was long and unkempt, the flower beds weedy and
straggly, and the flowers themselves growing wild and untrained.
But for the smoke which ascended from two or three of the many chimneys
the place might well have seemed deserted and uninhabited, and Stafford
with this feeling upon him stood and gazed at the place unrestrainedly.
It was difficult for him to realise that only a few hours ago he had
left London, that only last night he had dined at his club and gone to
the big Merrivale dance; it was as if he were standing in some scene of
the middle ages; he would not have been greatly surprised if the
grass-grown terrace had suddenly become crowded by old-world forms in
patches and powder, hoops and ruffles.
"Good Lord, what would some of the people I know give to belong to--to
own this place!" he said to himself. "To think of that girl living
alone here with her father!"
He was turning away when he heard a slight sound, the great door opened
slowly, and "that girl" came out on to the terrace. She stood for a
moment on the great marble door sill, then she crossed the terrace, and
leaning on the balustrade, looked dreamily at the moonlit view which
lay before her. She could not see Stafford's tall figure, which was
concealed by the shadow of one of the trees; and she thought herself
alone, as usual. Her solitude did not sadden her, she was accustomed to
it; and presently, as if moved by the exquisite beauty of the night,
her lips parted and she half sang, half hummed the jewel song from
"Faust." She had looked beautiful enough in her old riding-habit and
hat, but she seemed a vision of loveliness as she stood in the
moonlight with the old house for a background. There was something
bewitchingly virginal in the rapt and dreamy face with its dark eyes
and long lashes, in the soft, delicately cut lips, the pure ivory
pallor; at the same time something equally bewitching in the modernness
of her dress, which was of soft cream cashmere, made rather long and in
accord with the present fashion; she had placed a rose in the bosom of
her dress and it stood out redly, richly from the soft cream. Her hair
was no longer rough and touzled by the wind, but brushed in rippling
smoothness and coiled in dainty neatness in the nape of her graceful
neck. No wonder Stafford caught his breath, held it, as it were, as he
gazed at the exquisite picture, which formed so striking a contrast to
her surroundings.