The Lilac Girl | Page 6

and the narrow door swung inward.
Gloom and mustiness were his first reward, but as his eyes became
accustomed to the darkness he saw that he was in the kitchen. There
was the sink with a hand-pump on one side and a drain-board on the
other. Here a table, spread with figured yellow oil-cloth; a range, chairs,
corner-cupboard, a silent, staring clock. His steps beat lonesomely on
the floor. A door, reached by a single step, led to the front of the house.
He pushed it open and groped his way up and in, across to the nearest
window. When the blinds were thrust aside he found himself

confronted by a long mahogany sideboard whose top still held an array
of Sheffield platters, covered dishes, candlesticks. Save for the dust
which lay heavily on every surface and eddied across the sunlight, there
was nothing to suggest desertion. Wade could fancy that the owner had
stepped out of doors for the moment or had gone upstairs. He found
himself listening for the sound of footsteps overhead or on the staircase
or in the darkened hall. But the only sounds were faint sighs and
crepitations doubtless attributable to the air from the open windows
stirring through the long-closed house, but which Wade, letting his
fancy stray, chose to believe came from the Ghosts of Things Past. He
pictured them out there in the hall, peering through the crevice of the
half-open door at the intruder with little, sad, troubled faces. He could
almost hear them whispering amongst themselves. He felt a little shiver
go over him, and threw back his shoulders and laughed softly at his
foolishness.
But the feeling that he was an intruder, a trespasser, remained with him
as he passed from room to room, throwing open windows and blinds,
and now and then sneezing as the impalpable dust tickled his nostrils.
In the sitting-room, as in every other apartment, everything looked as
though the occupant had passed out of the room but a moment before.
Wade's face grew grave and tender as he looked about him. On the
sewing machine a shallow basket held sewing materials and a few pairs
of coarse woollen stockings, neatly rolled. The poker was laid straight
along the ledge of the big "base-burner" in the corner. A table with a
green cloth stood in front of a window and bore a few magazines dated
almost ten years before. A set of walnut book-shelves held a few
sober-clad volumes, Bulfinch's "Age of Fable," "Webster's Dictionary,"
Parker's "Aids to English Composition," Horace's "Odes" in Latin,
"The Singer's Own Book," "Henry Esmond" and "Vanity Fair," "A
Chance Acquaintance," two cook-books, a number of yellow-covered
"Farmer's Almanacs," and "A Guide to the City of Boston." A
sewing-stand supported a huge family Bible. The walls were papered in
brown and a brown ingrain carpet covered the floor. There was a couch
under the side window and a few upholstered chairs were scattered
about. Now that the windows were open and the warm sunlight was
streaming in, it was a cosy, shabby, homey little room.

Wade opened the door into the hall. Perhaps the Ghosts of Things Past
scampered up the winding stairway; at least, they were not to be seen.
He found the front-door key in the lock and turned the bolt. When the
door swung inward a little thrill touched him. For the first time in his
life he was standing on his own doorsill, looking down his own front
path and through his own front gate!
In every man's nature there is the desire for home-owning. It may lie
dormant for many years, but sooner or later it will stir and call. Wade
heard its voice now, and his heart warmed to it. Fortune had brought
him the power to choose his home where he would, and build an abode
far finer than this little cottage. And yet this place, which had come to
him unexpectedly and through sorrow, seemed suddenly to lay a claim
upon him. It was such a pathetic, down-at-heels, likable little house! It
seemed to Wade as though it were saying to him: "I'm yours now. Don't
turn your back on me. I've been so very, very lonesome for so many
years! But now you've come, and you've opened my doors and
windows and given me the beautiful sunlight again, and I shall be very
happy. Stay with me and love me."
In the carryall the boy was leaning back with his feet on the dasher and
whistling softly through his teeth. The gray was nibbling sleepily at the
decrepit hitching-post. Wade glanced at his watch, and looked again in
surprise. It was later than he had thought. If he meant to get out of
Redding that night it was time he thought of starting