I walked fast when once I got in sight of the house; my heart was beating. It stood there—serene and solitary as usual—a bare, lonely, uninviting house, looking out from its quiet height upon the downs and the sheep-pastures, the sun-setting and the sunrising.
There was never anything human about "The Elms." It seemed to be intent just upon its daily work and its daily duties, and as though it might think that anything which interfered with them was not to be considered or countenanced. That day it looked more inhuman, more uninviting than ever; its white walls seemed to grin at me; its straight, tall chimneys, whence no friendly blue smoke sought the sky, seemed to point jeeringly away into the void. My heart sank as I climbed the hill and opened the gate of the farm-yard. I knew why the place looked more uninviting than ever—it was deserted, the shutters were closed, the house door was bolted; it was as if some one had died there, as some one had died at home.
I knocked once, loudly, in desperation, but I knew that nobody would come. Nobody did come; nobody came, though I knocked three times; all was still as the grave. As I walked down the hill again at last, I met Dorcas's niece with her "youngest" in her arms.
"Lor', miss, who would ha' thought to meet you so soon after your poor father died!" said she, reproachfully. "I've just been down to the village to fetch some soap."
"Oh, I see. Is Mr. Harrod expected home?" asked I, lamely.
"Home!" repeated she, gaping. "Why, he's left the place this month past. All his traps went last week."
I suppose my face showed how my heart had sunk down, for she added, half compassionately, "Didn't you know he was going, miss?"
I pulled myself together. Miserable as I was, there was an instinct within me that did not want strangers to guess at my misery.
"Oh yes, I knew he was going," said I, carelessly; "but of course we have had too much to think about at home for me to remember just when it was."