"I fancy you're not impressed?" whispered Marshall.
"It's all so horribly weird."
"I quite understand. You think it would get on your nerves?"
"Oh, I can't express it. It's ghostly, of course-I don't mean that…The atmosphere seems tragical to me. I should have a constant feeling that somebody or something was all the way waiting to trip me up. I'm sure it's an unlucky house."
"Then you'd better tell your aunt. I suppose you will have the final say in the matter."
"No, wait a bit," said Isbel.
They passed into the kitchens. They were spotless, up-to-date, and fitted with all modern appliances. Mrs. Moor was delighted with all that she saw.
"No expense has been spared here evidently," she spoke out. "So far the house strikes me as eminently satisfactory in every way, and I am very glad you introduced it to my notice, Marshall. If only the rest is equally convenient…"
"We're of one mind about this part of it, anyway," said Isbel. "If I'm doomed to live at Runhill this kitchen will be where I shall spend the greater part of my time."
Her aunt gave her a sharp look. "Do you mean you don't like the rest of the house?"
"I'm not infatuated."
"I couldn't stay long in that hall, for example, without reckoning how many coffins had been carried downstairs since it was first built."
"Oh, rubbish, child! People die everywhere."
Isbel said nothing for a minute; then, "I wonder if she were old or young?"
"Who?"
"Mr. Judge's wife."
"Why, what makes you think she might be young?"
"I have a sort of impression that she might be. I haven't succeeded in placing her in this house yet…Do you think he'll marry again, Marshall?"
"Judging by the way he avoided women on board I should say not."
Mrs. Moor glanced at her wrist-watch.
"It's getting on toward half-past, and we've two more floors to see yet. We mustn't stand about."
They returned to the hall, and immediately began the ascent of the main staircase. So far they had neither seen nor heard anything of the American visitor; everything in the house remained as still as death. Mrs. Priday, too, was a long time in putting in an appearance…The landing, which constituted a part of the hall, was lighted by its windows; the golden sunlight, the black shadows cast by the balustrade, the patches of deep blue and crimson, produced a weird and solemn phantasmagoria of colour. All the air smelt of eld. They stopped for a minute at the top of the stairs, looking down over the rail of the gallery into the hall.
Mrs. Moor was the first to get to business again. She took a rapid survey of their situation. On the left, the gallery came to a stop at the outer wall of the hall. Two doors faced them; one opposite the head of the stairs, the other, which was ajar, further along to the left. On the right, beyond the foot of a second flight of stairs leading upwards, the landing extended forward as a long, dark corridor having rooms on both sides. The obscurity, and a sharp turn, prevented the end from being seen.
Isbel called attention to a plaster nymph, standing in an alcove.
"Mrs. Judge must have put that there," she said, rubbing her forehead; "and I am sure she was little more than a girl."
Her aunt regarded her askance. "What do you know about it?"
"I have a feeling. We'll ask Mrs. Priday when she comes. I think Mr. Judge is a very susceptible elderly gentleman with a penchant for young women. Remember my words."
"At least you might have the decency to recollect that you're in his house."
The words were hardly out of Mrs. Moor's mouth when they were startled by a strange sound. It came from the open door on their left, and was exactly like a single chord struck heavily on the piano. They looked at one another.
"Our Transatlantic friend," suggested Marshall.
Mrs. Moor frowned. "It's singular he didn't hear us come in."
Another chord sounded, and then two or three more in quick succession.
"He's going to play," said Isbel.
"Shall I go and investigate?" asked Marshall; but Mrs. Moor held up her hand.
The music had commenced.
