It was here, it should be here, it must be. She nearly reeled in the wide road as she peered fearfully about her, looking for so many familiar tokens which should have studded the landscape—but didn’t.
It was, it must be, Folly Corner. But—but—was that a new house? What was the meaning of that wall which shot up like a straight, unrelenting shaft and mocked her?
The pond was there. The pond! She stared at the big, brown patch of water affectionately—certain of that, anyway.
The house! Yes. The house was the same. It wasn’t a new house. She penetrated through its modern coat, its gingerbread attempt at gentility. The house was there. She could not see very well; the impish mist tantalized her. But the hard, smooth line of roof told her that the tiles were new. The yew was gone, the bristly, unclipt umbrella yew which had watched Edred kiss pink Nancy: the yew which knew the night of her secret vigil.
That night! The night when she had waited. The night when Boyce had helped the poor cow with her calving; the night when Chalcraft had thrown earth at his master’s window to rouse him, because it was raining, and the ricks were not covered. That night!
She had crept like a criminal a dozen times down the brick-path, had stood between the poplars, had looked along the road, had heard feet, phantom feet, which came and died and finally departed. That night! The poplars were gone, the yew, the raised path of worn bricks. They had gone and taken that old story of dishonor with them.
A sinuous carriage drive of the brightest gravel wound away, beginning where the entrance to the yard had been. The yard had been redeemed and planted as a shrubbery; the new wall half hid the ample farm-buildings. The shrubbery was very new—glossy laurels and firs set at regular intervals, the ground between newly dug. She thought—and marveled at herself for the preference—that she would rather have seen the mother-pig there, as in the old days—with a pendulous stomach sweeping the soiled ground, and a litter of pink, squeaking things about her.
The gates leading to the drive were newly hung. She pushed them back fearfully and went toward the house, treading on the beautifully-cut grass edge, because she was afraid of the crunch of her own feet in the death-like silence and pallor of the early evening.
Firelight danced inside the house. As she drew nearer and yet nearer she could see that there were two fires, one in the dining-room, one in the drawing-room. The dining-room wouldn’t be dark now that the yew was gone. That must be an improvement. Yet, at every step she made notes of disapproval. It was so cold, so tame, so flat and unfeeling; these mechanically set shrubs, that gleaming regular roof, those wide windows. Yes! She was near enough to see. There were new windows, sash windows, with little panes above and one large pane beneath. She had once said impatiently to Jethro that lead lights cut up the view. He had taken advantage of her ideas for the benefit of that girl. Of course, there must be a girl. He would not have gone to all this expense, except with a view to a wife.
She was near the house, so near that it seemed to throb out to her with sympathy. She put out her hand and touched the spick, newly-painted walls. With a quick feeling of resentment she saw that they had cut down the Devoniensis rose—that globular, foam-like, ethereal thing which she had worshiped more than any of the roses. She looked down, round, up, making mental, resentful notes of everything. There were pert pots on the wide-throated chimneys, grotesque and poor-looking. There was a new window upstairs, high and narrow, filled with stained glass. That must be the bath-room. Most of the upper rooms were dimly lighted. She had often insisted that this was the proper thing to do—in good houses. Jethro had resisted the innovation, with a view to the oil involved.