Giving his horse to a servant in the
court-yard, he did not enter the patio, but, crossing the lawn,
stepped upon the long veranda. The rain was dripping from its
eaves and striking a minute spray from the vines that clung to its
columns; his footfall awoke a hollow echo as he passed, as if the
outer shell of the house were deserted; the formal yews and
hemlocks that in summer had relieved the dazzling glare of six
months' sunshine had now taken gloomy possession of the garden, and
the evening shadows, thickened by rain, seemed to lie in wait at
every corner. The servant, who had, with old-fashioned courtesy,
placed the keys and the "disposition" of that wing of the house at
his service, said that Dona Maria would wait upon him in the salon
before dinner. Knowing the difficulty of breaking the usual rigid
etiquette, and trusting to the happy intervention of Maruja--though
here, again, custom debarred him from asking for her--he allowed
the servant to remove his wet overcoat, and followed him to the
stately and solemn chamber prepared for him. The silence and gloom
of the great house, so grateful and impressive in the ardent
summer, began to weigh upon him under this shadow of an overcast
sky. He walked to the window and gazed out on the cloister-like
veranda. A melancholy willow at an angle of the stables seemed to
be wringing its hands in the rising wind. He turned for relief to
the dim fire that flickered like a votive taper in the vault-like
hearth, and drew a chair towards it.
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