She was standing in the same attitude-looking up towards the house. Suddenly a shock passed through her system. She had just realised the house was gone. It had vanished, absolutely and entirely. And not only the house, but its grounds as well, including the very lawn on which her foot had been resting…She discovered herself to be on the side of a steep, grassy hill, through the turf of which the naked chalk showed. She was some way down from the top, but there was not the least room for doubt that there was no building there; its bare ridge joined the sky from end to end…Here was a miracle indeed!…
Upon turning swiftly to see what was behind her, she was bewildered to meet the identical panorama which she and Judge had viewed yesterday from that window. The hillside she stood on was where the strangely-dressed man had been; she recognised at once by its general configuration and relation to the landscape. The sharp, smooth slope descended to the same little valley, along which flowed the same little brook; beyond it was that other hill, with the unbroken forest stretching to the horizon…after staring for a few moments, she clapped her hand to her eyes, and cried out. She could not understand it, and she feared she was on the point of losing her reason. But when she looked again she saw the same things, down to the smallest detail, and all was so brightly-coloured, so solid, so real in appearance, that she could not hesitate any longer to accept the scene as being actually existent…And it was so beautiful! The forest trees were clothed in fresh green leaves, the smaller trees in the valley underneath were smothered with white blossom, song-birds trilled and twittered, a wood pigeon was cooing softly, two distant cuckoos seemed to be answering each other, high overhead a lark fluttered and sang. The caressing wind brought to her the rich, moist fragrance of the whole countryside…Yes, yes-it was spring!…
She remembered everything. Every particular of her three visits to those other rooms at Runhill returned to her with startling distinctness, so that she was amazed how she could ever have forgotten. Moreover, her whole relation to Henry, both in private and in public, was suddenly made clear. She saw how worldly prudence on his side, angry pride on hers, had nearly succeeded in wrecking their happiness, and how this state of affairs had arisen, not from any fault of character on either part, not from any insufficiency of love, but from pure ignorance of the fact. They had not known that they belonged to each other…
Her heart sang as she saw him approaching her from higher up. He was only a short distance away. Still further back, behind him, she caught a glimpse of the gaily-dressed musician. He was lying on his side, head uphill, back towards her, apparently asleep; hiss fiddle-shaped instrument was beside him. Isbel gave him a silent welcome, but at that moment Henry was the more wonderful vision of the two. She had no real eyes for anything but him.
They hastened to each other with outstretched hands.
"You heard me this time?" laughed Henry, enfolding her and looking down into her eyes.
"My ears throbbed-was that really you?…Oh, Henry, what a terribly narrow escape we've had! How could we have been so absolutely insane? Surely we must have know that that ring was not thrown away for nothing?…"
"Some kind fate is watching over us, evidently. Whether we deserve it by our stupidity is quite another matter…However, you see now I'm not so mad as you thought I was?"
"It's heaven, I think. But is it true?…Where has the house gone to?"
"We're in the house."
Even while they were speaking, the brightness of the day began perceptibly to fade, almost as though a solar eclipse were creeping on. The sun became obscured by haze, the blue of the sky grew paler and paler, thin mists commenced again to crawl about the lower regions. The wind dropped, and a sort of hush came over the scene. The birds sang more fitfully.
"It's getting darker," whispered Isbel, with a slight shiver, uneasily drawing her fur closer to her.
"No, no. Dismiss the possibility. It can't change now." His strong-featured face smiled down at her protectingly.
"Let's hope not…How do you mean-'we're in the house'?"
"I entered it from the grounds, and I haven't passed out again into the grounds, therefore I'm still in it-and you're with me. I don't profess to understand, but it is so, and it can't be otherwise."
The mist sensibly thickened. Isbel could scarcely distinguished the trees on the opposite side of the valley. The sun disappeared, the sky was a whitish grey, while the air felt cold and damp.
"Henry, I'm going!" she said, quietly detaching herself from his embrace…"Everything's falling back…"
His face fell in alarm. "What's the matter? What's happening to you?…"
"We're returning t the old state. The sun's gone in, and it's growing misty and cold…Oh, can't you see it?"
"No, I can't. There's no difference at all-the day is as glorious as ever it was…Exert your will!…"
"My mind is getting all mixed up, too. I seem to be losing my grip of things…Do you know, I can hardly remember yesterday?"
"My poor, poor girl! Make an effort. Force yourself to see that it isn't so."
"Unfortunately, one cannot conquer facts. Oh, I'm going back right enough. It's been a short-lived dream this time-but it doesn't signify."
Judge bit his nails in agitation. "What's to be done? Something must be done. I must think of something…"
"I verily believe you are more concerned than I," she replied smiling. "You had better wake that man. Is he still lying there? I can no longer see."
"Wake him?"
"Is he too terrible to be waked?"
"His face is buried in his arm."
"Perhaps he will help us. He has done so before. But he quick! It will soon be too late."
"I'll go at once. May it turn out well! There's something very unusual in his appearance."