The ladies, who possessed a wide experience of orchestral concerts, immediately recognised the Introduction to the opening movement of Beethoven's A major Symphony. It did not take long to realise, however, that the American-if it were the American-was not so much attempting to render this fragment from giant-land, as experimenting with it. his touch was heavy and positive, but he picked out the notes so tardily, he took such liberties with the tempo, there were such long silences, that the impression given was that he must be reflecting profoundly upon what he played…
Mrs. Moor looked puzzled, but Isbel, after her first shock of surprise, grew interested. She had an intuitive feeling that the unseen performer was not playing for the pleasure of the music, but for some other reason; but what this other reason could be, she could not conceive…Could it be that he was a professional musician, who was taking advantage of the presence of a grand piano to go over something in the work which was not quite clear in his mind? Or was the performance suggested by the house?
She knew the composition well, but had never heard it played like that before. The disturbing excitement of its preparations, as if a curtain were about to be drawn up, revealing a new marvellous world…It was wonderful…most beautiful, really…Then, after a few minutes ame the famous passge of the gigantic ascending scales, and she immediately had a vision of huge stairs going up…And, after that, suddenly dead silence. The music had ceased abruptly…
She glanced round at her friends. Marshall was lounging over the rail of the gallery, his back to the others; stifling yawn after yawn; her aunt was staring at the half-open door, with an absent frown. The pianist showed no sign of resuming; two minutes passed, and still the deathly silence remained unbroken. Marshall stood erect and grew restive, but her aunt raised her hand for quiet. Isbel silently fingered her hair.
While they still waited, the foor of the room from which the sounds had issued opened to its full extent, and the musician appeared standing on the threshold, tranquilly smoking a newly-lighted cigarette.
Chapter III IN THE UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR
The stranger was dressed in a summer suit of grey flannel, and dangled a broad-brimmed Panama hat in his hand. Nothing indicated that he had observed their little group.
Mrs. Moor tapped her heel smartly on the floor. He at once looked round, but with perfect self-possession. He was a shortish, heavily-built man, perhaps fifty years of age, having a full, florid face, a dome-like forehead, and a neck short, thick and red-an energetic, intellectual type of person, probably capable of prolonged periods of heavy mental exertion. His head was bald to the crown, the remaining fair was sandy-red and he wore a short, pointed beard of the same colour. His somewhat large, flat. Pale blue-grey eyes had that peculiar look of fixity which comes from gazing at one set of objects and thinking of something totally different.
"Are you the American gentleman?" interrogated Mrs. Moor, from a distance. He strolled towards them before replying.
"I do belong to the American nation." His voice was thick, but not unpleasant; it had very little accent.
"They told us you were here, but we were not anticipating a musical treat."
He laughed politely. "I guess my apology will have to be that I forgot my audience, madam. I heard you all come in, but you disappeared somewhere in the house, and the circumstance went clean out of my mind."
Mrs. Moor glanced at the bulky note-book stuffed into his side-pocket, and risked a shrewd conjecture.
"Artists, we know, are notoriously absent-minded."
"Why, I do paint, madam-but I don't put that forward as an excuse for discourtesy."
"Then you were lost in the past, we will say. You have few such interesting memorials in your country?"
"We have some; we are putting on years. But I'm interested in this house in a special sense. My wife's great-
grandfather was the former proprietor of it-I don't know just how you call it here…well, the squire."
Isbel fastened her steady, grey-black eyes on his face. "But why were you playing Beethoven in an empty house?"
The singular, softly-metallic character of her voice seemed to attract his attention, for he shot a questioning glance at her.
"I was working something out," he replied curtly, after a brief hesitation.
"Is it permissible to inquire what?"
He looked still more surprised. "You wish to know that?…Some ideas came to me in this house which seemed to require music to illustrate them-that particular music, I mean."
"Do you know Mr. Judge personally?"
"I do not."
Isbel went on gazing at him meditatively, and seemed inclined to pursue the conversation, but at that moment a sound was heard in the hall below. Glancing over the balustrade, they saw Mrs. Priday entering from the lobby.
"I'll have to be going," remarked the American.
No one offered to detain him; the ladies smiled, while Marshall raised his hat. The artist bowed gravely, clapped his own had on and turned to go downstairs.
