FARBIS COURT.
The house built on the side of the hill was a dreary-looking place,
standing in a park of no very great extent. Gloomy pine-woods rose
above it, and the grounds appertaining to the mansion stretched below
in a gentle slope towards the village. So sheltered was the park from
sea-winds by reason of the depression of the ground, that therein
flourished quite a forest in wild luxuriance. Oak, and sycamore, and
beech, and elm, all lifted their giant boughs in the genial
atmosphere, and formed a wood round the Court similar to that said to
have environed the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. It was almost as
impenetrable, and quite as wild in growth.
Here the fecundation of Nature went on incessantly, unrestrained by
the hand of man. Nothing was kept within bounds; so, untended and
untouched, the forest--for, though of limited extent, it could be
called by no other name--relapsed into its wild state. The trees
crowded so thickly together that they almost excluded the sunlight.
Parasites grew unchecked round the aged boles; wan grasses, uncoloured
by the sun, sprang high and thick; while groves of saplings made the
wood well-nigh impassable. Wild creatures dwelt in the undergrowth,
undisturbed by sportsman or poacher, and overhead flocks of birds made
the forest musical from sunrise to sunset. Here and there spread
stagnant pools of water, choked with weeds, and almost hidden by
broad-leaved lilies. And there were winding paths, overgrown with moss
and grass, blocked by fallen tree-trunks, and barred to the most
resolute pioneer by brushwood and tangled briars. Desolation ruled
supreme throughout the deserted domain.
From the rusty iron gates at the termination of the avenue up to the
house itself stretched this jungle, and egress could only be obtained
by means of the carriage-drive, which was in fairly good repair.
Woods, and lawns, and flowerbeds, and paths were allowed to go to rack
and ruin. For half a century Nature had done as she liked, with the
result that Farbis Park became a wilderness. Only in tropical Africa
could such savagery be paralleled.
Nor was the house much better as regards care. Its long façade of red
brick was reared on a substructure of terraces, whence wide flights of
steps led downward to neglected lawn and gloomy forest. The trees had
almost pushed their way to the balustrade of the terrace, and looked
as though anxious to stifle the mansion in their close embrace. There
were ranges of staring windows, turrets and gables and towers, sloping
roofs and twisted chimney-stacks. Moss grew in the chinks of the
bricks, many of the windows were broken, and here and there a crazy
shutter swung noisily by one hinge. The coat of arms over the porch
was mouldering and defaced; the steps leading to the iron-bound door
were broken and timeworn. But that smoke issued from the chimneys in
the daytime, and that lights gleamed from the windows by night, one
would have deemed the great mansion uninhabited. Yet Miss Linisfarne
dwelt therein. But her existence was one of more than conventual
seclusion, and she herself decayed with the decaying woods and house.
Long since had the Farbis folk ceased to wonder who she was, and why
she had buried herself in so lonely a dwelling. Many of the villagers
remembered that stormy December day, more than twenty years ago, when
a travelling carriage crossed the moors, and brought a handsome young
woman to that ill-omened house. From the time she arrived at Farbis,
Miss Linisfarne had never left it again, but dwelt at the Court in
solitary state, unfriended, almost unvisited. Parson Jarner and Meg
were alone permitted to cross her threshold. No villager was invited
to the kitchen of Farbis Court, nor did the servants mix with those
who dwelt without the gates. It was surmised that there was some
mystery connected with the persistent seclusion of Miss Linisfarne,
but no one was clever enough to guess what the mystery might be. The
general opinion was that the tenant of the Court had committed a
crime, and had of her own free will condemned herself to a solitary
life in expiation thereof. But this was a mere rumour, and unsupported
by facts.
If, as it was hinted, Parson Jarner knew the reason for this
penitential life, never by word, or deed, or look did he reveal such
unholy knowledge. No Sphinx could be more secretive than this simple
divine when it so pleased him, therefore the villagers had little
chance of having their curiosity gratified in that direction. The
vicar paid frequent visits to the recluse, and always returned
therefrom with a meditative air and frowning brow. His flock wondered
at this, wondered at Miss Linisfarne's seclusion, wondered at
everything connected with the Court, till after the lapse of a decade
the novelty of the thing wore itself out, and they ceased wondering
altogether. Yet they were constantly on the watch for the happening of
some untoward event, and hoped, not without reason, to some day know
the truth.
Miss Linisfarne, being an invalid, was usually confined to one
apartment--a great drawing-room which overlooked the terrace. During
the early years of her exile--for so she termed it--she had enjoyed
perfect health, and then drove frequently through the village on her
way up the winding road to the moors. She had even strolled about the
park, in those places where the savage wildness of the place permitted
her to walk with comparative ease. Now all was changed. She never went
beyond the gates, nor did she walk in the grounds, but when not lying
on her couch, paced languidly up and down the terrace, or, if the
weather was bad, exercised her feeble limbs in the picture-gallery.
Can you conceive a more pitiful picture than that of this lonely
figure wandering through the corridors, and galleries, and vast rooms
of this desolate house?
With such a tenant dwelling amid such surroundings, it was little to
be wondered at that the Court gained the reputation of being haunted.
Miss Linisfarne was reported to be wealthy, but not all the treasures
of Solomon would have tempted a Farbis man to penetrate the mansion
after dark. And this same superstition preserved the Court from the
intrusion of the villagers either as visitors, beggars, or burglars.
