consequence of its ineligible and insalubrious site. Ferndean then
remained uninhabited and unfurnished, with the exception of some two or
three rooms fitted up for the accommodation of the squire when he went
there in the season to shoot.

To this house I came just ere dark on an evening marked by the
characteristics of sad sky, cold gale, and continued small penetrating
rain. The last mile I performed on foot, having dismissed the chaise and
driver with the double remuneration I had promised. Even when within a
very short distance of the manor-house, you could see nothing of it, so
thick and dark grew the timber of the gloomy wood about it. Iron gates
between granite pillars showed me where to enter, and passing through
them, I found myself at once in the twilight of close-ranked trees. There
was a grass-grown track descending the forest aisle between hoar and
knotty shafts and under branched arches. I followed it, expecting soon
to reach the dwelling; but it stretched on and on, it would far and
farther: no sign of habitation or grounds was visible.

I thought I had taken a wrong direction and lost my way. The darkness of
natural as well as of sylvan dusk gathered over me. I looked round in
search of another road. There was none: all was interwoven stem,
columnar trunk, dense summer foliage--no opening anywhere.

I proceeded: at last my way opened, the trees thinned a little; presently
I beheld a railing, then the house--scarce, by this dim light,
distinguishable from the trees; so dank and green were its decaying
walls. Entering a portal, fastened only by a latch, I stood amidst a
space of enclosed ground, from which the wood swept away in a semicircle.
There were no flowers, no garden-beds; only a broad gravel-walk girdling
a grass-plat, and this set in the heavy frame of the forest. The house
presented two pointed gables in its front; the windows were latticed and
narrow: the front door was narrow too, one step led up to it. The whole
looked, as the host of the Rochester Arms had said, "quite a desolate
spot." It was as still as a church on a week-day: the pattering rain on
the forest leaves was the only sound audible in its vicinage.

"Can there be life here?" I asked.

Yes, life of some kind there was; for I heard a movement--that narrow
front-door was unclosing, and some shape was about to issue from the
grange.

It opened slowly: a figure came out into the twilight and stood on the
step; a m