THE HAUNTED WOMAN (Unabridged). David Lindsay

had — or thought he had — a succession of marvellous experiences in one of the rooms at Runhill; an attic on the top storey which rejoices in the name of the East Room. It happened just after he’d moved into the house, eight years ago, and apparently it’s been weighing on his mind ever since. For some unknown reason, it pleases him to imagine that I possess an average quantum of common sense, on which account he has invited my assistance in clearing up the mystery. In a soft moment I agreed — and that’s all there is to it.”

      “But I don’t understand. Why you? What made him fix on you?”

      “I really can’t say. It just resulted from a casual friendly conversation on board ship, coming home. We happened to be discussing the Fourth Dimension, and all that sort of thing.”

      “What were these marvellous experiences of his, then?”

      “A species of delusion, I take it. Every morning, for a week on end, a flight of stairs used to appear to him in that room, leading up out of a blank wall. He avers that he not only saw them, but used to go up them, but he hasn’t the vaguest recollection of what took place on top.”

      “What an extraordinary fancy!”

      “Eventually his wife found hi out at it — that is, of course she saw nothing, but it frightened him off. He had the room locked, and no one has set foot in it from that day to this. Now she’s dead, he appears to think there’s no longer the same necessity for secrecy.”

      “Does he look mad?”

      “Not in the least. Far from it.”

      “And you actually promised to investigate?”

      “My dear girl, what could I do? I couldn’t tell the man to his face that he was a lunatic, could I? There was no way out of it . . . It will be an excuse for a run in the car, anyway.”

      “So you agreed, simply to spare his feelings?”

      “We’ll put it that way.”

      “I think it was rather fine of you, Marshall . . . I’m glad you’ve told me.. I must know all your affairs. You see that, don’t you?”

      “Of course I see it.”

      Having gained her point, she swiftly took him in both arms, and lifted her lips to be kissed. They both laughed . . . Marshall, however, remained uneasy. After they had separated again — for obviously it was no place for love-making — he thoughtfully scrutinised her powdered face, with its steady, indecipherable eyes.

      “While we’re by ourselves, perhaps you’ll tell me, Isbel — what exactly did you mean just now by that remark about selling yourself to the highest bidder in love: were you serious, or pulling my leg?”

      “Yes, I must have love,” said the girl quietly.

      “I don’t contest it. But the point is, you seem to regard love as a sort of jam, to be taken in a spoon. There’s no such thing as love independent of a person. It appears to be a matter of indifference to you who that person is, so long as he makes it sufficiently sweet for you.”

      “Don’t let’s quarrel. I didn’t say it to vex you. It isn’t sweetness that I want.”

      “What then?”

      Isbel was silent for a moment. She turned half-away from him, feeling the back of her hair with her white, tapering fingers.

      “I don’t know . . . Love must be stronger than that . . . I mean, one girl might be content with mere placid affection, and another might ask for nothing better than a thick sentimental syrup. It depends on character. My character is tragic, I fancy.”

      “I hope not.” He stood looking rather puzzled . . . “Tell me one thing, Isbel — you’re not by any chance finding our engagement . . . monotonous, are you?”

      “Oh, no.”

      “Sure?”

      “Quite sure. But isn’t it a rather extraordinary question?”

      Marshall, gazing at her quietly mocking smile, grew suddenly inflamed.

      “I suppose you realise in your heart of hearts that you can do what you like with me, and that’s why you are so contemptuous. It’s a feeble thing to say, but I’d rather go on struggling for your good opinion all my life, Isbel, than be worshipped by any other woman without an effort on my part.”

      “You will always have my good opinion, if that’s all you want.”

      He flushed up, and took a step towards her. As she awaited him with the same smile, the handle of the door turned noisily from the outside. They started guiltily away from each other.

      “Then we’ll see if we can get a game of billiards,” remarked Isbel in a conversational voice, turning her neck to glance at the two ladies who were entering.

      Marshall assented, and they at once left the room.

      Chapter II. The Visit to Runhill Court

       Table of Contents

      After the breakfast on Saturday morning, Marshall brought the car round. He strolled up and down for some time, smoking, before the ladies made their appearance in the portico of the hotel. Isbel wore a new travelling-ulster with a smart check; her small, black satin hat was completed by a floating veil. Her face was powdered, and she was rather heavily scented. Mrs. Moor’s short, commanding person was dressed with plain dignity. She looked the more distinguished of the two.

      Isbel walked round the new car, appraising it critically, Marshall had bought it two months earlier, but delivery had been postponed until his return from America.

      “Looks rather ladylike,” he apologised, “but it’s a devil to go.”

      Aunt and niece were in the best of humours. The morning was ideal for motoring, while an objective, of course, made it so much more interesting. It was hot, breathless, misty — a typical September day. The sun beat down from a cloudless sky, and the sea was like milk. Crowds of holiday-makers thronged the parade, a piano-organ up some back street was rattling out a popular tune, everyone looked in good health and free from care.

      “Can we get back for lunch?” demanded the older lady.

      “We’ll do our best. It’s about fifteen miles each way, I take it.”

      “Come on, then, and don’t waste time.”

      As Isbel lightly touched Marshall’s arm in following her aunt into the back seat, she gave him an intimate smile. Their somewhat dangerous conversation of the preceding evening was forgotten, and both felt the engagement to be a wonderful thing. Climbing in behind the wheel, the underwriter’s face took on a deeper colour.

      They started. The girl was delighted with the easy running of the car; its power, smoothness, and silence were something impressive. She was voluptuous by nature, and enjoyed luxurious travel, just as she enjoyed every form of softness. Mrs. Moor, for her part, sat as nearly upright as the thickly-padded cushions would permit, staring severely at the throng, which gradually thinned as they approached Hove.

      Their road ran through Portslade, Shoreham, and up the valley of the Adur. The sun steadily increased in power, while the morning mists insensibly dissipated. They passed from sunshine to shadow, and from shadow to sunshine, fanned all the time by their own wind. Isbel’s first exhilaration faded: she wrinkled her brow, and grew dreamy, pensive, vaguely anxious. Nature always had this effect on her. Streets, ships, crowds, any form of human activity, enabled her to forget herself, but natural surroundings threw her back on her own mental resources, and then the whole emptiness and want of purpose of her life loomed up in front of her . . . Her aunt viewed the changing landscape sternly. These trees, these fields and meads, but, above all, those bare downs of grass-covered chalk in the background, were to her sacred. Isbel