To Brotherton it had begun to seem, by this time, as if the house and all about it, the very skies overhead, had darkened. He did not quite know at first what was the cause. It was some cloud that had come over the sun; or was there some obscurity about the house, some shadow of fate, which darkened the skies at midday? It seemed to him suddenly that nothing could be more dreary than the aspect of the place altogether, though before Lydia disappeared round the broken bit of garden-wall, it had seemed so inviting and desirable. But he did not ask himself if Lydia’s disappearance had anything to do with this sudden change: all he said to himself was, “it is only two miles from the White House,” and, strengthened by this reminder, he went on with courage into the dark portal. It was, as Liddy had said, a very tumble-down house. There was a dirty and ragged carpet on the floor, sometimes moving in waves when the windows were opened; a table stood in the centre of the largest sitting-room, and the chairs were put round, as if some sober party had just risen from them. This was on the first floor, in the drawing-room of the house; behind it were some bed-rooms scarcely more inviting; the dust rose in clouds when the air was admitted, the furniture seemed dropping to pieces. Brotherton stood at the door of one room after another, with a blank stare at them. They had but one quality; they were within two miles of the White House.
“And do you think they will suit you?” Lydia asked, coming back to him when his inspection was over.
She had not been in dusty places like those which he had just left, but came round the corner of the garden wall, looking so fresh and bright, that somehow that cloud over the sun disappeared in a moment, and the whole landscape brightened, and the dust went out of his throat. He had been feeling half choked, but he felt so no more. He had thought that they would not do at all; but now a sort of heavenly suitability seemed to come to them all at once, and it appeared to him in a moment that, if he could have the choice of all sorts of lodgings, these dreary rooms were those which would suit him best.
“They will do beautifully,” he said, with much cheerfulness. “So far as I can see they are the very thing I want; and then so near the White House! What is two miles? I shall be able to walk over constantly—if you will let me,” he added, in a softer tone.
“Of course we will let you,” said Lydia, sedately. “We shall miss you so much that we shall be very happy to have you whenever you like. But were they not in very bad order? the furniture dreadful? and everything dropping to pieces?”
“I did not see it,” said young Brotherton, stoutly. “They were, I daresay, a little dusty; when a place has been uninhabited for a long time—I suppose nobody has lived there lately?”
“Nobody has lived there since I can remember—oh, and not for a long time before. Even Uncle Henry never lived there. I think I must have been silly to bring you, for it can’t be fit to live in now I think of it; and while matters are undecided about poor Harry they will not do anything. Oh, I am afraid mother and I were hasty in thinking it would do.”
“On the contrary,” said young Brotherton, feeling in the enthusiasm of the moment as if it had been a palace which he had just quitted, “it is everything I require. Perhaps,” he added, modestly, as if by an afterthought, “they would not mind—sweeping it out.”
“I spoke to Jane, that is Isaac’s wife. Isaac is a very funny old man, but he is frightened for his wife. She keeps him right. And she will scrub it, and sweep it, and dust it, and make it as clean as a new pin. Oh, you may be quite sure of that. And then, at first, you can take your meals with us, the White House is so near—only two miles, what is that?”
“Nothing,” said Brotherton, with enthusiasm. Then he added, “I must not tire you out. I shall do very well. I can get everything I want here.”