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Updated: May 24, 2025
I hastened to the kitchen, closing the dining-room door behind me just in time to prevent Lute's following me. Johnson, the butler, was standing on the mica slab at the threshold inspecting our humble premises with lofty disdain. "Mr. Colton sent this to you, sir," he said, handing me an envelope. "He wishes you to send a receipt by me."
Beating out the flame that licked his shirt, he abandoned the rest and fled, howling like a madman. The thing which D. W. Kelly had feared had come to pass and the frame building was doomed to its gutting. So frequently of late had ungodly bellowings and outcries broken the fitful rest of this house, that for a brief space, Lute's howls of alarm failed to carry their true significance.
Now and again he caught glimpses, framed in green foliage, of the golden brown of Lute's corduroy riding-habit and of the bay horse that moved beneath her. She rode out into an open space where a loose earth-slide denied lodgement to trees and grass. She halted the horse at the brink of the slide and glanced down it with a measuring eye.
In consequence we used them about twice a year, when the minister came. "Of course," she said, "I ain't askin' you what happened over there or why he wanted to see you. But I give you fair warnin' that, if I don't, Lute will. Lute's so stuffed with curiosity that he's li'ble to bust the stitches any minute." "I'll tell you both, at supper," I said. "Um-hm," said Dorinda.
Aunt Mildred stirred briskly and looked up from the Planchette board. "Come, let us begin," she said. "It will soon grow chilly. Robert, where are those children?" "Here we are," Lute called out, disengaging herself. "Now for a bundle of creeps," Chris whispered, as they started in. Lute's prophecy of the manner in which her lover would be received was realized. Mrs.
Chris's gaze roved over them, and he was aware of a guilty sorrow-pang as he paused for a moment on Lute's Aunt Mildred and Uncle Robert, mellow with ripe middle age and genial with the gentle buffets life had dealt them. He passed amusedly over the black-eyed, frail-bodied Mrs.
Canst thou really be my son, or art thou some musician's brat, foisted into my son's place by some dark underhand intrigue, when I was looking the other way? For who ever heard of a Yuwarájá, destined to sit upon the throne when I have entered the fire, neglecting all his duties for the sake of a lute's strings?
"Well, I shouldn't think a little extry more or less would make much difference. Never mind, don't waste any more on me. Get the gas out of your head, if Roscoe wants you to. You can wash the window afterward." Lute's parting words were that he would fill that tank the very first thing. If he had but there! he didn't. The fog had come almost without warning.
I did not expect mail, and I did not require Simeon's services in any one of his professional capacities. Possibly Lute's suggestion had some sort of psychic effect and I stopped at the post-office involuntarily. At any rate, I woke from the trance in which the encounter with the automobile had left me to find myself walking in at the door.
"Spirits moving musically To a lute's well-ordered law," The Haunted Palace, by Edgar A. Poe. do we not read the placid significance thereof in the human countenance? "I have seen," said Charles Lamb, "faces upon which the dove of peace sat brooding."
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