I had no
conception of what I was confronting, or of what was to be revealed by
my explorations, but the dismalness of the picture presented to that
first glance gave me a shock impossible to explain. The house itself,
big and glaring as it was, was nevertheless little better than a ruin,
the porch beams rotten, the front blinds sagging frightfully, the paint
blistered by the sun. Several of the windows were broken, and the
steps sagged and trembled under my weight. The front yard, a full half
acre in extent, was a tangled mass of bushes and weeds, a high,
untrimmed hedge shutting off all view of the road. The narrow brick
path winding through this mass of vegetation was scarcely discernible,
apparently seldom, if ever, used. I was unable to determine the
position of the gate so luxuriant was the weed growth, and thick the
shrubbery. From the foot of the steps a narrow passage trampled into
the dirt circled the corner of the house, disappearing within a few
feet. This was the only sign visible of human occupancy.
Convinced that this must lead to the rear, and possibly the negro
cabins where Coombs slept, I followed its tortuous windings, although
half afraid to desert my guardianship of the house even for this
purpose. Still there was little to be feared so long as Mrs.
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