CHAPTER II

THE VISIT TO RUNHILL COURT

After breakfast on Saturday morning, Marshall brought the car round. He
strolled up and down for some time, smoking, before the ladies made
their appearance in the portico of the hotel. Isbel wore a new
travelling-ulster with a smart check; her small, black satin hat was
completed by a floating veil. Her face was powdered, and she was rather
heavily scented. Mrs. Moor’s short, commanding person was dressed with
plain dignity. She looked the more distinguished of the two.

Isbel walked round the new car, appraising it critically. Marshall had
bought it two months earlier, but delivery had been postponed until his
return from America.

“Looks rather ladylike,” he apologised, “but it’s a devil to go.”

Aunt and niece were in the best of humours. The morning was ideal for
motoring, while an objective, of course, made it so much more
interesting. It was hot, breathless, misty—a typical September day. The
sun beat down from a cloudless sky, and the sea was like milk. Crowds of
holiday-makers thronged the parade, a piano-organ up some back street
was rattling out a popular tune, everyone looked in good health and free
from care.

“Can we get back for lunch?” demanded the older lady.

“We’ll do our best. It’s about fifteen miles each way, I take it.”

“Come on, then, and don’t waste time.”

As Isbel lightly touched Marshall’s arm in following her aunt into the
back seat, she gave him an intimate smile. Their somewhat dangerous
conversation of the preceding evening was forgotten, and both felt the
engagement to be a wonderful thing. Climbing in behind the wheel, the
underwriter’s face took on a deeper colour.

They started. The girl was delighted with the easy running of the car;
its power, smoothness, and silence were something impressive. She was
voluptuous by nature, and enjoyed luxurious travel, just as she enjoyed
every form of softness. Mrs. Moor, for her part, sat as nearly upright
as the thickly-padded cushions would permit, staring severely at the
throng, which gradually thinned as they approached Hove.

Their road ran through Portslade, Shoreham, and up the valley of the
Adur. The sun steadily increased in power, while the morning mists
insensibly dissipated. They passed from sunshine to shadow, and from
shadow to sunshine, fanned all the time by their own wind. Isbel’s first
exhilaration faded: she wrinkled her brow, and grew dreamy, pensive,
vaguely anxious. Nature always had this effect on her. Streets, shops,
crowds, any form of human activity, enabled her to forget herself, but
natural surroundings threw her back on her own mental resources, and
then the whole emptiness and want of purpose of her life loomed up in
front of her. . . . Her aunt viewed the changing landscape sternly.
These trees, these fields and meads, but, above all, those bare downs of
grass-covered chalk in the background, were to her _sacred_. Isbel
respected her mood, and made no attempt at conversation.

Presently they came to Bramber and Steyning. At the latter place
Marshall slowed down to inquire the way, and was instructed to take the
left-hand fork about a mile further on. Runhill Court would be, roughly,
three miles north-west from that point, but the road was a complicated
one.

The Downs were on their left. Chanctonbury Ring, with its crest of dark
trees, dominated the whole country. The sun blazed, while a plague of
flies swarmed round the car, which had to crawl as soon as they entered
the puzzling network of by-lanes. They met few people, and the way was
hard to pick up, in consequence of which it was already nearing twelve
when at last they drew up before the lodge gate at their destination.

Beyond the gate a winding carriage drive went forward to the house,
which was out of sight; it was bordered on either side by the usual
shrubbery of rhododendrons, hollies, etc. On the left, again, was a
rising park, containing some fine specimens of beech, while to the right
a real wood appeared, the extent of which, however, could not be seen.
An ancient, moss-grown, red brick wall bounded the estate. On the other
side of the narrow lane which passed the lodge were meadow lands,
fringed by a line of tall elms, which effectually shut out the view. It
was a solitary and charming spot. The air was peculiarly sweet, clean,
yet heavy with fragrance.

As Marshall was in the act of getting down, a middle-aged woman emerged
from the lodge. She was smoothing her dress and hair, and evidently had
just removed an apron.

He produced Judge’s order. The woman took it in her hand and proceeded
to read it, passing her thumb under each line from side to side of the
sheet, while her lips silently framed the words. She was a tall,
big-boned, fresh-complexioned person, of the upper-servant type;
handsome, in a common way, but with sarcastic eyes. Her hair was thick
and yellow.

Having examined the signature musingly, she turned again to him.

“When did you want to see the house, sir?”

“Now, if we may.”

She stared at one of the buttons of his coat. “That makes it rather
awkward, sir. I gave the house-key to an American gentleman a short time
back, and he’s still over there. Will you wait?”

“I didn’t know you admitted the general public.”

“We don’t, sir. This was on another order, like yours.”

“Someone Mr. Judge picked up on the other side, no doubt. . . . Well,
Mrs. . . .”

“Mrs. Priday, sir.”

“Well, Mrs. Priday, I don’t see that it matters at all; we shan’t
interfere with each other. As the house is open, I suppose we can get
in?”

“Oh, yes—but did you wish me to show you over?”

“If you will.”

“I must find my husband first, before I can leave the lodge. He’s
working somewhere in the grounds; he’s head gardener here. Will the
ladies step inside and wait, sir?”

“Well, look here, Mrs. Priday—we’re somewhat pressed for time, so if
you’ll open the gate we’ll just run up to the house and be starting. You
can follow when you’re ready.”

“As you please, sir,” replied the caretaker, with an almost
imperceptible shrug. She proceeded, without any great show of alacrity,
to unlatch and swing open the carriage-gate, and meanwhile Marshall
returned to the car, which a minute later passed slowly through the
entrance to the drive.

