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Page 24
What a sight met my eyes if I had been intent on anything less
practical than the movements of the solitary horseman below! Hills on
hills piled about a verdant basin in whose depths nestled a scanty
collection of houses, in number so small they could be told upon the
fingers of the right hand, but which notwithstanding lent an
indescribable aspect of comfort to this remote region of hill and
forest.
But the vision of Mr. Blake pausing half way down the slope before me,
examining, yes examining a pistol which he held in his hand, soon put
an end to all ideas of romance. Somewhat alarmed I reined back; but
his action had evidently no connection with me, for he did not once
glance behind him, but kept his eye on the road which I now observed
took a short turn towards a house of so weird and ominous an
appearance that I scarcely marvelled at his precaution.
Situated on a level track of land at the crossing of three roads, its
spacious front, rude and unpainted as it was, presented every
appearance of an inn, but from its moss-grown chimneys no smoke
arose, nor could I detect any sign of life in its shutterless windows
and closed doors, across which shivered the dark shadow of the one
gaunt and aged pine, that stood like a guard beside its tumbled-down
porch.
Mr. Blake seemed to have been struck by the same fact concerning its
loneliness, for hurriedly replacing his pistol in his breast pocket,
he rode slowly forward. I instantly conceived the plan of striking
across the belt of underbrush that separated me from this old
dwelling, and by taking my stand opposite its front, intercept a view
of Mr. Blake as he approached. Hastily dismounting, therefore, I led
my horse into the bushes and tied her to a tree, proceeding to carry
out my plan on foot. I was so far successful as to arrive at the
further edge of the wood, which was thick enough to conceal my
presence without being too dense to obstruct my vision, just as Mr.
Blake passed on his way to this solitary dwelling. He was looking
very anxious, but determined. Turning my eyes from him, I took another
glance at the house, which by this movement I had brought directly
before me. 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.
This old inn or decayed homestead was then the object of his
lengthened and tedious journey; this ancient house rotting away among
the bleak hills of Vermont, the bourne towards which his steps had
been tending for these past two days. I could not understand it.
Rapidly emerging from the spot where I had secreted myself, I in my
turn made a circuit of the house, if happily I should discover some
loophole of entrance which had escaped his attention. But every door
and window was securely barred, and I was about to follow his example
and leave the spot, when I saw two or three children advancing towards
me down the cross roads, gaily swinging their school books. I noticed
they hesitated and huddled together as they approached and saw me,
but not heeding this, I accosted them with a pleasant word or so, then
pointing over my shoulder to the house behind, asked who lived there.
Instantly their already pale faces grew paler.
"Why," cried one, a boy, "don't you know? That is where the two wicked
men lived who stole the money out of the Rutland bank. They were put
in prison, but they got away and--"
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