By the time both the crest of the hill and the valley beneath were blotted out. She was unable to see for more than a few feet around her, while the mist resembled a fine, driving rain, which did its work none the less effectually because it was impalpable.
She signed to Judge to stop, and, after staring at him for a few moments, with knitted brows, said:
"I'm afraid I've lost the thread of my ideas. Of whom are we speaking?"
"Of that man. The musician."
"What man? What musician?"
"Isbel!…"
"Mr. Judge," she said quietly, "my head is very confused, and I have to plead guilty to not remembering what or whom we were talking about; but one thing I do recollect. I requested you a short time ago to address me with the same courtesy which you would use towards any other lady of your acquaintance."
Judge turned pale, and bowed.
"You left me a few minutes ago," she went on, "and it seems you've come back. Is there any advantage to be gained by our pursuing this conversation?"
"I have no explanation to offer which you would at present be able to understand. I will absent myself once more. Please be good enough to wait here a few moments longer. I have complete confidence that everything will be made clear to you."
His features bore an expression of earnestness and humility which succeeded only in still further irritating her.
"No, I'm going home. Your conduct ever since yesterday, Mr. Judge, is entirely beyond my comprehension, but I will put the most charitable construction upon it that I can, and give you a word of advice. Continue your journey to London with as little delay as possible, and lose not time in seeking your medical adviser."
Judge bowed again.
"I think we shall not see one another again," proceeded Isbel. "I will take this opportunity of saying good-bye. It has been a very…broken friendship."
Without waiting for any further speech from him, she started slowly to mount the lawn, having no definite plans for getting back to Brighton, but feeling that she would gain her bearings better from the house in the first place. She did not rust herself to retrace the route by which she had come. The thick, white, rolling vapours shut her in, as in a prison…Judge, standing there in bri
lliant sunshine and an atmosphere which showed everything as clear-cut and painted, saw her one moment, and failed to see her the next. She had disappeared before his eyes. He made a gesture of dismay, and began in hot haste to scramble up the hillside obliquely, in the direction of the sleeping musician.
***
Isbel heard a long, low, scraping sound, like the slow drawing of a bow across the low string of a deep-toned viol. It was succeeded by silence.
She was by this time close up to the house, and she looked towards it, but was unable to understand where she had come to. It was a different building. As well as could be distinguished through the mist, it was constructed entirely of unpainted timber, from top to bottom; the roof was flat, without gables, and there appeared to be four storeys. Then the fog shut out the vision again.
A strange warmth was running through her body. All her other sensations seemed to be merged in the recollection that she was a woman…Fever was abroad in the air, and her blood grew hotter and hotter…
That musical noise returned, but now the note was low, fierce, passionate, exactly resembling a deep, forced human cry of love-pain…
Everything happened in a single second. Between twin periods of fog and gloom, came one flash of summer sunlight. It entered upon her with the abrupt unexpectedness of a stroke, and before she realised where she was, or what had happened to her, it had departed again leaving her stunned and terrified. Meanwhile, this is what she seemed to see. She was standing in sunshine again, on that bare hill, gazing at the distant forest, across the valley. The sky was cloudless. She was nearly at the top of the hill, and the house had vanished…She recollected everything, but could settle to nothing. Her mood was one of unutterable excitement and reckless audacity; she appeared to herself to be laughing and sobbing under her breath…
Henry and that other man were facing each other on the hillside, a little way below her. The man was tall and stout, and, in his bright-coloured, archaic garments, cut an extraordinary figure. He held his instrument against his chest, and was in the act of drawing his bow across it-the note she had heard had not yet come to an end. His back was turned towards her, so that she could not see his face, but Henry, who was standing erect and motionless beyond, was looking right into it, and, from his expression, it was as though he were beholding some appalling vision!…She screamed and ran towards him, calling him by name. Before she had taken three steps, however, the musician jerked his whole force savagely into his bow-arm, and she was brought up with a violent shock. Such sharp brutality of passion she had never heard expressed by any sound…The sunlight grew suddenly hotter and darker, the landscape appeared to close rapidly in upon her, some catastrophe was impending; her blood was boiling and freezing…
At that moment it seemed to her that yonder strange man was the centre around which everything in the landscape was moving, and that she herself was no more than his dream!…
And then Henry's face was crossed by an expression of sickness; he changed colour; she caught a faint groan, and directly afterwards he sank helplessly to the ground, where he continued lying quite still…she stood paralysed, staring in horror…
The sunlight vanished instantaneously. Everything was grey and cold again, the sky was leaden; she saw nothing but driving rain-mists…She rubbed her eyes with her knuckes, wondering what had occurred, how she came to be standing there, as in a dream, why she felt so sick and troubled?…
Then she quietly fainted where she stood.
Chapter XX MARSHALL'S JOURNEY
On arriving at Lloyd's at ten o'clock on the same morning, Marshall found among his letters a typewritten envelope of uncommercial size and shape. Out of curiosity, he opened it the first. The communication enclosed was typed on small, feminine notepaper, and was neither addressed nor signed. It was, in fact, anonymous. Before reading it, he turned again to the envelope, to inspect the postmark. It was stamped Worthing. The only person he could think of as staying at Worthing was Judge.