In the hall he stopped beside the caretaker for a moment in order to slip a coin into her hand. After that he went out, and the door close behind him.
"What is the name of that gentleman?" asked Mrs. Moor of the woman, as soon as the latter had joined them.
"Mr. Sherrup, madam."
"Oh!…Well, Mrs. Priday, we've now seen the whole of the ground floor, and we're waiting for you to show us over the rest, if you will be so good. And first of all-what are those two doors there?"
"The drawing-room, madam, and what used to be the old library, but Mr. Judge has turned it into a billiard-room. The new library's at the end of the corridor. That's all the sitting-rooms on this floor."
"Very good, then I think we'll first see the drawing-room."
Mrs. Priday without delay ushered them into the apartment in which Sherrup had been playing the piano. It was immediately over the dining-room, and had the same outlook; its windows overlooked the side and back of the house. Quite evidently it was the sanctum of the late lady of the manor-no man could have lived in that room, so full of little feminine fragilities and knick-knacks as it was, so bizarre, so frivolous, so tasteless, yet so pleasing. And underneath everything loomed up the past, persisting in discovering itself, despite the almost passionate efforts to conceal it…A chill struck Isbel's heart, and at the same time she wished to laugh.
"Her taste!" she exclaimed "Couldn't she see it was all wrong? How old was she, Mrs. Priday?"
"Who, miss?"
"The late Mrs. Judge."
"She was thirty-seven, miss."
"Twenty years younger than her husband. I wasn't so far out, aunt…Were they happy together?"
"Why shouldn't they be happy together, miss? Young husbands are not always the kindest."
"What was she like?"
"Small, slight, and fair, miss; pretty and soft-spoken, with a weakish mouth, but the sharpest tongue that ever was."
Mrs. Moor looked annoyed, but Isbel persisted with her questions.
"Did they get about together much?"
"Yes and no, miss. She was one for society, while the master likes no ones' company so much as his own. He will shut himself up with a book by the hour together. And then he's fond of long tramps in the countryside; and he belongs to an antiquarian society-they go on excursions and suchlike."
"Did she go with them?"
The caretaker smiled. "She hated them like a swarm of earwigs, miss. She used to call them most terrible names."
"Poor Mrs. Judge!"
"How long have you been in service here?" demanded Mrs. Moor.
"Eighteen years, madam, I married Priday eighteen years ago. He's been here all his life, and his father and grandfather, too. Many people they've seen come in, and many people they've seen go out."
"Most interesting! Has Mr. Judge been down here yet since his return?"
"Not yet, madam. We've had letters, and that's all."
They passed through the billiard room. Isbel contrived to linger behind with Marshall for a moment.
"Which is the room we have to see?"
"Upstairs. I think I told you it's called the East Room."
"I'm growing more fascinated now. It certainly has an atmosphere of its own, this house. Whether pleasant or unpleasant I can't decide yet."
He pressed her arm. "I sincerely hope you will like it, for I don't see how our marriage is going to come off till your aunt gets fixed."
She looked back at him affectionately, but said nothing. Meanwhile Mrs. Moor had followed the caretaker into the corridor, where she awaited them impatiently. They proceeded without loss of time to visit the bedrooms on that floor. Some were large, some were mere boxes, but the appointments of all were modern, hygienic, and expensive. Whoever spent a night at Runhill Court was sure of a luxurious room. The views, too, from the windows were magnificent. Nevertheless the same oppressive sense of antiquity pervaded everything, and once again the same disagreeable doubts sprang up in Isbel's mind.
"It certainly isn't hard to understand how a place like this might affect a man's sanity, if he lived here long enough," she whispered to Marshall. "I am sure I should begin to see things, myself, from the very first night…But he must be mad-what do you think?"
"Probably. Should you like to meet him, and judge for yourself?"
"Yes, Marshall!"
