I stared rather blankly at the ivy-covered lodge, which, if
appearances were to be trusted, was unoccupied. But I pushed open the
iron gate and tugged at a ring which was suspended from the wall. A
discordant clangor rewarded my efforts, the cracked note of a bell
which spoke from somewhere high up in the building, that seemed to be
buffeted to and fro from fir to fir, until it died away, mournfully,
in some place of shadows far up the slope.
In the voice of the bell there was something lonesome, something akin
to the atmosphere of desertion which seemed to lie upon the whole
neighborhood--something fearful, too, as though the bell would
whisper: "Return! Beware of disturbing the dwellers in this place."
The house, one wing of which I have said was visible from the inn
window, could not be seen at all from the gate. Indeed I had lost
sight of it at the moment that I had set out and had never obtained a
glimpse of it since.
Ten minutes before, I had inquired the way from a farm-laborer whom I
had met on the road, and he had answered me with a curiosity but
thinly veiled. His directions had been characterized by that rustic
vagueness which assumes in the inquirer an intimate knowledge of local
landmarks. But nevertheless I believed I had come aright. I gathered
from its name that Friar's Park was in part at least a former monastic
building, and certainly the cracked bell spoke with the voice of
ancient monasteries, and had in it the hush of cloisters and the sigh
of renunciation.
Pages:
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127