The Haunted Woman

by David Lindsay

  "Oh, don't you see? If we don't know how we stand, we can't even be friends. How can I have a man for a friend whose feelings I have to guess at?…I believe I'm justified in asking you, I don't require you to commit yourself in any way, and whatever you tell me, I shan't take advantage of it-but I think I ought to know just how it stands with you."

  Judge kept closing and opening his hand agitatedly.

  "We are really carrying the conversation too far, Miss Loment. You must see that you and I have no right whatever to discuss feelings."

  "You don't or won't understand. If you have feelings which refer to me, they are my property, and I have a perfect right to know what they are." Her voice quietened. "I must ask you to tell me…Do you regard me…in any special manner? Or…Can't you see how awkwardly I am situated till I know how…we stand to each other?" she concluded weakly.

  "We are good friends, Miss Loment, and nothing more."

  "So you persist in setting up this icy barrier? But how can we go on meeting each other, if our heads are to remain full of unsatisfied fancies and suspicions?…I promise you one thing, Mr. Judge-if you decline to be my real friend, you shan't be my friend at all. I shall never want to see you again after this."

  "I shall be sorry for that, but if everything is to finish so suddenly, at least I prefer that it shall not be owing to an act of egregious folly on my part. Since I don't possess the advantages of a younger man, I daren't imitate the rashness of one."

  "But what are you afraid of? I can scarcely punish you for obeying me. Whatever you tell me, I promise you it shan't bring our friendship to a close. Nothing will be changed, except for the better. Won't you speak now?"

  "I cannot."

  She paled, and began to tap the asphalt paving with her foot. "You can hardly refuse to answer a direct question. Am I anything to you at all, Mr. Judge?"

  "Perhaps you are a very great deal, but the point is, I can be nothing to you."

  "You mean exactly that?"

  "Yes. I have a higher regard for you, Miss Loment, than for any other living woman."

  "But what is implied by a very high regard?" She could scarcely breathe the words out.

  "There is a special term for that feeling but I am not permitted to pronounce it."

  "Do I understand you correctly?" she asked, nearly inaudibly.

  Judge made no reply.

  After a long silence, Isbel gave a spasmodic, wavering sigh.

  "Shall I take my scarf now? There's no one to see."

  He produced a small brown paper packet from his pocket, and passed it over to her. She kept turning it in her hand, with a sort of weary indifference.

  "What are we to do about it? You know we must find out how it came to be in your possession. I cannot go there again, but you can."

  "If you wish me to. But of what use is it, if I am to remember nothing?"

  "Could you not take pencil and paper?"

  "That's an idea, and I can't conceive why it has never occurred to me before. Very well, then; I will run over."

  "This afternoon. But how shall I communicate the result to you?"

  "I don't wish you either to write or call, Mr. Judge. Couldn't you manage to come over to Brighton to-morrow afternoon, and see me somewhere?"

  "I must manage it. Where shall it be, and at what time?"

  "My aunt always takes her rest in the afternoon, Let's say three o'clock-at the Hove, I think; there are fewer people there to bother one. You know the Baths, facing the sea?"

  "Yes."

  "Outside there, then. You see the importance of this to both of us, don't you?"

  "My only motive in the business is to re-assure your mind. I draw no anticipations from the result."

  Isbel gave him a keen glance. "Yet after what you have said, it can't be a matter of indifference to you."

  "Candidly, Miss Loment, I don't wish for a result. I want our friendship to continue, and that will be impossible if…I desire nothing more than that we shall settle down again into the old pleasant state. I feel confident that you will find we have foolishly allowed our imaginations to run away with us over this matter."

  They had both risen to their feet, but a heavier shower at that moment coming on, they were compelled to seat themselves again. Isbel turned her head away, and started fingering her hair.

  "By the way," she announced suddenly, "I haven't mentioned your decision about the house yet to my aunt, so you had better not, either."

  "Just as well not to I'm not sure at all, after this, that Runhill will make a suitable residence for you."

