“My grandfather planted the place,” he said. “He understood those things. I don’t. But it’s pretty. My mother, Evelyn Aston, you know, used to always travel by night if she could, she disliked the country round so much.”
“It is rather a striking contrast,” Christopher agreed.
They passed through a clump of chestnuts just breaking into leaf.
“There is coal here,” said Peter. “It will all have to go some day. I make no additions now.”
They came suddenly on the house, which was built of grey pointed stone, its low-angle slate roof hidden behind a high balustrading. The centre part was evidently the original house and long curved wings had been extended on either side. There was no sign of life about the place, nor did it carry the placid sense of repose that haunts old houses. Stormly Park had an air of waiting; a certain grim expectation lurked 232 behind the over-mantled windows and closed doors. It was as if it watched for the fate foreshadowed in its owner’s words. Even the glorious sunlight pouring over it failed to give it a sense of warm living life.
It filled Christopher with curiosity and a desire to explore the grey fastness and trim level lawns beyond. Some living eyes watched, however, for the front door swung open as they approached and two footmen came out. Christopher again noted Peter Masters did not speak to them or appear to notice their presence. On the steps he paused, and stood aside.
“Go in,” he said when his visitor hesitated.
Christopher obeyed.
The interior was almost as great a contrast to the exterior as the Park was to the surrounding country. It was rich with colour and warmth and comfort.
They were met by a thin, straightened-looking individual, who murmured a greeting to which Peter Masters paid no attention.