"You will find her in the house, I suppose," the young man answered carelessly. He turned indifferently away, as though he had no further interest in his visitor, and in a few minutes he was bent over another flower-bed, absorbed in his work.
Burton walked up to the house, his pulses curiously atingle. No wonder the Underwoods got themselves talked about in the neighborhood, if this was a sample of the way in which they met the advances of strangers! After ringing the bell, he glanced back at Henry Underwood. He had risen from the ground and stood with bared head looking up into the branches of the oak with an expression that struck Burton even at that distance as inexpressibly sad.
The door was opened by a middle-aged servant, in whom Burton recognized the woman he had seen gesticulating so violently in the back yard. She looked out at him with surprise and caution, and with the obvious intent of not admitting him without cause shown.
"Is Miss Underwood at home?" he asked.
"I don't know. Likely she is," the woman answered, still with that uncomprehending look of wonder at his intrusion.
"Will you take her my card, please?" And with a little more muscular effort than he was in the habit of using when entering a house, he forced the door far enough back to enable him to pass the guarded portal, and with an air of assurance that was largely factitious, walked into a room opening from the hall, which he judged to be a reception room.
The woman followed him to the door and looked dubiously from him to his card, which she still held in her hand.
"I will wait here while you see if Miss Underwood is at home and whether she can see me. Please look her up at once," he said positively. The tone was effective. The woman departed.
The same evidences of old-time dignity and present-day decay that he had noted in the grounds struck Burton in the drawing-room. The room was a stately one, built according to the old ideas of spaciousness and leisure, but the carpet was worn, the upholstery dingy, and a general air of disuse showed that the days of receptions must be long past. Evidently the Underwoods were not living in the heyday of prosperity. To do Rachel justice, she would not care about that except incidentally. But she would care a great deal about the family's social standing. Burton tried, to the best of his masculine ability, to take an inventory of things that would enable him to answer the questions she was sure to pour out upon him,--always supposing his mission were in any degree successful.
He walked to the window and looked out upon the side garden. Not far from the house was a rustic seat, and here a lady was sitting,--a tall, gray-haired lady, reading a ponderous book. The conviction that this must be Mrs. Underwood made him look at her with the liveliest interest. The servant to whom Burton had given his card came out, in obvious haste and excitement, but the reading lady merely lifted a calm hand to check her, and turned her page without raising her eyes. But she shook her head, seemingly in answer to some question, and the messenger returned hastily to the house. The lady continued to read.