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Huntingtower by John Buchan
page 54 of 288 (18%)
The two forced their way through it, and found to their surprise
that on this side there were no defences of the Huntingtower demesne.
Along the crest ran a path which had once been gravelled and trimmed.
Beyond, through a thicket of laurels and rhododendrons, they came on a
long unkempt aisle of grass, which seemed to be one of those side
avenues often found in connection with old Scots dwellings.
Keeping along this they reached a grove of beech and holly through
which showed a dim shape of masonry. By a common impulse they moved
stealthily, crouching in cover, till at the far side of the wood they
found a sunk fence and looked over an acre or two of what had once been
lawn and flower-beds to the front of the mansion.

The outline of the building was clearly silhouetted against the
glowing west, but since they were looking at the east face the
detail was all in shadow. But, dim as it was, the sight was enough
to give Dickson the surprise of his life. He had expected something
old and baronial. But this was new, raw and new, not twenty years built.
Some madness had prompted its creator to set up a replica of a
Tudor house in a countryside where the thing was unheard of. All the
tricks were there--oriel windows, lozenged panes, high twisted chimney
stacks; the very stone was red, as if to imitate the mellow brick of
some ancient Kentish manor. It was new, but it was also decaying.
The creepers had fallen from the walls, the pilasters on the terrace were
tumbling down, lichen and moss were on the doorsteps. Shuttered, silent,
abandoned, it stood like a harsh memento mori of human hopes.

Dickson had never before been affected by an inanimate thing with so
strong a sense of disquiet. He had pictured an old stone tower on a
bright headland; he found instead this raw thing among trees.
The decadence of the brand-new repels as something against nature,
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