The night seemed to grow more beautiful every minute, and just as we turned out of the grounds into the road, the big yellow moon sailed slowly up over the eastern horizon, sending long streamers of golden light through the naked branches of the elms. I turned for a last look at the house, where it loomed soft and dim through the vista of trees leading up to it: I could see the white door, the grey steps, flanked by graceful pillars. What a home it was! And I sighed again as I realized that it was not really ours, and perhaps might never be.
I have wondered since at my instant affection for it, which grew and grew in warmth until it amounted to positive adoration. I have entered many houses before and since, many of them more beautiful than this, but not one of them so moved and won my soul’s soul as did that square old mansion. And I have often thought that perhaps for some of us there is on earth a predestined dwelling-place, which we somehow recognize and long for, and apart from which we are unhappy. Unhappy—it is worse than that—the ceaseless, miserable yearning! How well I know!
As I looked back that evening, something of this feeling came to me, as though I were leaving something infinitely dear and precious. It was only by a positive effort that I kept on with the others, down the path and through the gate and along the road. We had not far to go, for a short walk soon brought us to another gate, through which we turned along a broad path, which led to an open doorway beaming with cheerful welcome. At the sound of our footsteps, a woman and a boy appeared against the light in the hall, and came down the steps to meet us.
“My dear,” said Mr. Chester, “this is Mrs. Truman—my wife, Mrs. Truman—and these are Cecil and Dick. Come here, Tom, and meet your new neighbours,” he added to the boy.
As the boy turned so that the light fell on his face, I gave a little gasp of astonishment, and he tried in vain to suppress the snigger that burst from him.
“This is my son,” went on Mr. Chester, and then stopped as he saw my suffused face and his son’s distorted countenance. “Tom, you rascal,” he cried, “what mischief have you been up to now?”
“It wasn’t any mischief, sir,” I hastened to explain. “Only—only—I was in the garden, and he was on the wall, and he wanted to come down on our side.”
“And she said I shouldn’t till she’d found out more about me!” cried Tom. “She said she’d ask you, sir.”
“And very wise of her,” nodded his father. “I’m afraid I can’t give a very good account of you, sir.”
“I warned her that you were prejudiced, sir,” cried Tom.