"I'll see if I can arrange it."
"Please try. I'm certain he's an extraordinary man, quite apart from the question of hallucinations."
The others by this time were in the library, where the younger couple hastened to join them. Mrs. Moor at once drew Isbel into a corner of the room.
"We've seen practically everything that counts now. How are we to decide?"
"I don't think I could live here, aunt, but don't settle anything in a hurry. You can't imagine what strange thought I have. At one time I feel I hate and loathe the place, and at another-I can't express what I feel. There's something very uncanny about it all, and yet it isn't ghostly, in that sense…There's some living influence…I do wish we hadn't parted from Mr. Sherrup so abruptly. I feel positive he could have thrown some light on it."
"Your nerves must be desperately out of order, child, and, that being the case, I strongly doubt whether such a house as this is suitable for you. However, as you say, nothing need be decided on the spur of the moment…now we'll see upstairs, and then go home."
It was nearly one o'clock.
The upper landing had a low, sloping roof. It was lighted by a gable window facing the south-west. Opposite to the head of the stairs were two servants; rooms, while on the right hand a passage ran through to the other end of the house, dimly lighted along its entire length by skylights. Doors opened out here and there from both sides; those on the right were dark lumber-rooms, the others were the remaining servants; bedrooms, possessing windows which faced the back of the house. At the far end of the building the servants' staircase came up from the ground floor.
After a cursory walk through, the party returned to the other landing.
"Now, is that all?" demanded Mrs. Moor.
"Yes, madam."
Marshall pinched his chin thoughtfully. "Which is the East Room?"
"It's locked, sir."
"Locked, is it? But Mr. Judge told me he was giving instructions to have it opened."
"I don't know anything about that, sir. It's locked."
"That's unfortunate. At all events, show us where it is."
Mrs. Moor cast him a keen glance, but held her tongue.
"We shall have to go through a rather dark passage, sir-if you don't mind that. It's this way."
Parallel with and overlooking the stairs was another little corridor, stretching to the front of the house and lighted by a dormer-window at the end. Along this Mrs. Priday conducted them. When they could nearly touch the sloping
roof, the corridor turned sharply to the left and became a sort of tunnel. Marshall begin to strike matches.
"By Jove, it is dark!"
"It gets lighter directly, sir."
After twenty paces or so, there came another twist. A couple of shallow stairs brought them up into a widening of the passage which might almost be described as a room. Its rafters were the interior of a great gable, through the high-set window of which the sun was slanting. Everything had been scrubbed clean, but there was not a stick of furniture.
"The man who designed this house must have had a queer brain," remarked Isbel, with a smile. "Do you mean to tell me that all this leads only to the one room?"
"That's all, miss."
They had paused for a minute to take advantage of the light, before plunging into the next section of night-like corridor. While they stood there, a look of perplexity appeared on Isbel's face, as she seemed to listen to something.
"What's that?" she whispered.
"What?" asked her aunt.
"Can't you hear a sound?"
They all listened.
"What's it like, Isbel?" inquired Marshall.
"Surely you can hear it!…a find of low, vibrating hum…like a telephone wire while you're waiting for a connection…"
But no one else could catch the noise.
"Judge spoke of some sound in a corridor," said Marshall. "He told me everyone couldn't hear it. Kind of a thunder, is it?"
"Yes…yes, perhaps…It keeps coming and going…A low buzz…"
"That must be it, then-unless, of course, it's a ringing in your ears."
Isbel uttered a short laugh of annoyance. "Oh, surely I can tell a sound when I hear one? It's exactly as if I were listening on the telephone for an answer to a call. A voice might speak at any moment."
"Foolishness!" said her aunt irritably. "If it's anything at all, it's probably an outside wire of some sort…Come along!"
"I can't understand why nobody else hears it. It's so unmistakable."
"Well, nobody else does, child-that's enough. Are you coming, or are you not?"
The Haunted Woman Page 3
