But as he drew nigh the great pile, which grew as he
approached it, his heart sank within him. His head began to ache: a
strange diffidence seized him; he could not go up to the door. He
would not mind, he said to himself, if Joan would be there the
moment the door opened. But would any servant in England admit a
fellow like him to the presence of a grand lady? How could he walk
up to the great door in the guise of one who had all night had his
lodging on the cold ground! He would reconnoitre a little, find
some quiet way of approaching the house, perhaps discover some
shelter where he might rectify what was worst in his personal
appearance! He turned away therefore from the front of the castle,
and following the road that skirted the dilapidated remnants of
fortification, passed several farmlike sheds, and arrived at a door
in a brick wall, apparently that of a garden--ancient, and green
and gray with lichens. Looking through it with the eyes of his
imagination, he saw on the other side the loveliest picture of
warmth, order, care, and ancient peace,--regions stately with yews
and cedars, fruit-trees and fountains, clean-swept walks and shady
alleys. The red wall, mottled and clouded with its lichens, and
ruffed with many a thready weed, looked like the reverse of some
bit of gorgeous brocade, on the sunny side of which must hang
blossoming peaches and pears, nectarines and apricots and apples,
on net-like trees, that spread out great obedient arms and
multitudinous twigs against it, holding on by it, and drinking in
the hot sunshine it gathered behind them.
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