He read the following words:
"If Mr. Stokes is interested to know how Miss L-spends her time during his temporary absences, it might be as well for him to inquire at Runhill court. There is every reason to believe that she will be there to-morrow (Friday) morning before lunch, for the third time this week, and he may consider the matter of sufficient importance to justify his presence there on the same occasion. Should it not be before lunch, it may be after. It is believed that there are rooms in the house which are not easy to discover."
Marshall carefully folded the letter, and deposited it in his pocket-cast. Then he sat back, and began to slowly pass his hand over his eyes and forehead.
His first impulse was to ignore the whole business, destroy the note, and say nothing about it to Isbel or anyone else. To start testing the accuracy of a charge, of which, naturally, he did not believe a single word, would be equivalent to admitting that there might be a possibility of truth in it, and that would be a ghastly insult to Isbel…
But then there was the question of libel. Some ill-disposed person-probably a woman-was evidently bent on mischief, and it was doubtful how far she would go if no counter-action was taken. The thing obviously was to find out, in the first place, who wrote the letter. The police were out of the question, and private inquiry agents were not much better; he did not intend to have her name bandied about by these professional gentlemen. She herself was the only one who might be ale to throw light on the business. He would show her the letter that same evening when he went down to Brighton, and they would talk it over together. A person who was prepared to go to that criminal length did not spring out of empty space-Isbel would have a tolerable idea who it was, and why she, or he, had done it…
Of course, spite was at the bottom of it. But what he could not quite see through was the explicit character of the charge. Where was the sense of quoting time and place, when the writer must be aware that any action taken on the statement would expose the whole damned lie? Probably it was a bit of low cunning. It was thought that he would not take action, an that the poison would continue to rankle in his mind…That seemed all right as far as he could see. And in that case he was not at all sure that it might not be good policy to make the move he was not expected to make. Of course, before going to Runhill, to see what game was on foot, he would look Isbel up at Brighton, and very likely take her with him.
He made hurried arrangements with his deputy to carry on during his absence, and immediately afterwards left for Victoria.
It was not long after noon when he arrived at the Gondy Hotel. Mrs. Moor gave an exclamation of surprise when she saw him.
"Good gracious, Marshall!-what can this mean?"
He told a story of having met a man…"Where's Isbel?" he added quickly.
Isbel, it seemed, had been out for two hours, and Mrs. Moor had no idea where she was.
In a very decomposed manner, Marshall muttered something about returning later in the day. He took his departure abruptly-almost rudely. She could not think what had come over him. Probably it was some business worry.
Meanwhile Marshall, with a face which grew sterner each minute, sought his car in the hotel garage. While it was being got out, he produced and lit a cigar. He wished t assure himself that his feelings were tranquil, and that the visit to Runhill he was about to make was a quite ordinary, matter-of-fact transaction, of no special consequence, and undertaken merely as a piece of necessary routine work…Perhaps he really did not see, perhaps he did not wish to see, that it can never be an ordinary transaction to test a woman's honour…
He got in, turned up the collar of his rainproof coat, pulled down his crushed-in hat, and started off. It was a quarter to one. He pushed the car along fast to Shoreham, but, once past the houses, he let her go altogether…In just over the half hour he reached Runhill Lodge.
Priday appeared.
Marshall got down…"Good afternoon! Is there anyone up at the house?" He had returned the cigar-stump t his mouth when he had spoken.
&nbs
p; "The boss is there, sir."
"Mr. Judge?"
"Ah."
"Anyone with him?" The keen glint of his eye, as he threw a side-glance, belied his indifferent tone.
"No, sir, he's by himself. He ain't been there much above half an hour."
Marshall remained silent for a minute.
"I'll walk up to him, I think."
"Shall I open the gate?"
"No, I said I'd walk up. The car's quite all right where it is. Thank you, Priday."
He threw away his stump, passed through the side gate, and started slowly up the drive, with bent head. Priday, after gazing after him for a short time, disappeared again inside the lodge. The dismal, wetting mist made it no sort of day to be out in.
As he approached the house, Marshall saw a small car standing outside the main entrance. It was evidently Judge's. When he came up to it, he leant over the side, to make a somewhat ashamed, but none the less careful scrutiny of the seats and floor. He hardly dared to confess himself what he feared to see there. It was with heartfelt relief that he failed to detect anything of a compromising character. He crossed to the house. The hall door was unlocked; he opened it, and went straight in.
The hall was grey, sombre, and silent. He wondered which would be the likeliest part of the house to start looking for Judge…Nine chances out of ten, he would be upstairs in his favourite lurking-spot-the East Room. It might be good sense to go there first…What did that damned correspondence mean by there being rooms hard to find?…Oh, hell! Isbel couldn't be there. Priday said no one was there except Judge…why the devil wsa he wasting precious timen mooning in the hall, when he ought by now to be up at the top of the house?…
The Haunted Woman Page 18
