Duchess
The Red House Mystery
The Piccadilly Novels
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066232351
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
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