On the right of this gate some outlines of an old lodge could be dimly seen among clustering cedar trees.
But no light appeared to indicate where door or window might be.
“De old ’oman has gone to bed hours ago, most like,” pleasantly remarked the wagoner, as David Lindsay passed through the iron gate and the wild thicket of cedar bushes and rapped at the door of the dark house.
“Who is there?” almost immediately inquired a voice from within.
“Nobody to hurt yer, ole mist’ess!” shouted Tubal, who was leaning up against a post of the gate, utterly refusing to enter the haunted grounds. “Nobody to hurt yer, ole mist’ess! Yer knows me—Tubal Cummings, from Wolf’s Gap Ferry. I done fotch a young lady and gempleman here what’s come to wisit yer.”
There was a sound of movement in the dark house, and presently a light gleamed through the joints of the windows, and soon afterward the door was opened by an elderly woman, who stood on the threshold, bearing a flaming tallow candle high above her head, and exclaiming:
“Uncle Tubal! Do you say you have brought visitors here at this place, at this hour of the night? Who are they, and what do they want?”
“Dat’s jes’ what dey mus’ ’splain for deirselves, Mist’ess Brent. Yer don’t catch dis ole chile comin’ in dere to tell yer!” exclaimed the man, beating a retreat to the shelter of his wagon.
“Tell her precisely who we are, David Lindsay. Tell her the exact truth,” said Gloria, coming to his side.
Young Lindsay went up to the housekeeper and Gloria followed closely. They could not see the face of the woman, for the candle she held aloft cast her into deep shadow.