The solitude chills him, the silence appals him. At night shadows
follow him like ghosts of the departed, and the walls echo back the
sound of his footsteps, as if demons were laughing him to scorn. The
least noise is heard over the whole house. The clock ticks so loud he
has to remove it, for it affects his nerves. The stealthy mouse tries
to annoy him with his mimic personification of the burglar, and the
wind moans among the trees as if it lamented the general desolation.
If he strolls out in his grounds, the squirrel ascends the highest
tree and chatters and scolds at the unusual intrusion, while the birds
fly away screaming with affright, as if pursued by a vulture. They
used to be tame once, when the family inhabited the house, and listen
with wonder at notes sweeter and more musical than their own. They
would even feed from the hand that protected them. His dog alone seeks
his society, and strives to assure him by mute but expressive gestures
that he at least will never desert him. As he paces his lonely
quarter-deck (as he calls the gravel-walk in front of his house), the
silver light of the moon, gleaming here and there between the stems of
the aged trees, startles him with the delusion of unreal white-robed
forms, that flit about the shady groves as if enjoying or pitying his
condition, or perhaps warning him that in a few short years he too
must join this host of disembodied spirits.
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