since the death of her husband and her sons, when the bulk of the property, with the title, had passed to Rupert Farrington, the late baronet’s nephew. Sir Rupert lived now at Farrington Hall, with his wife and one son of his own.
Old Lady Farrington, in her losses and her loneliness, was a woman much to be pitied. She had seen her children die, all of them but one. He also was dead, but miserably, and at a distance probably from home. Her husband she had mourned last of all, at a time when she had most needed strength and support. The new baronet did not treat her well. She was no doubt fortified by ample settlements. Farrington Court was hers also, by right inalienable, during her lifetime. Yet Sir Rupert had had it in his power to put her to infinite pain, and wittingly or unwittingly had not spared her in the least. The ejectment from the Hall—her once happy home, the scene of her married life, where all her children had been born, and where all were buried, save one—had been carried out with an almost brutal abruptness, which cut the poor afflicted soul to the quick. Sir Rupert had driven hard bargains with her also in taking over the house and the estate; had insisted upon the uttermost farthing, had denied her many possessions, small and great, which she valued as reminding her of the past, but which were his, according to the strict letter of the law. His unkindness pursued her even to the house which she might still call her own. But hers was only a life-interest, after all; and, as Farrington Court must in due course lapse back to the family, Sir Rupert felt bound, he said, for his own and his son’s sake, to see that the place came to no harm. His interference and inquisitiveness were, in consequence, constant and vexatious. He insisted upon inspecting the house regularly; he must satisfy himself that the repairs were duly executed, that the gardens and glass houses were properly kept up, and that no timber was cut down. He did not scruple to tell Lady Farrington that he looked upon her as a tenant, and by no means a good one, to whom he would gladly give notice to quit if he could.
These first causes for irritation and dislike deepened in time to positive hatred. Lady Farrington came by degrees to fear Sir Rupert with a terror that was almost abject; and when we fear others to this extent we undoubtedly hate them very cordially too. Her terror was not difficult to explain. It had its grounds in the conviction that she was more or less in his power. There was a secret which she had as she thought kept hitherto entirely to herself, but which he, as time passed and brought him opportunities for close observation, had eventually discovered. She herself knew, and by degrees she felt that he also knew that her mind was a little unsound.
Lady Farrington had been an eccentric woman even in her husband’s lifetime. Her ways had been odd; her manners strange. She was given to curious likes and dislikes, which showed themselves in extraordinary ways. Thus she hated the wife of a neighbouring squire—an upstart woman, certainly, but nothing worse than gauche or ill-bred. Whenever this lady called at the hall the chair on which she had sat was sent to the upholsterers to be re-covered. On one occasion, when she came at the time of afternoon tea, Lady Farrington threw the cup and saucer her visitor had used into the fire, declaring it should never be drunk out of again. A more unnatural antipathy was that which she long entertained for her second son—a dislike which had caused him much misery, and her much subsequent anguish of mind. As against all this, she had been extravagantly fond of her husband and her first-born. When the former left her even for a few hours, she kept his hat and walking-stick in the room with her, as though to cheat herself into the belief that he was really in the house; the latter she coddled and cossetted to such an extent that he grew up weakly and died young.
But after all her bitter trials and heavy blows, her eccentricity had developed so rapidly that it might fairly be called by a stronger name. At first she shut herself up in a private chamber, surrounded by the relics of happier days, and brooded sorrowfully over riding-whips, cricket-bats, and all manner of childish toys. Then she went to the other extreme; threw off her widow’s weeds and decked out in gay colours, and with a long white veil, drove about the country lanes in a carriage with grey horses, as though she were a newly-married bride. When Sir Rupert’s persecution had grown into a serious annoyance, she concentrated upon him all the aversion she had once levelled at more innocent objects of dislike. She never would have admitted him to the house, but as he would take no denial she consoled herself by throwing open all the windows and doors, whatever the weather, directly he had left the house, insisting that the place was unfit for habitation until it had been thoroughly aired. Then, saying his threats and menaces put her in bodily fear, she got into the habit of packing all her most treasured belongings in one or two trunks which she kept locked in her bedroom, under her own eye, in readiness as it were for immediate flight.
For a long time Sir Rupert seemed to take but little notice of her vagaries. When the county folk commiserated him, and inquired after poor Lady Farrington, he merely shrugged his shoulders and touched his forehead in a melancholy pitying way. She had had so much trouble in her time, poor soul. It was very dreadful of course. But what could be done? She had every care and attention he could secure for her. He went to see her frequently in spite of her strange dislike, so did his wife. He did his duty by her as well as he possibly could. She was harmless, and as he thought perfectly safe. She had good servants about her; he himself saw to that, and there was no necessity to put her under restraint—unless indeed, she became very much worse. If her malady increased to the extent of endangering the safety of those about her or of the house—by no means a secondary consideration with him—why then, as a last alternative, she must be shut up.
He did not conceal from her, however, that this would ultimately be her fate. More than once he warned her that he knew her condition, and would some day be compelled to take steps to make her secure. But he said this with no object but to prove his power, and Lady Farrington would probably have been left to pursue the curious tenour of her ways, had not her mania taken a direction which threatened to be distinctly inconvenient to Sir Rupert.
Of all the woes which Lady Farrington suffered, the keenest perhaps was remorse for her treatment of her second son. As has been said, she had looked upon him always with disfavour; Herbert never could please. Where another more tenderly cared for would have been gently corrected, he was called wilful, obstinate, perverse, and sharply chided and admonished. He it was who was always in the wrong; he it was who led the other boys into mischief. It was his fault, or said to be his, when the boat upset, or the ice broke, or the gun went off, or any mishap occurred. As he grew to man’s estate his mother’s indifference did not soften into warmer feelings. Poor Herbert failed at school and college, the obvious consequence of early neglect. He could not pass the army examination, although he longed to wear a red coat. All he could do was to roam the woods with dog and gun at Farrington, consorting with grooms and keepers, enjoying an open air life the more because he thereby escaped from the house and his mother’s sneers. But these last, although thus rarely encountered, became at length unbearable, and one fine morning Herbert was not to be found. He had gone off, leaving a note to say that pursuit or inquiry would be fruitless, as he meant to leave England for good and all; nothing should induce him to return to Farrington Hall.
The blow fell heaviest upon Lady Farrington, who felt that she had been principally to blame. Prompt search was accordingly instituted, but all to no purpose.
Some said that he had emigrated, some that he had enlisted, others that he had gone to sea. No one ever saw him in the flesh again. Only Lady Farrington, in whom the catastrophe had worked a strong revulsion of feeling, was positive that she had seen him in the spirit more than once. He had appeared to her, last of all, just after the death of Algernon, the eldest son. Nor had he appeared alone. Hand-in-hand with him was a comely fair-haired girl, with a baby in her arms. Herbert had pointed significantly to the child, and Lady Farrington interpreted the gesture to mean that he and his son were now the rightful heirs of the Farrington title and estates. This vision she tremulously described to her husband and to others, but it was treated even by Sir Algernon as a mere dream, or the hallucination of an over-wrought brain.
Nothing more would have been thought of the circumstances of Herbert’s disappearance and shadowy return, except as a great and irreparable sorrow, but for the arrival of a mysterious packet, a year or two later, which contained a lock of light curly
