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-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."
"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. Al 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 hear 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 way 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 spoke 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."
"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 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 toward 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."