Stafford looked at it with admiration mingled with pity. In the light

of the story the landlord had told him he realised the full pathos of

its antique grandeur. It was not a ruin by any means: but it was grim

with the air of neglect, of desolation, of solitude. In two only, of

the many windows, was there any light; there was no sound of life about

the vast place; and the moonlight showed up with cruel distinctness the

ravages made in stone-work and wood-work by the clawlike hand of Time.

A capital of one of the pillars of the still handsome portico had

crumbled, several of the pillars were broken and askew; the great door

was blistered and cracked by the sun; evidently no paint had touched

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the place for years. The stone balustrade of the broad terrace had

several gaps in it, and the coping and the pillars were lying where

they had fallen; the steps of the terrace had grass growing in the

interstices of the stones; one of the lions which had flanked the steps

had disappeared, and the remaining one was short of a front leg. The

grass on the lawn was long and unkempt, the flower beds weedy and

straggly, and the flowers themselves growing wild and untrained.

But for the smoke which ascended from two or three of the many chimneys

the place might well have seemed deserted and uninhabited, and Stafford

with this feeling upon him stood and gazed at the place unrestrainedly.

It was difficult for him to realise that only a few hours ago he had

left London, that only last night he had dined at his club and gone to

the big Merrivale dance; it was as if he were standing in some scene of

the middle ages; he would not have been greatly surprised if the

grass-grown terrace had suddenly become crowded by old-world forms in

patches and powder, hoops and ruffles.

"Good Lord, what would some of the people I know give to belong to--to

own this place!" he said to himself. "To think of that girl living

alone here with her father!"

He was turning away when he heard a slight sound, the great door opened

slowly, and "that girl" came out on to the terrace. She stood for a

moment on the great marble door sill, then she crossed the terrace, and

leaning on the balustrade, looked dreamily at the moonlit view which

lay before her. She could not see Stafford's tall figure, which was

concealed by the shadow of one of the trees; and she thought herself

alone, as usual. Her solitude did not sadden her, she was accustomed to

it; and presently, as if moved by the exquisite beauty of the night,

her lips parted and she half sang, half hummed the jewel song from

"Faust." She had looked beautiful enough in her old riding-habit and

hat, but she seemed a vision of loveliness as she stood in the

moonlight with the old house for a background. There was something

bewitchingly virginal in the rapt and dreamy face with its dark eyes

and long lashes, in the soft, delicately cut lips, the pure ivory

pallor; at the same time something equally bewitching in the modernness

of her dress, which was of soft cream cashmere, made rather long and in

accord with the present fashion; she had placed a rose in the bosom of

her dress and it stood out redly, richly from the soft cream. Her hair

was no longer rough and touzled by the wind, but brushed in rippling

smoothness and coiled in dainty neatness in the nape of her graceful

neck. No wonder Stafford caught his breath, held it, as it were, as he

gazed at the exquisite picture, which formed so striking a contrast to

her surroundings.




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