“It is not, sir. It lies to the west. But a man may come here when he is lonesome, and look at the people and the gentlemen’s houses. At night it is a pleasure to see the lights, and sometimes, when the wind is right, there is music of bands.”
“Poor Oscar!” laughed Armitage.
His mood had not often in his life been so high.
On his flight northward from Washington and southward down the Atlantic capes, the thought that Shirley Claiborne and her family must now believe him an ignoble scoundrel had wrought misgivings and pain in his heart; but at least he would soon be near her—even now she might be somewhere below in the lovely valley, and he drew off his hat and stared down upon what was glorified and enchanted ground.
“Let us go,” he said presently.
Oscar saluted, standing bridle in hand.
“You will find it easier to walk,” he said, and, leading their horses, they retraced their steps for several hundred yards along the ridge, then mounted and proceeded slowly down again until they came to a mountain road. Presently a high wire fence followed at their right, where the descent was sharply arrested, and they came to a barred wooden gate, and beside it a small cabin, evidently designed for a lodge.
“This is the place, sir,” and Oscar dismounted and threw open the gate.
The road within followed the rough contour of the hillside, that still turned downward until it broadened into a wooded plateau. The flutter of wings in the underbrush, the scamper of squirrels, the mad lope of a fox, kept the eye busy. A deer broke out of a hazel thicket, stared at the horsemen in wide-eyed amazement, then plunged into the wood and disappeared.
“There are deer, and of foxes a great plenty,” remarked Oscar.