  "For all that, I may keep you to your word. However, we won't do anything in a hurry…That woman will spoil her furs, if she's not careful."

  She referred to an elegantly-garbed lady who wsa bearing down on their shelter from the west. She was obviously flurried by the distressing rain, as only a woman is flurried; but her action remained perfectly graceful and fascinating to watch, while she carried her furs and velvets as though they were a part of herself. Though tall and slender, it was evident even at that distance that she had long since finished with girlhood, but Isbel was unable as yet to distinguish her features. Judge happened to be sitting on her other side, so she failed to notice his embarrassment.

  "It's an acquaintance of mine," he brought out somewhat quickly. "That is, she is staying at the same hotel. A Mrs. Richborough-a widow."

  "Charming!" responded Isbel vaguely. "I can't see her face. Is she pretty?"

  "More distinguished-looking than pretty. A most interesting woman to talk to-which is as far as my acquaintance extends. A keen spiritualist."

  "Yes-I can see now. She's got one of those white, peaky faces. Is she well-off?"

  "I really can't say. She has fashionable clothes and jewels. I am merely on nodding terms with her."

  "She seems t be coming here. I think I'll go."

  "No-don't, please, Miss Loment! It will look too marked. I'll just introduce you and you can take your departure immediately."

  Isbel bent her mouth into a scornful little smile. "As you please. It's rather bad luck, but, anyway, she won't know me from Eve…Do tell me a train back. I expect you have a time-table."

  He had, and produced it for consultation at once. While he was hurriedly turning over the leaves, Mrs. Richborough advanced upon them with a quickened step and a sudden smile of recognition-but, somehow, Isbel had a suspicion that the meeting was not quite so unpremeditated. All her poses were so accurately graceful and studied that the latter wondered if, by any chance, she could be a mannequin on holiday; her heels were perfect stilts. The face, however, when she came close up, was a good thirty-six or seven, and was not even decently pretty for that age. It was long, thin, and pale, with high cheek-bones and a fixed, insolent smile, which expressed nothing at all except pretension. But it was very beautifully made-up-so much so that it almost required another woman to see that it had been touched at all. Her whole toilette, from clothes to perfume, was based on an appeal to sex, and, men being such crude animals, Isbel thought that it was quite possible she might still pick up an occasional victim here or there…She glanced down at her own shabby tweeds, and smiled ironically.

  "May I come in out of the weather? What a delightfully unexpected meeting!" Mrs. Richborough, without waiting for permission, stepped under the shelter and shook out her muff.

  Judge, still holding the open time-table in his hand, rose with a courteous smile and removed his hat; he continued standing.

  "It is indeed a pleasant surprise! But aren't you terribly wet?"

  "A little…Am I intruding?" Her voice was quiet, sweet almost to lusciousness, and very leisurely. Each word was produced with a distinctness nearly theatrical, but at the conclusion of all her periods she had the strange trick of dropping to a whisper.

  "Not in the least," replied Judge. "We're cast up here by the rain, and very thankful to see a new face. This is a friend of mine…Miss Loment-Mrs. Richborough…I'm just in the act of looking up a train for Mi
ss Loment, if you'll pardon me a minute."

  Mrs. Richborough sank lightly down next to Isbel.

  "You aren't a Worthing resident, then?"

  "Oh, no. Do I look like one?"

  "I hardly know how one distinguishes them by appearance. Then you come from…?"

  "From Brighton. Why?"

  The widow laughed. "I really can't say why I'm asking. Why does one ask these things? So Mr. Judge is in Fortune's good graces this morning. Was yours accidental, too?"

  "My what?…I fear the rain won't have done your beautiful furs much good."

  "Isn't it perfectly distressing? And I so hoped it was to be fine. You have been sensible, at any rate."

  "You mean my get-up? Oh, I put these on specially to come over here."

  Mrs. Richborough glanced at the little parcel on Isbel's lap. "Surely you didn't bring lunch with you?"

  "Oh, no; I'm only here on business."

  Judge at last succeeded in finding a train. It would convey her to Brighton in time for luncheon, but she would have to start for the station at once, and lose no time on the way.

