It stood on the top of a high hill—bleak, solitary. In winterall the winds of heaven raved round it; in summer the happysunshine rarely touched it. It was, indeed, hemmed in frombrightness of any kind, by a dense row of cypresses that grewbefore the hall-door, and by a barren rock that roseperpendicularly at the back.
On clear days one could get from this cold house a grand view ofthe valley below, nestling in its warmth, and from the road thatran under it people would sometimes look up and wonder at thecurious colour of the Red House—such a dark red, sombre, likeblood.
It was a bleak house at all times, but to-day it showed itselfsingularly dull. A light rain was falling—light, but persistent,and the usual charming gaiety of an early May morning was drownedin tears. The house looked drearier than ever, in spite of thegrand proportions. But no amount of walls can make up for a dearthof nature's bijouteries—her shrubs, her trees, herflowers.
The Red House had no flowering parterres anywhere, no terraces,no charming idyllic toys of any sort, no gracing gardens full oflovely sweets, wherewith to charm the eye. Nothing, save one hugeelm upon the barren lawn, and the dark, gloomy row ofcypresses—those gloomiest of all dear Nature's gifts, standing infuneral procession before the hall door. They had been there whenDr. Darkham took the place ten years ago. He had thought ofremoving 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 theirobligations. This May day, as I have said, was full of grief. Rainin the morning, rain in the afternoon, and rain now and again whenthe 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 mindas 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 somewhatvindictive blue eyes into the sorry glow of the fire, and her mouthlooked as though she were dwelling on thoughts unkindly. It was aloose mouth, and vulgar. The woman, indeed, was plebeian in everyfeature and movement.
The room was well furnished—that is, comfortably, evenexpensively—but it lacked all signs of taste or culture. It was notunclean, but it was filled with that odious air that bespeakscarelessness, and a want of refinement. The tables had been dusted,but there were few ornaments on them—a copy of Wordsworth was soclosely leaved as to suggest the idea that it had never beenopened; another of Shakespeare in the same condition; somesea-shells, and no flowers.
On the hearthrug—squatting—foolishly playing with the cinders inthe 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 betweenhis knees, playing with the cinders, making passes at the fire withhis long fingers. He was sixteen, but his face was the face of achild of seven. His mind had stood still; his body, however, haddeveloped. 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 bestpoints, indeed—and etherealised them. If his soul had grown withhis body,