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Page 8
"You'd better drive--I'm sure the paths aren't broken."
So, after luncheon, the two started out with the keys, Madame waving
them a cheery good-bye from the window.
"Everything about this place seems queer to me," said Isabel. "It's the
same, and yet not the same."
"I know," Rose answered. "Things are much smaller, aren't they?"
"Yes. The rooms used to be vast and the ceilings very far away. Now,
they're merely large rooms with the ceilings comfortably high. The
garden used to seem like a huge park, but now it's only a large garden.
There used to be a great many steps in the stairway, and high ones at
that. Now it's nothing compared with other flights. Only Aunt Francesca
remains the same. She hasn't changed at all."
"She's a saint," said Rose with deep conviction, as the carriage turned
into the driveway.
The house, set far back from the street, was of the true Colonial type,
with stately white pillars at the dignified entrance. The garden was a
tangled mass of undergrowth--in spite of the snow one could see that--
but the house, being substantially built, had changed scarcely at all.
"A new coat of paint will freshen it up amazingly," said Rose, as they
went up the steps. She was thrilled with a mysterious sense of adventure
which the younger woman did not share. "I feel like a burglar," she
continued, putting the key into the rusty lock.
"I feel cold," remarked Isabel, shivering in her furs.
At last the wide door swung on its creaking hinges and they went into
the loneliness and misery of an empty house. The dust of ages had
settled upon everything and penetrated every nook and cranny. The floors
groaned dismally, and the scurrying feet of mice echoed through the
walls. Cobwebs draped the windows, where the secret spinners had held
high carnival, undisturbed. An indescribable musty odour almost stifled
them and the chill dampness carried with it a sense of gloom and
foreboding.
"My goodness!" Isabel exclaimed. "Nobody can ever live here again."
"Don't be discouraged," laughed Rose. "Soap, water, sunshine, and fire
can accomplish miracles."
At the end of the hall a black, empty fireplace yawned cavernously.
There was another in the living-room and still another in the library
back of it. Isabel opened the door on the left. "Why, there's another
fireplace in the dining-room," she said. "Do you suppose they have one
in the kitchen, too?"
"Go in and see, if you like."
"I'm afraid to go alone. You come, too."
There was no fireplace in the kitchen, but the rusty range was sadly in
need of repair.
"I'm going down cellar," Rose said. "Are you coming?"
"I should say not. Hurry back, won't you?"
Rose went cautiously down the dark, narrow stairway. The light was dim
in the basement but she could see that there was no coal. She went back
and forth several times from bin to window, making notes in a small
memorandum book. She was quite determined that Aunt Francesca should be
able to find no fault with her housekeeping.
When she went back, there were no signs of Isabel. She went from room to
room, calling, then concluded that she had gone back to the carriage,
which was waiting outside.
Rose took measurements for new curtains in all the rooms on the lower
floor, then climbed the creaking stairway. She came upon Isabel in the
sitting-room, upstairs, standing absorbed before an open desk. In her
hand she held something which gleamed brightly, even in the gathering
shadow.
"Isabel!" she cried, in astonishment.
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