Lost Man's Lane: A Second Episode in the Life of Amelia ButterworthGreen, Anna Katharine
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Lost Man's Lane: A Second Episode in the Life of Amelia Butterworth
Green, Anna Katharine
Detective and mystery stories; New York (State) -- Fiction
"That's Mother Jane," explained my companion, breaking the silence of
many minutes. "And yonder is Miss Knollys' house," he added, lifting his
whip and pointing toward the half-concealed façade of a large and
pretentious dwelling a few rods farther on down the road. "She will be
powerful glad to see you, Miss. Company is scarce in these parts."
Astonished at this sudden launch into conversation by one whose reserve
I had hitherto found it impossible to penetrate, I gave him the affable
answer he evidently expected, and then looked eagerly toward the house.
It was as Mr. Gryce had intimated, exceedingly forbidding even at that
distance, and as we approached nearer and I was given a full view of its
worn and discolored front, I felt myself forced to acknowledge that
never in my life had my eyes fallen upon a habitation more given over to
neglect or less promising in its hospitality.
Had it not been for the thin circle of smoke eddying up from one of its
broken chimneys, I would have looked upon the place as one which had not
known the care or presence of man for years. There was a riot of
shrubbery in the yard, a lack of the commonest attention to order in the
way the vines drooped in tangled masses over the face of the desolate
porch, that gave to the broken pilasters and decayed window-frames of
this dreariest of façades that look of abandonment which only becomes
picturesque when nature has usurped the prerogative of man and taken
entirely to herself the empty walls and falling casements of what was
once a human dwelling. That any one should be living in it now and that
I, who have never been able to see a chair standing crooked or a curtain
awry, without a sensation of the keenest discomfort, should be on the
point of deliberately entering its doors as an inmate, filled me at the
moment with such a sense of unreality, that I descended from the
carriage in a sort of a dream and was making my way through one of the
gaps in the high antique fence that separated the yard from the gateway,
when Mr. Simsbury stopped me and pointed out the gate.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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