“It’s very foolish of me to talk so to a stranger,” he resumed.
“It is very kind and friendly of you,” I said, still careful to make no advances. “And you yourself belong to the old family that once lived in this old house?”
“It would be no boast to tell the truth, sir, even if it were a credit to me, which it is not. That family has been nothing but a curse to ours.”
I noted that he spoke of that family as different from his, and yet implied that he belonged to it. The explanation would come in time. But the man was again silent, planing away at half the lid of his sister’s coffin. And I could not help thinking that the closed mouth meant to utter nothing more on this occasion.
“I am sure there must be many a story to tell about this old place, if only there were any one to tell them,” I said at last, looking round the room once more.—“I think I see the remains of paintings on the ceiling.”
“You are sharp-eyed, sir. My father says they were plain enough in his young days.”
“Is your father alive, then?”
“That he is, sir, and hearty too, though he seldom goes out of doors now. Will you go up stairs and see him? He’s past ninety, sir. He has plenty of stories to tell about the old place—before it began to fall to pieces like.”
“I won’t go to-day,” I said, partly because I wanted to be at home to receive any one who might call, and partly to secure an excuse for calling again upon the carpenter sooner than I should otherwise have liked to do. “I expect visitors myself, and it is time I were at home. Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir.”