  Mrs. Richborough held out her hand. "I hope we shall resume the acquaintance under more propitious circumstances."

  Isbel returned the slightest and coldest of bows, deliberately overlooking the hand.

  "No, don't trouble to come with me, Mr. Judge," she said, touching his fingers, with a smile. "People who run for trains aren't very good company, and I know the way quite well."

  And she immediately set off through the rain in the direction of the railway station.

  Chapter XII MRS. RICHBOROUGH'S ERRAND

  Wednesday afternoon turned out cold and fine, with a watery sun. Isbel arrived at the rendezvous at a few minutes before the appointed time, but Judge was not yet there.

  She was fashionably but inconspicuously dressed in a dark serge costume, with skunk furs; at the back of her mind was the desire to correct any possible wrong impression caused by her unfortunately-chosen attire of yesterday. After pacing up and down the parade in front of the Baths for a good while, however, with carefully assumed nonchalance, she began to fear that her forethought would be wasted; no one even distantly resembling Judge was in sight.

  Her feelings passed from disappointment to impatience, and thence to anger, by the gradations which familiar to everyone who has ever been kept waiting. At a quarter past three she decided that it was inconsistent with her dignity as a woman to stay for his good pleasure any longer…yet five minutes later she had still not dragged herself away from the spot…

  She was really going, when she caught sight of a familiar person approaching her-a surprising vision, which caused her to catch her breath and turn rather pale. It was Mrs. Richborough. She was mincing along the parade, without any great appearance of haste, from the direction of Brighton. Her furs were still very much in evidence, but they were different from those she had worn yesterday, being even heavier and more expensive-looking; she had on a smart black velvet togue, ornamented with a single paradise feather, and was wearing quite new white gloves. Isbel feared that her presence there was directly connected with Judge's absence; she felt wretchedly sure that something must have happened to him. Without standing on pretence she hurried to meet the widow.

  They met, and lightly touched hands-Mrs. Richborough with a correct smile, but Isbel too worried to think of observances.

  "I suppose you come from Mr. Judge?" she demanded, at once.

  "I do, and I'm frightfully sorry I couldn't get here before, for I know what girls are when they're disappointed…but really-I'm so out of breath with running here…you will excuse me, won't you? The trains, as usual, are running just at the wrong time…You see how distressed I am with hurrying."

  "Never mind. Why couldn't he come himself?"

  "He's unwell…No-not badly. A chill on the liver, or something of the kind. Of course, we know he's not as young as he was. He wanted to come, but I wouldn't hear of it. rather than that he should risk more serious complications, I offered to act as messenger myself…Shall we sit down?"

  "You're sure it's nothing serious?"

  "Oh, my dear!…It's only a cold. He'll be all right to-morrow again."

  They sat down side by side on one of the public seats. Mrs. Richborough made a feint of recovering her breath, which Isbel did not condescend to notice.

  "Have you brought a note from him, or is it a verbal message?"

  "It's a letter, my dear. I'm going to find it in a minute." She opened her hand-bag, and peered into it with provoking leisureliness…"Do you know, I feel quite an intrigante. Of course, it isn't a romance, but I've been amusing myself all the way here by imagining it really to be one. I've a fearfully romantic disposition."

  "Oh, it's only about his house, which my aunt proposes to buy."

  "How disillusioning!…So you act as her business manager?"

  "I help her sometimes. Is that the note?"

  "It's a little crumpled, but otherwise quite intact."

  Isbel turned the large, square envelope over in her hand; it was unaddressed, but sealed with yellow wax. Contact with Mrs. Richborough's scent-sachet in her bag had invested it with a heavy feminine odour. She examined the sealing-wax more closely than was altogether courteous.

  "Does he want me to read it now, and return an answer?"

  "He is rather expecting one, I fancy. Don't study me, my dear-I shan't look."

  Isbel still fingered the envelope. "You're not in his confidence, naturally?"

