Spacious and inviting, if somewhat neglected looking, were the old-fashioned grounds about the old-fashioned house. Great spreading trees stood here and there, perhaps thirty or forty in all, some in the sombre dishabille of autumn, some in unchanging robes of green. And two summer-houses, one smaller than the other, nestling in opposite corners, stood deserted and lonely amid the new-fallen carpet of dying leaves. A solitary flower-bed, evidently ill at ease amid the unfettered life about it, waved its few remaining banners, the stamp of death upon them, pensively in the evening breeze. There was an ancient fountain, too, but its lips were parched and dry, and the boyish form that stood in athletic pose above it looked weary of the long and fruitless vigil. Two brazen dogs stood near the gate, sullen and uncaring now, the chill wind awakening memories of many a winter's storm, and foretelling, too, another winter waiting at the door.
Dr. Wallis gave the brazen door-knob an uncommonly vigorous tug. "She likes you to ring as if you meant it," he explained to Harvey, the distant product of his violence pealing and repealing through the house.
"We'll likely have to wait a little while," the doctor remarked; "she never lets a servant come to the door till she peeks through that upper left-hand window herself. Don't look," he added hurriedly; "she mightn't let us in if she catches any one looking."
After a few minutes' further waiting, the harsh grating of the heavy bolt and the violent turning of the reluctant handle were followed by the apparition of a head of iron gray, a pair of absolutely emotionless eyes fixed upon the visitors in turn. Dr. Wallis nodded, the man barely returning his salutation as he led the way into a large and solemnly furnished apartment on the left. Harvey's principal impression was of the height of the ceiling and the multitude of mirrors that confronted him on every hand; there seemed to be a goodly assemblage in the room, so often were its two solitary inmates reproduced.
Harvey and the doctor were still engaged in a mental inventory of the room, its paintings, bronzes, and what not, all claiming their attention, when the solemn head of iron gray reappeared at the door.
"Miss Farringall says she'll see you in her room," said the sphinx, his lips closing with an audible smack; whereupon the scanty procession was reformed, following the servant as he led the way up a winding flight of stairs. The man knocked at the door of a small sitting-room, precipitately retiring as soon as he had pushed it partly open.
XVIII
VOICES OF THE PAST
Harvey followed his companion inside, peering eagerly for what awaited them. The mistress of the house fitted her surroundings well. She was reclining in an ample chair, a half-emptied cup of tea on a little table beside her. She was evidently much above medium height, spare and thin, a rusty dressing-gown folded loosely about her. Her hair was quite gray, and quite at liberty, not at all ill-becoming to the large, strong features, and the well-formed head. The brow was broad and high, wrinkled slightly, and furrowed deeply down the centre; high cheek-bones, a rather mobile mouth, a complexion still unfaded, joined with the bright penetrating eyes to make a decidedly interesting countenance. The face looked capable of tenderness, yet as if tenderness had cost her dear. A pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat shimmering on her brow; one swift shuffle of the face reduced them to their proper sphere.
"Barlow didn't tell me there were two," she said, without looking at the doctor. She was looking beyond him at the stranger's face. "He's got both arms anyhow, thank heaven," she said, looking at Harvey. "He nearly always brings people with one arm, that want help," she explained to the newcomer, motioning towards a chair.