Below, in the valley, far back from the road-side, stood an old, square mansion, of a style unusual in that region. It must have been a place of consequence in its day and generation. The roof was hipped, and broken by dormer windows, and a carved lintel crowned the door-way. An air of age and decay hung about it and the huge, black barns with sunken roofs, and the orchard, full of gnarled and barren trees, which flanked it. A broad, grass-grown avenue, stiffly bordered by dishevelled-looking Lombardy poplars, led up to the door.
Granger turned slowly, and looked full into Mrs. Jerome's face. His own was terribly agitated. Doubt, questioning, passionate appeal, spoke from every feature.
"That is the old Granger place," he said, in a strange, choked voice, with a gesture toward the house, "and that"—as a woman appeared for an instant in the door-way—"that woman——is my wife!"
The desperate look in his face intensified. His eyes seemed endeavoring to pierce into her inmost soul. His lips moved as if to speak again, but speech failed him. A quick breath escaped the lady's parted lips, and she gave him a swift, startled glance.
It was but a passing ripple on the surface of her high-bred calm. However, a smile, the slow, sweet, slightly scornful smile he knew so well, came to her lips again the next instant. She raised her eye-glasses and glanced carelessly over the scene.
"Nice old place!" she said, in her soft, indifferent way. "Quite an air about it, really!"
Granger turned and lashed the horse into a gallop. His teeth were set—his blue-gray eyes flashed.
When the door was reached he lifted the woman and her child from the carriage, and drove madly away, the impact of the wheels with the rocky road sending out fierce sparks as they whirled along.
Mrs. Jerome gathered her lilies into her arms and went slowly up to her room.