Weird Women

by Leslie S. Klinger

  I was regarded merely as foolhardy, and I knew people generally supposed I should one day have cause to repent my temerity.

  As I cleared the stile and began winding my upward way to the higher ground beyond, the thought did strike me what a likely place for a murder Nut Bush Hollow looked. It was a deep excavation, out of which, as no one supposed it to be natural, hundreds and thousands of loads of earth must at some time or other have been carted. From top to bottom it was clothed with nut trees—they grew on every side, and in thick almost impenetrable masses. For years and years they seemed to have had no care bestowed on them, the Hollow forming in this respect a remarkable contrast to the rest of Mr. Hascot’s careful farming, and, as a fir plantation ran along the base of the Hollow, while the moon’s light fell clear and full on some of the bushes, the others lay in densest shadow.

  The road that once led down into the pit was now completely overgrown with nut bushes which grew luxuriantly to the very edge of the Beech Walk, and threatened ere long to push their way between the trunks of the great trees, which were the beauty and the pride of my lovely farm.

  At one time, so far as I could understand, the nut bushes had the whole place almost to themselves, and old inhabitants told me that formerly, in the days when their parents were boys and girls, the nuts used to pay the whole of the rent. As years passed, however, whether from want of care or some natural cause, they gradually ceased to bear, and had to be cut down and cleared off the ground—those, in the dell, however, being suffered to remain, the hollow being useless for husbandry, and the bushes which flourished there producing a crop of nuts sufficient for the farmer’s family.

  All this recurred to my mind as I stood for a moment and looked down into the depths of rustling green below me. I thought of the boys who must have gone nutting there, of all the nests birds had built in the branches so closely interlaced, of the summers’ suns which had shone full and strong upon that mass of foliage, of the winters’ snows which had lain heavy on twig and stem and happed the strong roots in a warm covering of purest white.

  And then the former idea again asserted itself—what a splendid place for a tragedy; a sudden blow—a swift stab—even a treacherous push—and the deed could be done—a man might be alive and well one minute, and dead the next !

  False friend, or secret enemy; rival or thief, it was competent for either in such a place at any lonely hour to send a man upon his last long journey. Had Mr. Hascot been so served? Down, far down, was he lying in a quiet, dreamless sleep? At that very moment was there any one starting from fitful slumber to grapple with his remorse for crime committed, or shrink with horror from the dread of detection?

  “Where was my fancy leading me?” I suddenly asked myself. This was worse than in my own chamber preventing the night watches. Since I had been standing there my heart felt heavier than when tossing from side to side in bed, and wooing unsuccessfully the slumber which refused to come for my asking.

  What folly! what nonsense! and into what an insane course of speculation had I not embarked. I would leave the eerie place and get once again into the full light of the moon’s bright beams.

  Hush! hark! what was that? deep down amongst the underwood—a rustle, a rush, and a scurry—then silence—then a stealthy movement amongst the bushes—then whilst I was peering down into the abyss lined with waving green below, SOMETHING passed by me swiftly, something which brought with it a cold chill as though the hand of one dead had been laid suddenly on my heart.

  Instantly I turned and looked around. There was not a living thing in sight—neither on the path, nor on the sward, nor on the hill side, nor skirting the horizon as I turned my eyes upward.

  For a moment I stood still in order to steady my nerves, then re-assuring myself with the thought it must have been an animal of some kind, I completed the remainder of the ascent without further delay.

  “The ghost, I suspect,” I said to myself as I reached the Long Field and the path leading back to the farm, “will resolve itself into a hare or pheasant—is not the whirr of a cock pheasant rising, for instance, enough, when coming unexpectedly, to frighten any nervous person out of his wits? and might not a hare, or a cat, or, better still, a stoat—yes, a stoat, with its gliding, almost noiseless, movements—mimic the footfall of a suppositious ghost?”

  By this time I had gained the summit of the incline, and slightly out of breath with breasting the ascent, stood for a moment contemplating the exquisite panorama stretched out beneath me. I linger on that moment because it was the last time I ever saw beauty in the moonlight. Now I cannot endure the silvery gleam of the queen of night—weird, mournful, fantastic if you like, but to be desired—no.

  Whenever possible I draw the blinds and close the shutters, yet withal on moonlight nights I cannot sleep, the horror of darkness is to my mind nothing in comparison to the terror of a full moon. But I drivel; let me hasten on.

  From the crest of the hill I could see lying below a valley of dream-like beauty—woods in the foreground—a champagne country spreading away into the indefinite distance—a stream winding in and out, dancing and glittering under the moon’s beams—a line of hills dimly seen against the horizon, and already a streak of light appearing above them the first faint harbinger of dawn.

  “It is morning, then, already,” I said, and with the words turned my face homewards. As I did so I saw before me on the path—clearly—the figure of a man.

  He was walking rapidly and I hurried my pace in order to overtake him. Now to this part of my story I desire to draw particular attention. Let me hurry as I might I never seemed able to get a foot nearer to him.

