THE HAUNTED WOMAN (Unabridged). David Lindsay

nervously cast in her mind for a change of conversation.

      “You say that room used to go by another name. How was that?”

      “It was called Ulf’s Tower. The story is that Ulf was the original builder of the house. He lived about a hundred years after the first landing of the South Saxons. Four or five houses have been put up on the same site since then, but the name struggled through till a couple centuries ago. My wife’s ancestor, Michael Bourdon, set it all down in his papers. The history of Runhill Court goes back to the sixth century Anno Domini.”

      “But why should that particular room have been selected to preserve his memory?”

      “Oh, well, because the missing rooms of the legend were supposed to be immediately above that side of the house. That’s quite clear.”

      “I have heard no legend. What missing rooms?”

      “You surely surprise me. I guessed every man, woman, and child in the Old Country would know about the lost rooms of Runhill Court. When Ulf built his house, Miss Loment, it was on haunted land. Run Hill was a waste elevation, inhabited by trolls — which, I figure, were a variety of malevolent land-sprites. Ulf didn’t care, though he was a pagan. He built his house. I gather he was a tough fellow, away above the superstitions of his time and country. And — well, one day Ulf disappears and a part of his house with him. Some of the top rooms of the Tower were clean carried off by the trolls; it happened to be the east end of the house, the nearest to their happy hunting-grounds. That was the very last that was heard of Ulf, but all through the centuries folks have been jumping up to announce that they’ve caught sight of the lost rooms . . . That’s the fable.”

      They walked along in silence.

      “Then would you advise me to live in that house?” asked Isbel suddenly, with an unsteady smile.

      Sherrup smoked for quite a minute before answering.

      “If you ask that, Miss Loment, you must have a reason for asking it. tell me what you feel.”

      “Confessions are so awkward, and I’m not sure you won’t laugh.”

      “I won’t laugh.”

      “Well, then — when I was listening to that weird sound in that passage, it suddenly seemed to strike a very deep string in my heart, which had never been struck before. It was a kind of passion . . . It was passion. But there was something else in it besides joy — my heart felt sick and tormented, and there was a horrible sinking sensation of despair. But the delight was there all the time, and was the strongest . . . It only lasted a very short time, but I don’t think I could ever forget it . . . ”

      “Yes, I know,” said Sherrup.

      “Then tell me what it means, and what I’m to do.”

      He threw away his cigar.

      “Do nothing, Miss Loment, and ask no questions. That’s the advice of a man who has daughters of his own.”

      “Not live there, you mean?”

      “No.” He made an emphatic side-gesture with his hand. “Cut it right out. A house like that is going to do you no good. Shall I tell you what you are, Miss Loment? You’re an artist without a profession. You’re like a lightning-rod without an outlet — you want to steer clear of all kinds of storms. Oh, I’m not a portrait-painter for nothing. Your nervous system is shining through all right . . . Well, you asked me for it, so I’ve handed it out. But honestly, I wouldn’t take on that house. If you feel like that at the beginning, what are you going to feel after a while? It’s too risky?”

      “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I think I will take your advice. I’m afraid I’m rather highly strung by nature, although, oddly enough, not one of my friends appears to have any suspicion of the fact. I pass for being stolid, rather than otherwise. You are almost the first to give me credit for exceptional feelings.”

      When they had arrived opposite the pier once more, Sherrup took his departure.

      So strong was the impression made upon him by Isbel’s personality that in the train, before it started, he was induced to commit her elusive features to one of the pages of his precious sketch-book. When it was completed, however, he shook his head with an air of profound dissatisfaction. It was a good likeness, but he still couldn’t get that voice into the picture.