They quitted the hall. The two women took their places in the car. After locking the house door, Judge approached Isbel to ascertain her wishes with regard to being set down. At her request he consulted his time-table to discover if there were a convenient train from Shoreham. He found one which would not involve an unreasonable detention at the station, and it was arranged that she should alight there.
He was then about to leave her, to take his own seat, when she pulled quietly at his sleeve.
"What are you feeling?" she asked in a low voice.
"You must know."
"Tell me one thing-you haven't altered towards me?"
"No, I haven't altered."
"You have been so cold. You don't wish to break off our…friendship?"
Judge worked his jaw, pouched his mouth, and looked away.
"No, I don't wish it; but perhaps it will be necessary."
"You are made of stone, I think. But I'm coming here to-morrow."
"Very well-if it can be arranged. I strongly doubt whether she will be fit."
"And if she isn't?"
"That is a question which answers itself, Miss Loment."
"I'm coming over to Worthing by the same train, in any case. Expect me…You don't altogether despise me, do you?"
"Hush!"…He nodded significantly towards Mrs. Richborough. "How could I?"
"Oh, she doesn't hear. Her eyes are closed. Then you will wait for me to-morrow?"
"Yes."
"With or without her, we must go…There's nothing else you wish to say to me now?"
"Nothing."
"You are sure?"
"Quite sure."
Isbel sighed, as she sank back on the cushioned seat. Two minutes later they started down the drive.
Chapter XVIII A CATASTROPHE
After a miserable, feverish night of tossing and turning, Isbel at last fell asleep in the early house of the morning. She awoke again at eight, and at once got up. She felt dull and stupid, was incapable if quickening her movements, her eyes gave her a sense of being sunk half-way in her head. So sluggish was her blood that whatever she chanced to look at seemed to possess the power of detaining her gaze for an indefinite period, though all the time she was not really seeing it. To crown all, she had a gnawing toothache. She was deeply depressed.
She dared not think of Judge, yet all her preparations were made with the single view of journeying to Worthing that morning immediately after breakfast. What was to come of her visit, she did not know. Perhaps nothing at all; perhaps it might be the beginning of a new life.
After dressing, and before going downstairs, she stood awhile at the window. It was a still grey, dismal morning, which threatened to turn to for or fine rain. It was neither cold nor warm. She contemplated the engagement-ring on her finger, playing with it, as she smiled queerly. It was a pretty toy, and all her friends were very pleased with her for wearing it, but…supposing she was not destined to wear it any longer? Who could tell what this day was appointed to bring forth, whether for good or for evil? What a quaint surprise for her little circle if it were to prove that, after all, she had rich, red blood in her veins, and not rose-water!
Oh, she did not know what she felt! It could not be passion. She was conscious of no thrill, but, on the contrary, was thoroughly cold, dull, and despondent. But neither was she playing a part. Something called to her, and that silent voice was irresistible. It was something in that house… It was like the call of a drug; she was a drug-maniac…But why Judge? And why that ring yesterday? Could it be passion?…A passion which kept flaming up, and slumbering again?…
Each following day she found it harder to keep away from him. It was not his person, it was not his intellect, it was not his character; it could not be compatibility…Then what was it? What was this subtle attraction which was proving so increasingly overwhelming? Was it that, underneath person, intellect, character, there was something else-something which never came to the surface, but disclosed itself only to the something else in her? And was all love of this nature, or was it exceptional, prodigious?…
Whom to ask? Who loved nowadays? Betrothals and marriages she saw all around her, but if it wasn't money, it was sexual admiration-she could see nothing else. Might not that secret, incomprehensible impulse which drew her to him be more worthy of the name of love than these despicable physical infatuations of worldly men and women?…
At ten o'clock she left the hotel, procured a taxi on the front, and within a quarter of an hour was standing inside the booking-hall at Hove Station.
It was not yet half-past eleven as she mounted the steps of the Mertropole. She swept through the door, and approached the office window, assuming an air of hauteur which was contradicted by the trembling of her hands, as she fumbled in her bag for her card-case. Producing a card, she passed it over the counter to the lady clerk.
"Will you please have that sent up to Mrs. Richborough?"
The clerk looked at the card, and at her. She said nothing, but went to consul with someone else, who was out of sight; Isbel could hear them whispering together. Presently the girl came back, and requested her to accompany her to another room, adjoining the office. Isbel did so. She was begged to sit down, and then left to her own society, the door being closed upon her. It was all very solemn and mysterious.
A minute afterwards a well-dressed man of middle age entered the room. He had a florid German-looking face, and a bald forehead; he was wearing braided trousers, with an irreproachable frock-coat. Isbel took him to be the hotel manage.
"You are Miss Loment, madam?" he asked with suave gravity, gazing at the card in his hand.
She replied in the affirmative.
"You are inquiring for Mrs. Richborough?"
Isbel had risen to her feet.
"Yes; I wish to see her."
"You are a relative, madam?"
"Oh, no. Why?"
"It is my regrettable duty to inform you that Mrs. Richborough was taken suddenly ill in her room last night, and died almost immediately afterwards. A medical man fortunately was in attendance."
"Oh, good heavens!…" Isbel grasped the chair-back to steady herself.
"The precise time was 9.15. It was very sudden, and very sad…Naturally, we are anxious that this should not be known among the other guests. I feel sure that I can rely upon your discretion, madam."
"Oh, what a tragedy!…But surely Mr. Judge know of it?"
"Yes, Mr. Judge does know."
"Could I speak to him a minute, please? Will you send my name up?"
"I regret that it is impossible, madam. Mr. Judge left us this morning."
"Left you?…Do you mean he has gone away-altogether?"
"Yes, madam; he has returned to London."
"But-has he taken his things with him? Isn't he coming back?"
"No, he is not coming back…One moment, madam…" He consulted the card in his hand. "I believe he has left a letter for you in charge of the office. If you will pardon me, I will go and inquire."
Isbel could not even find words to thank him. She sat down, feeling as if the roof had fallen upon her. She understood that a catastrophe had happened, but she was unable to realise its final significance.
It was the clerk who brought the letter in, a moment or two later. She handed it to Isbel with a pleasant smile, and instantly retired.
She broke the seal with clumsy haste. The letter ran as follows:
"My dear Miss Loment.
"I am sorry to inform you that Mrs. Richborough died suddenly last night of heart failure. The doctor who attended her earlier in the evening had ordered her to bed, and she went there, but a little while late, according to her maid's evidence, she insisted upon rising in order to write an urgent letter, which letter she further insisted upon posting in the hotel box with her own hand. The additional strain upon her lowered vitality which this entailed evidently proved too much for her, for half an hour afterwards she ws discovered lying in a dying condition in her room. There will of course be an inquest.