The little spare lawyer absorbed each item of the scene with his quick, professional eye, and then turned to his guide with an air of mute interrogation.
“Yes, ’tis a mortial pity,” he exclaimed, “for ’twas once the loveliest spot in the wide world.”
The stranger made no reply, but gazed at the lake and the woods, and mentally admitted that the situation and view were not to be surpassed.
“And so you say it has been empty this twenty-one years,” he remarked at last.
“Yes, sir, ’tis twenty-one years last September since they left it. I worked here, man and boy, for the General, and the garden over there was just a wonder. When he died, it was let for a short term, and after that it went to rack and ruin as ye see.”
“And does no one ever come near it?”
“Only the caretaker, once a week,” he replied. “It is rented to graziers for dry heifers, and that’s all. Oh, ’tis a mortial pity.”
Mr. Usher turned about as he concluded, and looked into the empty shell of a dwelling. It had originally been a glorified cottage with four spacious rooms and a wide hall; kitchen and servants’ quarters were at the back. The roof was intact; remnants of rich carving, and scraps of expensive wall-paper, still streaked the walls—and bore the signatures of half the country! In the drawing-room was a boat, whilst the dining-room served as a byre for the dry heifers.
“Of course when a house is left empty for years ’tis a sore temptation,” resumed the Irishman, in an apologetic key. “The poor people around has made away with the grates and doors and window-sashes. Faix, the old General spared no money on it, and if he was to see it now, he’d haunt the place.”