It stood on the top of a high hill--bleak, solitary. In winter
all the winds of heaven raved round it; in summer the happy
sunshine rarely touched it. It was, indeed, hemmed in from
brightness of any kind, by a dense row of cypresses that grew
before the hall-door, and by a barren rock that rose
perpendicularly at the back.
On clear days one could get from this cold house a grand view of
the valley below, nestling in its warmth, and from the road that
ran under it people would sometimes look up and wonder at the
curious colour of the Red House--such a dark red, sombre, like
blood.
It was a bleak house at all times, but to-day it showed itself
singularly dull. A light rain was falling--light, but persistent,
and the usual charming gaiety of an early May morning was drowned
in tears. The house looked drearier than ever, in spite of the
grand proportions. But no amount of walls can make up for a
dearth of nature's _bijouteries_--her shrubs, her trees, her
flowers.
The Red House had no flowering parterres anywhere, no terraces,
no charming idyllic toys of any sort, no gracing gardens full of
lovely sweets, wherewith to charm the eye. Nothing, save one huge
elm upon the barren lawn, and the dark, gloomy row of
cypresses--those gloomiest of all dear Nature's gifts, standing
in funeral procession before the hall door. They had been there
when Dr. Darkham took the place ten years ago. He had thought of
removing them, but on second thoughts had let them alone.
Somehow, he told himself, they suited his _ménage_.
Indoors, the day was, if possible, more depressing than outside.
May should be a lovely month, but months do not always fulfil
their obligations. This May day, as I have said, was full of
grief. Rain in the morning, rain in the afternoon, and rain now
and again when the evening is descending.
In the morning-room, lounging over a low fire, sat Mrs. Darkham,
the doctor's wife, a big, coarse, heavy-looking woman--heavy in
mind as in body. Her hair, a dull brown, streaked liberally with
gray, was untidily arranged, stray locks of it falling about her
ears. She was leaning forward, staring with stupid, small, but
somewhat vindictive blue eyes into the sorry glow of the fire,
and her mouth looked as though she were dwelling on thoughts
unkindly. It was a loose mouth, and vulgar. The woman, indeed,
was plebeian in every feature and movement.
The room was well furnished--that is, comfortably, even
expensively--but it lacked all signs of taste or culture. It
was not unclean, but it was filled with that odious air that
bespeaks carelessness, and a want of refinement. The tables had
been dusted, but there were few ornaments on them--a copy of
Wordsworth was so closely leaved as to suggest the idea that it
had never been opened; another of Shakespeare in the same
condition; some sea-shells, and no flowers.
On the hearthrug--squatting--foolishly playing with the
cinders in the grate, sat a boy--a terrible creature--deaf
and dumb and idiotic. It was the woman's son. The son of Dr.
Darkham, that clever man, that learned scientist!
He sat there, crouching, mouthing; his head protruded between his
knees, playing with the cinders, making passes at the fire with
his long fingers. He was sixteen, but his face was the face of a
child of seven. His mind had stood still; his body, however, had
developed. He was short, clumsy, hideous; but there was strength
--enormous strength--in the muscular arms and legs. The face
vacant, without thought of any kind, was in some remarkable way
beautiful. He had inherited his father's dark eyes--all his
father's best points, indeed--and etherealised them. If his
soul had grown with his body, he would have been one of Nature's
greatest products; but his soul lay stagnant, and the glorious
dark eyes held nothing.
His figure was terrible--short and broad. His hair had never
grown, and the body had ceased to form upwards at twelve. He had
now the appearance of a boy of that age, but the strength of his
real years.
The mother sat in the lounging chair looking into the fire; the
boy sat on the rug. Neither of them was doing anything besides.
Suddenly the door opened.
The woman started and looked round. The poor creature on the rug
still played with the cinders.
"Oh, you!" said Mrs. Darkham. Her husband had just come in.
"Yes. I am going out; I want a stamp."
"You'll find them in the table drawer, then," said his wife
sullenly. Her voice was guttural, vulgar.
"So you're goin' out again," said she, taking up the poker and
stirring the fire into a blaze. As she did so, a hot coal fell on
the idiot's finger, and he threw himself backwards with a hideous
howl.
"What is it, my darling, my lamb?"
