He had carefully avoided the entrance near which old Hugh Stanmore lived. He did not want the old man to know of his visit.
He was altogether unnoticed by the people who lived in the lodge, and a few seconds later was hurrying up the drive. Yes, in spite of the winter, in spite of the leafless trees, the place was very beautiful. The noble avenue under which he was walking was very imposing, the rhododendron, and a dozen other kinds of shrubs relieved the wintry aspect. Besides, the woods were so restful, the fine park lands were the finest he had ever seen.
And he had thought they were all his. He for a short time had been master of everything!
Suddenly the house burst on his view, and with a cry, almost like a cry of pain, he stood still, and looked long and yearningly. No wonder he had loved it. It was all a country home should be.
And it might have been his! If he had obeyed Romanoff; but no; even then he felt thankful that he had not yielded to the man who tempted him.
For a moment he thought of turning back. It would be too painful to go and ask for permission to go in. But he did not turn back. As if urged on by some unseen power he made his way towards the entrance.
He had an eerie feeling in his heart as he approached the steps. He called to mind his first visit there, when he had asked the lawyer if he saw anything. For a moment he fancied he saw the outline of a shadowy form as he saw it then. But there was nothing. The grey stone walls, half hidden by ivy, stood before him as they stood then, but that wondrous face, with pitiful pleading eyes, was not to be seen.
He felt half disappointed at this. He could understand nothing, but he had a feeling that it was the form of someone who loved him, someone sent to protect him.
At first he had fought the idea. He had told himself that he was too matter-of-fact, that he had too much common sense to think of an optical illusion as something supernatural; but as event after event took place he could not help being possessed by the thought that he was under the guardianship of something, someone who watched over him, helped him. He never spoke about it to anyone; it was too sacred for discussion.
But there was nothing. He heard no voice, saw no form, and a feeling like disappointment crept into his heart. Dick Faversham was not a morbid fellow, and he had a feeling of dislike for anything like occultism. As for spiritualism, in the ordinary sense of the word, it made no appeal to him. But this was different. Somehow he had a kind of consciousness that the spirit world was all around him, and that the Almighty Beneficence used the inhabitants of that spirit world to help His children.