71. LXXI.
THE HOUSE IN THE WILDERNESS, AND ITS OCCUPANTS.
The place seemed entirely deserted, and had about it an inexpressible
air of desolation. The gloomy-looking mansion positively
oppressed my spirits as I drew near, and—alone thus
in the mysterious depths of this melancholy Wilderness—I looked
around suspiciously, tried the lock of my pistol, and prepared
to defend myself against any foe who appeared.
Why is it that some houses, and even regions of country, thus
affect us? There are mansions which seem to smile and welcome
us—where sunshine reigns, and all is bright and joyous.
Others appear to frown and receive you with averted glances—
to bring up thoughts of dark and mysterious tragedies—of blood
and murder. “Some hideous crime must have been committed
here!” you murmur, as you look upon the sullen walls; you
feel that God has cursed the roof-tree, and set his seal upon the
place. So with certain regions: they scowl at you, and oppress
the heart—and such was this melancholy Wilderness, in
which was lost, like a leaf, this gloomy and apparently deserted
house.
All at once, however, as I approached, I saw a light glimmer
through the closed shutters, and stopped. Something told me
that the place was no longer occupied by hospitable women, but
by enemies, whom it was necessary to approach with caution.
I carefully secured my sabre in my left hand, so that the weapon
could not clatter against the ground, and, silently approaching
the house, looked through a chink in the closed shutter, into
the apartment from which proceeded the light.
Here is what I beheld in the apartment—the same in which I
had held my interview with Miss Grafton and the White
Lady:
Seated at the table, half turned from me, was the woman
Parkins, in conversation with no less a personage than Fenwick.
I saw before me the same grim face and lowering brow. She
was unchanged. The eyes, cold, wary, and forbidding, were
intently fixed upon her companion.
From the woman, my glance passed to Fenwick. He was the
same lithe, muscular, and vigorous figure as before; and his
countenance, in which the dark eyes scowled disagreeably, wore
the same sneering expression. The man looked as treacherous
as a serpent; and the keen flash of the eye showed that he was
as dangerous.
He had evidently been drinking. On the table, between the
worthies, was a black bottle, and Fenwick held in his hand a
half-emptied tumbler of spirit. I saw from the slight color in
his sallow cheeks that he had reached that point where men,
under the influence of drink, grow voluble, boastful, and defiant
—prone to rude jest, and to indiscreet talking.
Something told me that the hand of Providence had directed
my steps to this obscure den; and, gluing my eyes to the
aperture in the shutter, I preserved perfect silence, and disposed
myself to listen.