The woman went on her knees, and caught the unwieldy mass of
humanity to her with long arms. It had been but a slight burn,
and after awhile the turmoil subsided. Mrs. Darkham rose from her
knees, and the idiot went back to his play amongst the cinders.
"I believe you'd see him burnt alive with joy," said she, turning
to her husband, a great animosity within her eyes.
"Your beliefs are so numerous, and are always so complimentary,
that it is hard to reply," said Dr. Darkham, with a slow smile.
If her glance had betrayed animosity, his, to her, betrayed a
most deadly hatred.
"Oh, there, you're at your sneers again!" said she shrugging her
ample shoulders. "So you're going out this wet day. Where?"
"To"--slowly--"visit the sick."
"Same old answer," said she, trying to laugh contemptuously.
"What you mean is--only you haven't the courage to say it--that
you're going to Rickton Villa."
"I dare say"--with admirable composure, though his heart is
beginning to beat--"that I shall call in there on my way home
to see Mrs. Greatorex."
"Mrs. Greatorex!"
She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and peers at
him insolently. In this position the detestable order of her gown
becomes more apparent.
"Mrs. Greatorex, or her niece, eh?"
"I am not aware that Miss Nesbitt requires the services of any
doctor. Where are these stamps?"
"No! Doesn't she? You seem as blind about her as you are about
the finding of them stamps. And so it is Mrs. Greatorex you go to
see three times a week? She pays you, I suppose?"
"Not now. Feeling herself better a little time ago, she told me
to discontinue my visits. But I dislike leaving a cure half
finished. So I told her I should still call occasionally. She is
not very well off, as you are aware."
He said all this with the dry, business-like air of one who felt
he was bound to speak, but then would do it as concisely as
possible.
"She is well enough off to treat me as a nobody. Me--the wife
of a man whose visits she accep's for nothing! She a pauper, and
me who can ride in my carriage! Why, she wouldn't raise her eyes
to mine if she could 'elp it. Can't see me sometimes, she can't.
And so she's taking your time and your advice for nothing! and
you give them, knowing how she treats your wife!"
The word "wife," so incessantly insisted on, seemed to grind his
very soul. Yes, there she was, sodden, hideous, irredeemable, and
--his wife!
"She is not well off, as I have told you; but she has a certain
standing in the neighbourhood. And it is not well for a doctor to
quarrel with those around him."
"Hypocrite!" said the woman, in a dull but furious way. The very
stolidity of her often made the outburst the more remarkable.
"Don't you think I see into you? Don't you think I know you?--
that I haven't known for the past six months the reason of your
visits to the Villa?"
"Put an end to this," said the doctor, in a slow, cold voice.
"Are you mad?" His dark eyes glowed.
He was a tall, singularly gaunt man, and handsome. The deeply-set
eyes were brilliant, and dark as night. As night too,
unfathomable. The mouth was fixed, cold, determined, and
suggestive of cruelty. The brow was broad and grand. He was about
forty-five, and in manner was suave, low-voiced, and agreeable.
Education and resolution had lifted him up from his first
surroundings to a plane that made him level with those with whom
he now desired to mix. But all his quality could not conceal the
fact that he would be a bad man to fight with--that he possessed
an indomitable will that would drive all things before it, till
it gained the object of its desire.
"Mad? Don't think you'll make me that. I tell you again and again
that I know very well why you visit at---"
He turned upon her, and by an impressive gesture stopped her.
"How dare you speak so of---"
"Miss Nesbitt?" She laughed aloud as she interrupted him.
"No. _Of me!_ Of course I know what you mean. But am I to give up
all my patients to satisfy your detestable jealousy?"
"My jealousy! Do you think I am jealous of you?" said his wife,
with a contemptuous smile.
"'Pon me word, you must think a lot of yourself! Why, who the
deuce are you, any way? Tell me that. You married me for my
money, and glad enough you were to get it."
She poured out the terrible torrent of invective in a slow,
heavy, rumbling way; whilst he stood silent, motionless,
listening. It was so true! And her hideous vulgarity--that was
true too. It would never alter. She would be there always,
clogging him, dragging him down to her own level. She was now as
uneducated and idealess as when, at the age of twenty-two, he
married her for the sake of her money; and now besides all that,
she was hideous and old--older than himself in appearance.
Quite an old woman!
And then the child!