THE HOUSE PARTY


The piers of the main entrance of Chadlands were of red brick, and
upon each reposed a mighty sphere of grey granite. Behind them
stretched away the park, where forest trees, nearly shorn of their
leaves at the edge of winter, still answered the setting sun with
fires of thinning foliage. They sank away through stretches of
brake fern, and already amid their trunks arose a thin, blue
haze--breath of earth made visible by coming cold. There was frost
in the air, and the sickle of a new moon hung where dusk of evening
dimmed the green of the western sky.

The guns were returning, and eight men with three women arrived at
the lofty gates. One of the party rode a grey pony, and a woman
walked on each side of him. They chattered together, and the
little company of tweed-clad people passed into Chadlands Park and
trudged forward, where the manor house rose half a mile ahead.

Then an old man emerged from a lodge, hidden behind a grove of
laurel and bay within the entrance, and shut the great gates of
scroll iron. They were of a flamboyant Italian period, and more
arrestive than distinguished. Panelled upon them, and belonging
to a later day than they, had been imposed two iron coats of arms,
with crest above and motto beneath--the heraldic bearings of the
present owner of Chadlands. He set store upon such things, but
was not responsible for the work. A survival himself, and steeped
in ancient opinions, his coat, won in a forgotten age, interested
him only less than his Mutiny medal--his sole personal claim to
public honor. He had served in youth as a soldier, but was still