The House in the Mist | Page 6

about him; and
moving over to the window where they still peered in, he drew together
the two heavy shutters which hitherto had stood back against the wall,
and, fastening them with a bar, shut out the sight of this despair, if he
could not shut out the protests which ever and anon were shouted
through the key-hole.
Meanwhile, one form had sat through this whole incident without a
gesture; and on the quiet brow, from which I could not keep my eyes,

no shadows appeared save the perpetual one of native melancholy,
which was at once the source of its attraction and the secret of its
power.
Into what sort of gathering had I stumbled? And why did I prefer to
await developments rather than ask the simplest question of any one
about me?
Meantime the lawyer had proceeded to make certain preparations. With
the help of one or two willing hands, he had drawn the great table into
the middle of the room and, having seen the candles restored to their
places, began to open his small bag and take from it a roll of paper and
several flat documents. Laying the latter in the center of the table and
slowly unrolling the former, he consulted, with his foxy eyes, the faces
surrounding him, and smiled with secret malevolence, as he noted that
every chair and every form were turned away from the picture before
which he had bent with such obvious courtesy, on entering. I alone
stood erect, and this possibly was why a gleam of curiosity was
noticeable in his glance, as he ended his scrutiny of my countenance
and bent his gaze again upon the paper he held.
"Heavens!" thought I. "What shall I answer this man if he asks me why
I continued to remain in a spot where I have so little business." The
impulse came to go. But such was the effect of this strange convocation
of persons, at night and in a mist which was itself a nightmare, that I
failed to take action and remained riveted to my place, while Mr.
Smead consulted his roll and finally asked in a business-like tone, quite
unlike his previous sarcastic speech, the names of those whom he had
the pleasure of seeing before him.
The old man in the chair spoke up first.
"Luke Westonhaugh," he announced.
"Very good!" responded the lawyer.
"Hector Westonhaugh," came from the thin man.

A nod and a look toward the next.
"John Westonhaugh."
"Nephew?" asked the lawyer.
"Yes."
"Go on, and be quick; supper will be ready at nine."
"Eunice Westonhaugh," spoke up a soft voice.
I felt my heart bound as if some inner echo responded to that name.
"Daughter of whom?"
"Hudson Westonhaugh," she gently faltered. "My father is dead--died
last night;--I am his only heir."
A grumble of dissatisfaction and a glint of unrelieved hate came from
the doubled-up figure, whose malevolence had so revolted me.
But the lawyer was not to be shaken.
"Very good! It is fortunate you trusted your feet rather than the train.
And now you! What is your name?"
He was looking, not at me as I had at first feared, but at the man next to
me, a slim but slippery youth, whose small red eyes made me shudder.
"William Witherspoon."
"Barbara's son?"
"Yes."
"Where are your brothers?"
"One of them, I think, is outside"--here he laughed;--"the other

is--sick."
The way he uttered this word made me set him down as one to be
especially wary of when he smiled. But then I had already passed
judgment on him at my first view.
"And you, madam?"--this to the large, dowdy woman with the
uncertain eye, a contrast to the young and melancholy Eunice.
"Janet Clapsaddle," she replied, waddling hungrily forward and getting
unpleasantly near the speaker, for he moved off as she approached, and
took his stand in the clear place at the head of the table.
"Very good, Mistress Clapsaddle. You were a Westonhaugh, I
believe?"
"You believe, sneak-faced hypocrite that you are!" she blurted out. "I
don't understand your lawyer ways. I like plain speaking myself. Don't
you know me, and Luke and Hector, and--and most of us indeed,
except that puny, white-faced girl yonder, whom, having been brought
up on the other side of the Ridge, we have none of us seen since she
was a screaming baby in Hildegarde's arms. And the young gentleman
over there,"--here she indicated me--"who shows so little likeness to the
rest of the family. He will have to make it pretty plain who his father
was before we shall feel like acknowledging him, either as the son of
one of Eustace's girls, or a chip from brother Salmon's hard old block."
As this caused all eyes to turn upon me, even hers,