CHAPTER VI.
Fairthorn frightens Sophy. Sir Isaac is invaded by Darrell, and forms one of a Family Circle.
Such a sweet voice in singing breaks out from yon leafless beeches! Waife hears it at noon from his window. Hark! Sophy has found song once more.
She is seated on a garden bench, looking across the lake toward the gloomy old Manor House and the tall specter-palace beside it. Mrs. Morley is also on the bench, hard at work on her sketch; Fairthorn prowls through the thickets behind, wandering restless and wretched, and wrathful beyond all words to describe. He hears that voice singing; he stops short, perfectly rabid with indignation. "Singing," he muttered, "singing in triumph, and glowering at the very House she dooms to destruction. Worse than Nero striking his lyre amidst the conflagration of Rome!"
By and by Sophy, who somehow or other cannot sit long in any place, and tires that day of any companion, wanders away from the lake, and comes right upon Fairthorn. Hailing, in her unutterable secret bliss, the musician who had so often joined her rambles in the days of unuttered secret sadness, she sprang toward him with welcome and mirth in a face that would have lured Diogenes out of his tub. Fairthorn recoiled sidelong, growling forth, "Don't—you had better not!"—grinned the most savage grin, showing all his teeth like a wolf; and as she stood, mute with wonder, perhaps with fright, he slunk edgewise off, as if aware of his own murderous inclinations, turning his head more than once, and shaking it at her; then, with the wonted mystery which enveloped his exits, he was gone!—vanished behind a crag, or amidst a bush, or into a hole—Heaven knows; but like the lady in the Siege of Corinth, who warned the renegade Alp of his approaching end, he was "gone."
Twice again that day Sophy encountered the enraged musician; each time the same menacing aspect and weird disappearance.
"Is Mr. Fairthorn ever a little—odd?" asked Sophy, timidly, of George Morley.
"Always," answered George, dryly.
Sophy felt relieved at that reply. Whatever is habitual in a man's manner, however unpleasant, is seldom formidable. Still Sophy could not help saying,