  At intervals he paused as if on purpose to assist my desire, but the moment I seemed gaining upon him the distance between us suddenly increased. I could not tell how he did it, the fact only remained—it was like pursuing some phantom in a dream.

  All at once when he reached the bridge he stood quite still. He did not move hand or limb as I drew near—the way was so narrow I knew I should have to touch him in passing, nevertheless I pressed forward. My foot was on the bridge—I was close to him—I felt my breath coming thick and fast—I clasped a stick I had picked up in the plantation firmly in my hand—I stopped intending to speak—I opened my mouth intending to do so—and then—then—without any movement on his part—I was alone!

  Yes, as totally alone as though he had never stood on the bridge—never preceded me along the field-path—never loitered upon my footsteps—never paused for my coming.

  I was appalled.

  “Lord, what is this?” I thought; “am I going mad?” I felt as if I were. On my honour, I know I was as nearly insane at that moment as a man ever can be who is still in the possession of his senses.

  Beyond lay the farm of which in my folly I had felt so proud to be the owner, where I once meant to be so happy and win health for my wife and strength for my boy. I saw the Beech Walk I had gloried in—the ricks of hay it seemed so good to get thatched geometrically as only one man in the neighbourhood was said to be able to lay the straw.

  What was farm, or riches, or beech trees, or anything, to me now? over the place there seemed a curse—better the meanest cottage than a palace with such accessories.

  If I had been incredulous before, I was not so now—I could not distrust the evidence of my own eyes—and yet as I walked along, I tried after a minute or two, to persuade myself imagination had been playing some juggler’s trick with me. The moon, I argued, always lent herself readily to a game of hide-and-seek. She is always open to join in fantastic gambols with shadows—with thorn bushes—with a waving branch—aye even with a clump of gorse. I must have been mistaken—I had been thinking weird thoughts as I stood by that dismal dell—I had seen no man walking—beheld no figure disappear!

  Just as I arrived at this conclusion I beheld some one coming towards me down the Beech Walk. It was a man walking leisurely with a firm, free step. The sight did me good. Here was something tangible—something to que
stion. I stood still, in the middle of the path—the Beech Walk being rather a grassy glade with a narrow footway dividing it, than anything usually understood by the term walk—so that I might speak to the intruder when he drew near, and ask him what he meant by trespassing on my property, more especially at such an hour. There were no public rights on my land except as regarded the path across the Long Field and through the wood. No one had any right or business to be in the Beech Walk, by day or night, save those employed about the Farm, and this person was a gentleman; even in the distance I could distinguish that. As he came closer I saw he was dressed in a loose Palmerston suit, that he wore a low-crowned hat, and that he carried a light cane. The moonbeams dancing down amongst the branches and between the leaves fell full upon his face, and catching sight of a ring he had on his right hand, made it glitter with as many different colours as a prism.

  A middle-aged man, so far as I could judge, with a set, determined expression of countenance, dark hair, no beard or whiskers, only a small moustache. A total stranger to me. I had never seen him nor any one like him in the neighbourhood. Who could he be, and what in the wide world was he doing on my premises at that unearthly hour of the morning?

  He came straight on, never moving to right or left—taking no more notice of me than if he had been blind. His easy indifference, his contemptuous coolness, angered me, and planting myself a little more in his way, I began—

  “Are you aware, sir—”

  I got no further. Without swerving in the slightest degree from the path, he passed me! I felt something like a cold mist touch me for an instant, and the next, I saw him pursuing his steady walk down the centre of the glade. I was sick with fear, but for all that I ran after him faster than I had ever done since boyhood.

  All to no purpose! I might as well have tried to catch the wind. Just where three ways joined I stood still and looked around. I was quite alone! Neither sign nor token of the intruder could I discover. On my left lay the dell where the nut trees grew, and above it the field path to Whittleby showing white and clear in the moonlight; close at hand was the bridge; straight in front the wood looked dark and solemn. Between me and it, lay a little hollow, down which a narrow path wound tortuously. As I gazed I saw that, where a moment before no one had been, a man was walking now. But I could not follow. My limbs refused their office. He turned his head, and lifting his hand on which the ring glittered, beckoned me to come. He might as well have asked one seized with paralysis. On the confines of the wood he stood motionless as if awaiting my approach; then, when I made no sign of movement, he wrung his hands with a despairing gesture, and disappeared.

  At the same moment, moon, dell, bridge, and stream faded from my sight—and I fainted.

  IV

  It was not much past eight o’clock when I knocked at Miss Gostock’s hall door, and asked if I could see that lady.

  After that terrible night vision I had made up my mind. Behind Mr. Hascot’s disappearance I felt sure there lurked some terrible tragedy—living, no man should have implored my help with such passionate earnestness without avail, and if indeed one had appeared to me from the dead I would right him if I could.

  But never for a moment did I then think of giving up the farm. The resolve I had come to seemed to have braced up my courage—let what might come or go, let crops remain unreaped and men neglect their labour, let monetary loss and weary anxious days be in store if they would, I meant to go on to the end.

