His voice trailed as the car, following the curve of the gravel drive, came to a halt in front of the big white house they had dimly glimpsed through the rain. On closer inspection, it was very badly in need of repair. Paint curled on the heavy fluted columns, one of which slanted at a dangerous angle. The fanlight over the door looked like a grinning mouth with several teeth out, and the ornate brass knocker was tarnished black; so black that the young couple could barely make out the name engraved on it: FARADAY. Somewhere a shutter creaked on a rusty hinge, with a sound like a groan of pain. Yet, in front of the door, a shabby Welcome mat gave a contrasting note of hospitality.
Drenched, shivering, the newlyweds hesitated on the wide veranda. They looked at each other, debating whether to knock or climb back into their car and drive on.
Their decision was made for them, quite without warning, the front door swung open, and a giant Negro in the worn livery of a butler towered over them. His short-cropped kinky hair was snow-white—as were the irises of his eyes, which remained fixed on a point just above Tom’s prickling scalp. Involuntarily, Jean gasped and edged closer to her husband, staring up at the man—who was almost seven feet tall. At her slight noise, the milky eyes followed her; and they realized that he was blind.
“We . . . we wondered if . . . ? I mean, we saw your sign. And it was raining so hard . . .” Tom’s hearty voice gave out.
For the sound of his vibrant young baritone seemed to startle the giant Negro. His eyes, like white agates with their film of cataracts, widened. His lips trembled, then pressed together firmly, as with an effort of self-control.
“S-sometime I kin hear ‘em . . . I kin hear ‘em real plain!” he mumbled, obviously talking to himself. Then, with a sweeping bow reminiscent of a more gracious era when the old mansion was new, he stood aside and gestured them into the hall. “Come in, Suh! And . . . and Ma’m; Faraday House makes you welcome! Miss Addie seen you th’ough a window o’ de parlor, and say: ‘Saul, you go open de door for our guests! Hit ain’t a fit night for ducks to be out in!’ Miss Addie say . . .”
Prattling on in a high childlike voice, the huge Negro ushered them through the door, bowing and scraping. With apprehensive lifts of the eyebrows, the newlyweds took off their wet coats and hung them on an ornate deer-horn hat rack. They followed uncertainly as the butler beckoned them toward a doorway down the long hall that was lighted only by candles in a series of shimmering crystal candelabra.
“Miss Addie right in here, in de parlor!” the tall Negro gestured again, with a bow. “Her and de . . . de other guests . . .”
Tom and Jean, walking very close together, trailed after him, and peered uncertainly through a door indicated by his sweeping black hand. At the threshold, they paused—aware first of a great paneled room; shabby now with its rotting brocades and velvet draperies, but still as beautiful and inviting as in the days when gray-uniformed soldiers and lovely women in crinoline must have laughed and chattered here.
*
A log fire burned in the fireplace, throwing distorted shadows over the room with its exquisite Colonial furniture and antique bric-a-brac. From a chair near the fire, as they entered, a little old lady rose with the quick fluttering motions of a bird, and came to meet them, smiling with a strange mixture of pleasure and regret on her wrinkled face. She wore a black-lace dress with a velvet collar, pinned at the neck by a handsome coral-and-pearl brooch that matched the coral earrings in her pierced ears. Silvery hair was piled up on her head in a quaint style, many years out of fashion, and fastened thus with a pearl-and-coral comb. By her gala attire, also by their sudden awareness of several other people in the room, Tom and Jean were taken aback.
“Oh . . .!” Jean murmured. “I . . . we didn’t mean to break in on a . . . a private party!” she apologized. “Perhaps you don’t take tourists anymore?”
“Tourists?” The old lady laughed gently at the word, as though she found it secretly amusing. “Oh! Oh, yes, my dear. You and your . . . your husband?” She glanced astutely from the ring on Jean’s hand to Tom’s uniform, then nodded. “You and your young soldier-husband are quite welcome here. Newlyweds?” She clucked her tongue at Jean’s shy nod and Tom’s flush. “How sad!” she murmured. “But at least you’re together. Sometimes those who stop here alone are so frightened, so bewildered . . . !”
Tom and Jean looked at her blankly. Then Tom grinned, interpreting her queer words in terms of his uniform and the current war.
“Oh! Yeah. . . . And you say we can get a room for the night? Do you serve meals?”
“Anything you like.” The old lady called Miss Addie nodded her head kindly. “Anything to make you . . . comfortable, until you’re ready to . . . to go on. Would you like to register?” She gestured toward a dog-eared book on the table, beside which lay a quilled pen and an old-fashioned ink bottle quite empty of ink.
“Yes, of course!” Tom stepped briskly to the table, and flipped open the book. Riffling through the pages to find the last one bearing the present date, he frowned slowly . . .
The last page which bore signatures and addresses of registrants was yellow with age—and was dated ten years ago! He started to lift the pen, then laid it down again, puzzled.
If Miss Addie Faraday kept “overnight guests” for a living, Tom thought, she and her rundown tourist-home were not doing much business. Either that, or her guests—even those now moving restlessly around the friendly, firelit room—did not comply with the national law requiring all paying roomers to register. Something very odd was going on here.
“I . . . believe I’ll register later,” Tom said cautiously, glancing around at the other occupants of the room. “Will that be all right?”
“Quite all right,” Miss Addie nodded amiably. “And now . . . Would you like to go straight to your room? I see you have no luggage . . .”
Tom dug into his pocket at once. “It’s . . . it’s still in the car. But we want to pay in advance, anyway . . .” He fumbled in another pocket, a slow flush creeping over his face. “Gosh! Can’t seem to find my . . . my wallet . . . ! Could I have dropped it when we . . . we got out of the car?”
Old Miss Faraday’s expression of gracious welcome did not change, except for a slight quirk of kindly amusement at the corner of her wrinkled mouth. She held up her hand, speaking calmly, soothingly, as to an upset child.
“Don’t trouble yourself about it. You can pay me when you . . . check out. And Saul will take care of your luggage . . . Saul?” She raised her sweet, birdlike voice, and the giant Negro reappeared in the doorway. “This gentleman thinks he may have dropped his wallet outside. Will you look for it, please? And their luggage? Of course, there’s no hurry . . .”
There was, Tom noted with growing suspicion and annoyance, a definite note of amusement in the old lady’s voice, as though she were playing some sort of game—a secret game in which the tall butler shared, somewhat sulkily.
“Yas’m,” he bowed. “Anything else, Miss Addie?”
“No . . . no.” His mistress fluttered a hand pleasantly. “Not just now. Perhaps later the young people will like a snack served in their room. Honeymoon-style . . . eh?” From somewhere in the folds of her lace gown, she actually produced a little ivory fan, and pretended to tap Tom’s wrist with it playfully. “Partridge? Saul shot two or three yesterday, out in the north pasture. His dog, Feather, has been trained to bark when she points. Saul fires at the sound of their wings. Partridge—he’s quite lucky with partridge. They whir, you know . . .”
“No kidding?” Tom, a demon-hunter himself, could not help a boyish exclamation at her words. “Say, honey, did you hear what . . . ?”
He turned to Jean—and broke off as their eyes met. The gracious air of hospitality about this old house, with its tiny silver-haired hostess and its giant black menial,