She was soon at the park gate, and passed through it with a beating
heart. She had heard of the bloodhounds; and the sound of a bark in the
distance--though it was only the collie at the farm--gave her a start of
terror.
The Whitebeck gate was but a short distance from the house, and as
she turned a corner, the Tower rose suddenly before her. She held her
breath; it looked so big, so darkly magnificent. She thought of all the
tales that had been told her, the rooms full of silver and gold--the
_arazzi_--the _stucchi_--the cabinets and sculpture. She had grown up in
an atmosphere of perpetual bric-a-brac; she had seen the big Florentine
shops; she could imagine what it was like.
There were lights in two of the windows; and the smoke from several
chimneys rose wind-beaten against the woods behind. The moon stood
immediately over the roof, and the shadow of the house stretched beyond
the forecourt almost to her feet.
She lingered a few minutes, fascinated, gazing at this huge place where
her father lived--her father whom she had never seen since she was a
baby. The moon lit up her tiny figure, and her small white face, as she
stood in the open, alone in the wintry silence.
Then, swiftly, and instead of going up to the front door, she turned to
the right along a narrow flagged path that skirted the forecourt and led
to the back of the house.
She knew exactly what to do. She had planned it all with Hesketh,
Hesketh, who was the daughter of a farmer on the Duddon estate, fifty
years old, a born gossip, and acquainted with every man, woman and
child in the neighbourhood.
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