Travelling at low speed, they obtained round the first bend, about three
hundred yards further on, their first view of the house. It stood on
high ground, and cool, dark-green lawns sloped down from it on all four
sides. The front, which they approached, faced the south-east. It was a
large edifice, in the Elizabethan style, but the exterior had been so
renovated and smartened—perhaps by Judge—that it looked almost a
modern erection. The irregular, many-gabled roof was bright with new red
tiles, the facing of red bricks on the ground storey had been pointed
recently, while the two upper storeys were plastered with dazzling white
stucco.

The house was long-fronted, possessing a double row of lattice windows
overlooking the gravel terrace at the head of the lawn. A small, square
wing, about thirty feet in height, jutted from the left end of the
front, and appeared to belong to a different order of architecture. This
was the famous thirteenth-century hall, built during the reign of the
first Edward. Its steeply-pointed roof was covered with grey slates. The
wide double-door was resplendent with dark green paint and highly
polished brass.

Mrs. Moor, as she continued to gaze at it, reflected that the possession
of so stylish and picturesque a dwelling would not disgrace her in the
eyes of her social circle.

“One might live here very comfortably, Isbel?”

Her niece gave a smile of vexation. “Since you have absolutely
determined to immure yourself in the heart of the wilds.”

“Pray don’t let us thrash that out again,” said the older lady. “The
suburbs I cannot endure, town flats are prisons, while hotels will be
impossible after you’ve left me. Here, at all events, I should have
space and independence.”

Isbel turned away without replying.

The car stopped outside the hall porch, with its green door. It was
exactly mid-day. The sun glared down, but a refreshing breeze fanned
their faces. The house was built on such an elevation that they could
see a section of the distant country before them—the Adur valley, with
the Downs on both flanks, and, right down at its mouth, the sea at
Shoreham.

Marshall stamped the ground with his foot. “This must be the original
Run Hill that we’re standing on.”

“Has it a history, then?” asked Isbel.

“Every place must have a history. To me, the mere fact that the ancient
Saxons knew it by the same name is rather inspiring.”

“Because you’re of Saxon blood. I’m a Celt.”

“As if that had anything to do with it.”

“And then, _Saxons_ is a very general term. There were Saxon rustics,
and there were Saxon pirates. If you’re referring to the latter I might
feel sympathetic. It must be awfully jolly to annihilate people you
don’t like.”

Marshall laughed. “Evidently your character has depths.”

“Possibilities, anyhow.”

Mrs. Moor became impatient. “Did we come here to discuss your character,
Isbel, or to see the house?”

Isbel grimaced in silence, and jerked back once again the veil which
kept straying over her shoulder.

Having locked the wheel of the car Marshall walked across to the hall
door, and tried the handle. The door opened smoothly and noiselessly.
The ladies discarded their wraps, and followed him into the house.

A small lobby brought them to the main hall. Its age, loftiness, and dim
light reminded them of an ancient chapel. It was two storeys in height;
everything was of wood. The dark-oak, angular roof was crossed by
massive beams, the walls were wainscoted, the floor was of polished oak,
relieved only by a few Persian rugs, of dignified colours. At the back
of the hall, halfway up, a landing, or gallery, ran across its entire
breadth. It was reached by a wide staircase, with shallow steps, heavily
carpeted, which formed the right-hand exit of the downstairs chamber.
Two doors were underneath the gallery, communicating with the interior
of the house. A big, ancient fireplace occupied the centre of one of the
side walls; against the opposite one stood a modern steam-heating
apparatus. Three perpendicular windows over the lobby-door had alternate
diamond panes of coloured and uncoloured glass; the colours were dark
blue and crimson, and whatever object these rays fell upon was made
beautiful and sombre. . . . The woodwork was in excellent repair, and
appeared newly polished. All the appointments of the hall were bright,
spotless, and in perfect condition. Judge evidently had had the place
thoroughly restored and redecorated. And yet the general effect was not
quite satisfactory. Somehow, it was _discordant_ . . .

Marshall gazed around him with an uncertain air.

“Rather over-modernised, isn’t it? I mean, a place like this ought to be
more a museum.”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Moor. “It’s a lounge.”

“I know—but would anyone dream of using it as such? Could I smoke a
pipe and read a newspaper here? What I say is, why not frankly make a
show-place of it?”

“But how? I don’t know exactly what you’re complaining of.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t be so obtuse, aunt!” exclaimed Isbel,
irritably. “He merely means, it’s all too spick-and-span. When one goes
back a few centuries, one expects a certain amount of dust. I quite
agree with Marshall. And of course the furniture’s hopeless.”

“What’s wrong with the furniture?”

“Oh, it’s a curiosity-shop. All styles and periods. . . . Either Mr.
Judge has frantic taste or his wife had. Probably the late lamented. I
imagine _him_ as the sort of man to be ruled entirely by shopmen, and no
one can accuse shopmen of being eccentric.”

“You’re showing off to Marshall,” said Mrs. Moor curtly. “Of one thing
I’m certain. Mr. Judge must be a highly _moral_ man. Order and
cleanliness like this could only spring from a thoroughly
self-respecting nature.”

“If soap and water constitute morality,” retorted Isbel.

Time was precious. They passed through the left-hand door beneath the
gallery, and found themselves in the dining-room. It was a long, low,
narrow, dusky apartment, extending lengthwise from the hall. The noon
sunshine filled it with solemn brightness, but the hand of the past was
upon everything, and the girl’s heart sank as she contemplated the
notion of taking her meals here, if only for a few months. She became
subdued and silent.

“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 time 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 broke 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.”

“What don’t you like about it?”

“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 late 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 towards 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 and marvellous world. . . .
It was wonderful . . . most beautiful, really. . . . Then, after a few
minutes came the famous passage 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 door 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.