It was even more deserted-looking than I had thought; its
unpainted front with its double row of blank windows meeting your gaze
without a response, while the huge old pine with half its limbs
dismantled of foliage, rattled its old bones against its sides and
moaned in its aged fashion like the solitary retainer of a dead race.
I own I felt the cold shivers creep down my back as that creaking
sound struck my ears, though as the day was chill with an east wind I
dare say it was more the effect of my sudden cessation from exercise,
than of any superstitious awe I felt. Mr. Blake seemed to labor under
no such impressions. Riding up to the front door he knocked without
dismounting, on its dismal panels with his riding whip. No response
was heard. Knitting his brows impatiently, he tried the latch: the
door was locked. Hastily running his eye over the face of the
building, he drew rein and proceeded to ride around the house, which
he could easily do owing to the absence of every obstruction in the
way of fence or shrubbery. Finding no means of entrance he returned
again to the front door which he shook with an impatient hand that
however produced no impression upon the trusty lock, and recognizing,
doubtless, the futility of his endeavors, he drew back, and merely
pausing to give one other look at its deserted front, turned his
horse's head, and to my great amazement, proceeded with sombre mien
and clouded brow to retake the road to Melville.
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