Холодный дом

Chesney Wold

           Thencethepathwoundunderneathagateway,andthroughacourt-yardwheretheprincipalentrancewas(Ihurriedquicklyon),andbythestableswherenonebutdeepvoicesseemedtobe,whetherinthemurmuringofthewindthroughthestrongmassofivyholdingtoahighredwall,orinthelowcomplainingoftheweathercock,orinthebarkingofthedogs,orintheslowstrikingofaclock.So,encounteringpresentlyasweetsmelloflimes,whoserustlingIcouldhear,Iturnedwiththeturningofthepathtothesouthfront,andthereabovemewerethebalustradesoftheGhost’sWalkandonelightedwindowthatmightbemymother’s.Thewaywaspavedhere,liketheterraceoverhead,andmyfootstepsfrombeingnoiselessmadeanechoingsoundupontheflags.Stoppingtolookatnothing,butseeingallIdidseeasIwent,Iwaspassingquicklyon,andinafewmomentsshouldhavepassedthelightedwindow,whenmyechoingfootstepsbroughtitsuddenlyintomymindthattherewasadreadfultruthinthelegendoftheGhost’sWalk,thatitwasIwhowastobringcalamityuponthestatelyhouseandthatmywarningfeetwerehauntingiteventhen.Seizedwithanaugmentedterrorofmyselfwhichturnedmecold,Iranfrommyselfandeverything,retracedthewaybywhichIhadcome,andneverpauseduntilIhadgainedthelodge-gate,andtheparklaysullenandblackbehindme.NotbeforeIwasaloneinmyownroomforthenightandhadagainbeendejectedandunhappytheredidIbegintoknowhowwrongandthanklessthisstatewas.

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