They dreaded even to pass the gates after dusk, and with fertile
imagination began to weave strange stories of the lonely lady in the
lonely house. Parson Jarner discouraged these tales, and reproved the
tellers, but notwithstanding his prohibition, Farbis folk still held
to their opinions. They declared that the Court was haunted, that Miss
Linisfarne was a witch, that orgies were held in the empty rooms at
midnight, and that cries of tortured women and of dying men could be
heard at night. With such fancies did the villagers beguile the winter
evenings over their fires. Superstition was strangely ingrained in the
nature of the Farbis folk, and all Parson Jarner's arguments failed to
eradicate their deeply rooted beliefs.
The drawing-room, wherein Miss Linisfarne was generally to be found,
was a vast apartment in the right-hand corner of the house. Eight
French windows opened on to the front terrace, and five oriels at the
side overlooked a sea of green, for here the forest rolled its leafy
waves up to the very walls of the mansion. This apartment possessed a
polished floor, which was strewn with bright-hued mats from the looms
of Ispahan. Scattered sparsely through the room were chairs with
cushions of faded satin, oval tables of rosewood and walnut, laden
with books long since out of print; also with strange carvings in
ivory by Chinese artificers, pots of dried rose-leaves, and
glass-shaded wax flowers. Sofas of classical shape, designed during
the first Empire of France, were stiffly set against the walls.
Overhead the oval roof was frescoed with paintings of mythological
subjects, and on the walls hung dark oil pictures and gilt-framed
mirrors. Faded curtains draped the windows, and so excluded the light
that the vast room was constantly filled with shadows. Over all lay
the grey dust undisturbed for years. It was an eerie-looking place,
and there was something terrifying about the large hollow empty space.
Ghosts only could fitly inhabit its gloom and desolation.
Near one of the oriel windows Miss Linisfarne lay on her couch. Here
there was an attempt at comfort. A square of carpet faced the sofa,
and was met at its outer borders by a gaudy Japanese screen, which
converted the spot into a tiny room. A work-table stood close at hand,
and near it an armchair was placed, while a revolving bookcase gave a
touch of modernity to the nook. Here, in this oasis of comfort, Miss
Linisfarne worked, and read, and fretted, and thought. It was at once
her home and her prison.
At times her hands would fall idly on her lap, and her eyes would
wander from book or work to gaze out of the oriel at the green ocean
of trees which isolated her dwelling. God alone knows what were her
thoughts during those melancholy musings. Of nothing bright, you may
be sure, for Mariana in her Moated Grange was less solitary than this
woman with the sad eyes. A cloud of mystery, of dread, of horror, hung
over the house and its occupant. No wonder the superstitious villagers
avoided the unholy spot. House and women were accursed.
Look at her as she lies there, with the light of the afternoon on her
countenance. Can you not see how she has suffered--how mental torture
has worn her face thin; how it has imprinted lines upon her brow,
and laced her golden hair with threads of grey? She can count but
forty-seven years, and yet she is an aged woman; for grief is even more
powerful to destroy than time. The light has long since left those
mournful eyes, the roses have long since faded from those worn cheeks,
and the mouth is now set in fretful lines which were not there in
early days. The features alone retain their beauty. Her straight nose,
curved lips, firmly moulded chin, and high forehead are as if carved
in ivory, for long seclusion from fresh air and tinting sunlight has
imparted a yellowish hue to the skin. And the countless wrinkles round
the mouth, under the eyes, and across the forehead, tell their own
tale of mental agonies, of tearful hours, of sleepless nights. Sorrow
had set her unmistakable seal on the face, and had rendered it haggard
before its time. Wan countenance, inert figure, listless hands, and
hopeless looks--a mournful spectacle this of sadness and despair.
Yet she was still careful of her dress. No fault could be found with
the grey silk tea-gown, adorned with lace at wrists and throat, or
with the dainty slipper on the slender foot. Grey as was her hair, yet
the undying coquetry of the feminine nature impelled her to coil it
smoothly, and scatter it in crisp curls. When her hands moved, diamond
rings glittered on the fingers, and her lean wrists were encircled
with costly bracelets. She was aged before her time, she was lonely,
she was filled with despair; but the woman in her still bade her tire
her head, deck herself with gems, clothe herself in rich garments, and
make the most of what was left to her.
Meg sat in the armchair close to the couch. A greater contrast than
the exuberant vitality of this girl, beside the etiolated looks of the
elder woman, can scarcely be imagined. Bright eyes, rosy cheeks,
restless hands--there was life in every movement; while Miss
Linisfarne, listless and weary, looked as though the blood were
stagnant in her veins. The girl still wore her rough serge dress, and
her heavily shod feet looked clumsy beside the dainty slimness of Miss
Linisfarne's slippers. Her hair was roughened by the wind, her hands
were brown and scarred, and she spoke in a clear hearty voice, which
contrasted strongly with the faint tones of her hostess. She brought
into the room a breath of the woodlands, an odour of earth, of pine,
of salt wave, and breezy down. Her very presence seemed to invigorate
the pale invalid, who looked at her so kindly. As Antæus drew vigour
from his parent earth, so did Miss Linisfarne draw fresh vitality from
the animal healthfulness of her visitor.
They were talking together on an interesting subject, and as the
conversation went on, a flush crept into the cheeks of the elder
woman, her eyes grew brighter, and her lips parted in a faint smile.
The vitality diffused by Meg stirred the blood in her veins, and
quickened the wan life to a semblance of health. So might Eurydice
have regained health and life and sprightliness with every step she
took from the kingdom of the dead.