He was not an agreeable-looking person, at least to me. His hair was sleek, his beard well cared for, his whole person in good if not prosperous condition, but he had the self-satisfied expression I detest, and looked after us with an aspect of surprise I chose to consider a trifle impertinent. Perhaps he envied Mr. Trohm. If so, he may have had good reason for it—it is not for me to judge.
Up to now I had seen only a few scrub bushes at the side of the road, with here and there a solitary poplar to enliven the dead level on either side of us; but after we had ridden by the fence which sets the boundary to the good deacon’s land, I noticed such a change in the appearance of the lane that I could not but exclaim over the natural as well as cultivated beauties which every passing moment was bringing before me.
Mr. Trohm could not conceal his pleasure.
“These are my lands,” said he. “I have bestowed unremitting attention upon them for years. It is my hobby, madam. There is not a tree you see that has not received my careful attention. Yonder orchard was set out by me, and the fruit it yields—Madam, I hope you will remain long enough with us to taste a certain rare and luscious peach that I brought from France a few years ago. It gives promise of reaching its full perfection this year, and I shall be gratified indeed if you can give it your approval.”
This was politeness indeed, especially as I knew what value men like him set upon each individual fruit they watch ripen under their care. Testifying my appreciation of his kindness, I endeavored to introduce another and less harmless and perhaps less personally interesting topic of conversation. The chimneys of his house were beginning to show over the trees, and I had heard nothing from this man on the subject which should have been the most interesting of all to me at this moment. And he was the only person in town I was at liberty to really confide in, and possibly the only man in town who could give me a reliable statement of the reasons why the family I was visiting was regarded in a doubtful light not only by the credulous villagers, but by the New York police. I began by an allusion to the phantom coach.
“I hear,” said I, “that this lane has other claims to attention beyond those afforded by the mysteries connected with it. I hear that it has at times a ghostly visitant in the shape of a spectral horse and carriage.”
“Yes,” he replied, with a seeming understanding that was very flattering; “do not spare the lane one of its honors. It has its nightly horror as well as its daily fear. I wish the one were as unreal as the other.”
“You act as if both were unreal to you,” said I. “The contrast between your appearance and that of some other members of the lane is quite marked.”
“You refer”—he seemed to hate to speak—“to the Misses Knollys, I presume.”
I endeavored to treat the subject lightly.
“To your young enemy, Lucetta,” I smilingly replied.
He had been looking at me in a perfectly modest and respectful manner, but he dropped his eyes at this and busied himself abstractedly, and yet I thought with some intention, in removing a fly from the horse’s flank with the tip of his whip.
“I will not acknowledge her as an enemy,” he quietly returned in strictly modulated tones. “I like the girl too well.”
The fly had been by this time dislodged, but he did not look up.
“And William?” I suggested. “What do you think of William?”
Slowly he straightened himself. Slowly he dropped the whip back into its socket. I thought he was going to answer, when suddenly his whole attitude changed and he turned upon me a beaming face full of nothing but pleasure.
“The road takes a turn here. In another moment you will see my house.” And even while he spoke it burst upon us, and I instantly forgot that I had just ventured on a somewhat hazardous question.
It was such a pretty place, and it was so beautifully and exquisitely kept. There was a charm about its rose-encircled porch that is only to be found in very old places that have been appreciatively cared for. A high fence painted white enclosed a lawn like velvet, and the house itself, shining with a fresh coat of yellow paint, bore signs of comfort in its white-curtained windows not usually to be found in the solitary dwelling of a bachelor. I found my eyes roving over each detail with delight, and almost blushed, or, rather, had I been twenty years younger might have been thought to blush, as I met his eyes and saw how much my pleasure gratified him.
“You must excuse me if I express too much admiration for what I see before me,” I said, with what I have every reason to believe was a highly successful effort to hide my confusion. “I have always had a great leaning towards well-ordered walks and trimly kept flowerbeds—a leaning, alas! which I have found myself unable to gratify.”
“Do not apologize,” he hastened to say. “You but redouble my own pleasure in thus honoring my poor efforts with your regard. I have spared no pains, madam, I have spared no pains to render this place beautiful, and most of what you see, I am proud to say, has been accomplished by my own hands.”
“Indeed!” I cried in some surprise, letting my eye rest with satisfaction on the top of a long well-sweep that was one of the picturesque features of the place.
“It may have been folly,” he remarked, with a gloating sweep of his eye
