was resplendent with dark green paint and highly polished brass.
Mrs. Moor, as she continued to gaze at it, reflected that the possession of so stylish and picturesque a dwelling would not disgrace her in the eyes of her social circle.
“One might live here very comfortably, Isbel?”
Her niece gave a smile of vexation. “Since you have absolutely determined to immure yourself in the heart of the wilds.”
“Pray don’t let us thrash that out again,” said the old lady. “The suburbs I cannot endure, town flats are prisons, while hotels will be impossible after you’ve left me. Here, at all events, I should have space and independence.”
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. All 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?”
