The pavilion - it had been built by the last proprietor,
Northmour's uncle, a silly and prodigal virtuoso - presented little
signs of age. It was two storeys in height, Italian in design,
surrounded by a patch of garden in which nothing had prospered but
a few coarse flowers; and looked, with its shuttered windows, not
like a house that had been deserted, but like one that had never
been tenanted by man. Northmour was plainly from home; whether, as
usual, sulking in the cabin of his yacht, or in one of his fitful
and extravagant appearances in the world of society, I had, of
course, no means of guessing. The place had an air of solitude
that daunted even a solitary like myself; the wind cried in the
chimneys with a strange and wailing note; and it was with a sense
of escape, as if I were going indoors, that I turned away and,
driving my cart before me, entered the skirts of the wood.
The Sea-Wood of Graden had been planted to shelter the cultivated
fields behind, and check the encroachments of the blowing sand. As
you advanced into it from coastward, elders were succeeded by other
hardy shrubs; but the timber was all stunted and bushy; it led a
life of conflict; the trees were accustomed to swing there all
night long in fierce winter tempests; and even in early spring, the
leaves were already flying, and autumn was beginning, in this
exposed plantation. Inland the ground rose into a little hill,
which, along with the islet, served as a sailing mark for seamen.
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