  "That's quite a horrid question!" The widow's voice remained soft, but her eye was hard and insolent. "I'm afraid we haven't arrived at that stage of intimacy yet."

  "I didn't know."

  She hesitated no longer, but at once broke open the envelope. Her companion discreetly bent down to lift and minutely inspect the hem of her skirt; she allowed it to fall again gracefully, and then produced from her bad a little silver mirror, in which she critically scrutinised her reflected features.

  In addition to a letter, there was something wrapped in white paper, and this Isbel opened first. It proved to be a hairpin. She gazed at in blank astonishment, and then hurriedly thrust it back inside the envelope, before Mrs. Richborough should see. The letter itself was in Judge's firm, precise hand-writing, and ran as follows:

  "My dear Miss Loment.

  "I am not quite the thing to-day, so please forgive my non-attendance. Mrs. R. has very kindly offered to run over to see you and bring you this letter with enclosure. The latter was picked up-you know where. The pencil-note I brought back with me from the same place related, I am reluctant to inform you, only to my own personal feelings, and I have taken the liberty to destroy it; but I am afraid that your hypothesis is, after all, correct. If you are able to identify the article enclosed, we must regard the evident as conclusive.

  "I now propose that we shall go over there to-morrow (Thursday) together. Mrs. R. has kindly volunteered to accompany us, and, if you think well of the proposition, perhaps you will fix up things with her. She knows nothing of the affair in question. Very probably I have no right to ask you to come, and I do not do so on my own account-which I believe you understand. But I know what anxiety the whole business is causing you, and must cause you so I thought it only fair that the opportunity should be placed within your reach, should you desire to avail yourself of it. if you are unable to arrange for to-morrow, perhaps you could give Mrs. R. another date?

  "It is unnecessary to impress on you the desirability of destroying this letter at the earliest moment.

  "Very sincerely yours.

  "H.J."

  Isbel read through the missive twice, then returned it thoughtfully to the envelope and placed the latter in her handbag.

  "Thanks, Mrs. Richborough!"

  The widow, who was in the act of adjusting her veil, turned about with a quick, impulsive smile.

  "Everything satisfactory, my dear?"

  "As regards the main business-yes. But he says something about ou
r all going over to Runhill Court to-morrow…"

  "Do let's! I'm positively dying to see that place."

  "Why?"

  "I dote on these ancient family houses. I don't know why. I'm more than a little mediumistic-that may be one reason."

  "If you're so keen, you needn't wait for me, I suppose?"

  Mrs. Richbourough's smile faded. "I suppose not, if I could find another woman. Unluckily, I know nobody in this part of the world. My own set happens to be up North."

  "Is there no one at the hotel?"

  "I'm just a little exclusive, I fear…Why shouldn't you come, my dear? What are you afraid of?"

  "You don't know, of course-I've already seen that place three times. There are limits to one's enthusiasm…I don't think I'll come, thanks!"

  "This is truly unexpected. Most girls would be charmed at the prospect of another pleasure party."

  "The only pleasure I can see in it is the pleasure of your society, Mrs. Richborough. Of course, that is a great inducement."

  "No, don't be horride, my dear. Let me put it in a different form. Perhaps you're not keen on coming; but do it to please Mr. Judge. The poor man's so proud of his house, and so delighted-so almost childishly delighted at the opportunity of exhibiting it to his friends. For some unknown reason, he chooses to set a very high value on my artistic opinion, and I have promised to tell him honestly exactly what I think of Runhill Court…And now, because you're afraid of being a little bored, you're going to dash all our plans to the ground."

  Isbel laughed. "The long and short of it is I'm not wanted for my own sake, but only to act as chaperon to you."

  The widow, too laughed - so energetically that her long, white face became quite strange to look at.

  "It sounds rather weird for an unmarried girl to chaperon an experienced widow, but you know, my dear, two women can always go where one can't. After all, I have my reputation to lose, just as much as the youngest and most innocent of you…You will come now, won't you?"

  "I'm still rather at sea, Mrs. Richborough. Is all this solicitude on your account, or Mr. Judge's?"