“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.”
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 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