  The first step on my road clearly led in the direction of Miss Gostock’s house. She alone could give me all the information I required—to her alone could I speak freely and fully about what I had seen.

  I was instantly admitted and found the lady, as I had expected, at breakfast. It was her habit, I knew, to partake of that meal while the labourers she employed were similarly engaged. She was attired in an easy négligé of a white skirt and a linen coat which had formerly belonged to her brother. She was not taking tea or coffee like any other woman—but was engaged upon about a pound of smoking steak which she ate covered with mustard and washed down with copious draughts of home-brewed beer.

  She received me cordially and invited me to join in the banquet—a request I ungallantly declined, eliciting in return the remark I should never be good for much till I ceased living on “slops” and took to “good old English” fare.

  After these preliminaries I drew my chair near the table and said,

  “I want you to give me some information, Miss Gostock, about my predecessor.”

  “What sort of information,” she asked, with a species of frost at once coming over her manner.

  “Can you tell me anything of his personal appearance?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  I did not immediately answer, and seeing my hesitation she went on.

  “Because if you mean to tell me you or any one else have seen him about your place I would not believe it if you swore it—there!”

  “I do not ask you to believe it, Miss Gostock,” I said.

  “And I give you fair warning, it is of no use coming here and asking me to relieve you of your bargain, because I won’t do it. I like you well enough—better than I ever liked a tenant; but I don’t intend to be a shilling out of pocket by you.”

  “I hope you never may be,” I answered meekly.

  “I’ll take very good care I never am,” she retorted; “and so don’t come here talking about Mr. Hascot. He served me a dirty turn, and I would not put it one bit past him to try and get the place a bad name.”

  “Will you tell me what sort of looking man he was?” I asked determinedly.

  “No, I won’t,” she snapped, and while she spoke she rose, drained the last drop out of a pewter measure, and after tossing on the straw hat with a defiant gesture, thumped its crown well down on her head. I took the hint, and rising, said I must endeavour to ascertain the particulars I wanted elsewhere.

  “You won’t ascertain them from me,” retorted Miss Gostock, and so we parted as we had never done before—on bad terms.

  Considerably perplexed I walked out of the house. A rebuff of this sort was certainly the last thing I could have expected, and as I paced along I puzzled myself by trying to account for Miss Gostock’s extraordinary conduct, and anxiously considering what I was to do under present circumstances. All at once the recollection of mine host of the “Bunch of Hops” flashed across my mind. He must have seen Mr. Hascot often, and I could address a few casual questions to him without exciting his curiosity.

  No sooner thought than done. Turning my face towards Whittleby, I stepped briskly on.

  “Did I ever see Mr. Hascot,” repeated the landlord—when after some general conversation about politics, the weather, the crops, and many other subjects, I adroitly turned it upon the late tenant of Nut Bush Farm—“often, sir. I never had much communication with him, for he was one of your stand-aloof, keep-your-distance, sort of gentlemen—fair dealing and honourable—but neither free nor generous. He has often sat where you are sitting now, sir, and not so much as said—‘it is a fine day,’ or, ‘I am afraid we shall have rain.’

  “You had but to see him walking down the street to know what he was. As erect as a grenadier, with a firm easy sort of marching step, he looked every inch a gentleman—just in his every-day clothes, a Palmerston suit and a round hat, he was, as many a one said, fit to go to court. His hands were not a bit like a farmer’s, but white and delicate as any lady’s, and the diamond ring he wore flashed like a star when he stroked the slight bit of a moustache, that was all the hair he had upon his face. No—not a handsome gentleman, but fine looking, with a presence—bless and save us all to think of his giving up everything for the sake of that slip of a girl.”

  “She was very pretty, wasn’t she?” I enquired.

  “Beautiful—we all said she was too pretty to come to any good. The old grandmother you see had serious cause for keeping so tight a hand over her, but it was in her, and ‘what’s bred in the bone,’ you know, si
r.”

  “And you really think they did go off together?”

  “Oh! yes, sir; nobody had ever any doubt about that.”

  On this subject his tone was so decided I felt it was useless to continue the conversation, and having paid him for the modest refreshment of which I had partaken I sauntered down the High Street and turned into the Bank, where I thought of opening an account.

  When I had settled all preliminaries with the manager he saved me the trouble of beating about the bush by breaking cover himself and asking if anything had been heard of Mr. Hascot.

  “Not that I know of,” I answered.

  “Curious affair, wasn’t it,” he said.

  “It appears so, but I have not heard the whole story.”

  “Well, the whole story is in a nut-shell,” returned the manager. “He comes over here one day and without assigning any reason withdraws the whole of his balance, which was very heavy—is met on the road homeward but never returns home—the same day the girl Powner is also missing—what do you think of all that?”

  “It is singular,” I said, “very.”

  “Yes, and to leave his wife and family totally unprovided for.”

  “I cannot understand that at all.”