Abstractedly she walked over to the mirror to adjust her hat…Either the glass was flattering her, or something had happened to make her look different; she was quite startled by her image. It was not so much that she appeared more beautiful as that her face had acquired another character. Its expression was deep, stern, lowering, yet everything was softened and made alluring by the pervading presence of sexual sweetness. The face struck a note of deep, underlying passion, but a passion which was still asleep…It thrilled and excited her, it was even a little awful to think that this was herself, and still she knew that it was true. She really possessed this tragic nature. She was not like other girls-other English girls. Her soul did not swim on the surface, but groped its way blindly miles underneath the water…But how did the glass come to reflect this secret? And what was the meaning of this look of enchanting sexuality, which nearly tormented herself?…
She spent a long time gazing at the image, but without either changing the position of her head, or moving a muscle of her countenance. Petty, womanish vanity had no share in her scrutiny. She did not wish to admire, she wished to understand herself. It seemed to her that no woman possessing such a strong, terrible sweetness and intensity of character could avoid accepting an uncommon, and possibly fearful, destiny. A flood of the strangest emotions slowly rose to her head…
She heard a man's voice calling her name from a very long way off. The voice was muffled, as if by intervening walls, but she had no difficulty recognising it as Marshall 's. She guessed that he was shouting down from the top of the house, and that, on getting no response, he would quicken his descent to the hall. She would half to go and meet him. Before retracing her steps, however, it was of course essential to peep behind the curtain.
Hastening across to it, she pulled aside the heavy red drapery. There was revealed a doorway, but no door; another flight of wooden stairs started to go down immediately beyond. Isbel persuaded herself that she would still have time to explore a little.
Half-way down, the hall came in sight…She could not understand…
Near the bottom she realised that she was coming out by the side of the fireplace-in other words, that this staircase was identical with that by which she had ascended…How this could possibly be, however, she had no more opportunity of asking herself, for at that moment she reached the hall, and at the very instant that her foot touched the floor every detail of her little adventure flashed out of her mind, like the extinguishing of a candle.
She remembered having commenced the ascent of those stairs, she was perfectly conscious that the ascent of those stairs, she was perfectly conscious that she had that very minute come down them, but of all that had happened to her in the interim she had no recollection whatever.
She turned round to look at the staircase again. It had vanished!…It was then, for the first time, that she recalled Mr. Judge's story.
Instinct informed her that the whole transaction must be concealed from Marshall. She required time to think it over quietly and tranquilly, in all its bearings, before taking him into her confidence-if, indeed, she should ever decide to do so. He was very unlikely to put a charitable construction on her tale; it would almost certainly cause disagreement and general unpleasantness-it would be far better never to say anything about it at all. She sat down and waited for him. Her headache had returned.
Presently Marshall, followed by Priday, entered the hall, but not from upstairs-from outside. He appeared rather distracted, and on catching sight of Isbel his face flushed up.
"Where in the name of wonder have you been all this time?"
"All which time? What is the time?"
"It's well past twelve. I've been looking for you a good twenty minutes."
"Oh!…"
"Where were you?"
She forced a smile, while thinking rapidly.
"Evidently I wasn't here, since you didn't see me…As a matter of fact, I went outside for a few minutes."
Priday regarded her with a dubious stare.
"Even so, you must have heard me shouting," said Marshall.
"My dear Marshall, are you trying to be unpleasant, or what? If I had heard you, I should have answered. Perhaps I dropped off to sleep-I can't say. My head was bad, and I was sitting under some trees, with my eyes closed. I really don't think that you need make such a fuss about it…Did you see the room?"
"Of course we saw it. It's just a room like any other room."
"Nothing mysterious?"
"Oh, that's all bunkum!…Well are you fit, or would you like to wait a bit longer?"
She got up slowly. "We'd better go."
Marshall looked at her strangely, but said nothing more. They left the house. Marshall went across to the car, but Isbel stopped for a minute to address Priday, who was engaged in locking the door.
"So I should have run no great risk in that room, after all, Mr. Priday?"
He finished his task before looking up or replying.
"That may be, miss-but I ain't taking nothing back. And what's more, I ain't so sure you ain't seen too much, as it is."
"Really, this is most uncalled-for!" she exclaimed, laughing. "Why, what do you imagine I've seen?"
"You know and I don't, miss. All I say is, I see a difference in you since forty minutes ago."
"An improvement, I hope, Mr. Priday?"
"You're amusin' yourself with me, miss-and that's all right. But I ain't one to speak of what I don't know, and I sticks to it-and you mark my words-this house ain't one for young ladies like yourself. There's plenty more old houses in the kingdom for you to see over, if you want such."
"Come along, Isbel!" called out Marshall impatiently from the car. "Don't stand gassing there, with your bad head."
As she obeyed and took her seat, the smile dropped from her face, leaving it so puckered and anxious-looking that he uttered an involuntary exclamation:
"By Jove! You do look washed-out."
Isbel made no reply, but after they had repassed through the lodge-gate she unobtrusively produced a small mirror of polished silver from her handbag and carefully scrutinized her features. She certainly was not looking very attractive, but otherwise she could detect no special change in her appearance.
Chapter VI JUDGE APPEARS ON THE SCENE
It was Tuesday afternoon. Marshall had returned to town. The weather had suddenly broken, and rain had fallen steadily since early morning. Mrs. Moor was in her room, while Isbel, rather reluctantly, took the opportunity of bringing her correspondence up to date-a task she cordially detested. Half a dozen laconic epistles, sealed and addressed in her large, sprawling handwriting, already pay piled on the table, and now she was writing to Blanche, expressing her pleasure at the imtimation that she and Roger proposed to spend the coming week-end at the Gondy. Blanche was her old school chum and dearest friend. It was she who had introduced her to Marshall (her husband Roger's younger brother); consequently, she regarded the engagement as her own peculiar handiwork, though of course Isbel held different ideas on the subject, which she kept strictly to herself. Isbel, who was "Isbel" to all the rest of her circle, was "Billy" to Blanche and her husband. They lived at Hampstead, and were fairly well off.
A knock sounded at the door, and a visiting-card for Mrs. Moor was handed in by the hotel hall-boy. Isbel read the name in silent astonishment. Directing the boy to wait, she at once went to her aunt's room.
"Mr. Judge is here," she announced dryly, standing by the door.
The older lady half got up, then lay down again.
"Where is he?"
"Downstairs, presumably. Will you see him?"
"Really, it's most unreasonable! He appears to imagine he's privileged to do whatever he pleases. What an impossible hour to call!…Well, I shan't see him, that's all."