Table of Contents
Room Number Ten
Two Little Red Shoes
Outside the House
The Wind in the Woods
The Twins
Sylvia
The Star Inn
THE COLLECTED SUPERNATURAL AND WEIRD FICTION OF
BESSIE KYFFIN-TAYLOR
—From Out of the Silence—
Three Novelettes ‘Outside the House, ’ ‘Room Number Ten’ and ‘The Twins’ and Four Short Stories of the Strange and Unusual
Bessie Kyffin-Taylor
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of
Bessie Kyffin-Taylor
—From Out of the Silence—
Three Novelettes ‘Outside the House, ’‘Room Number Ten’ and ‘The Twins’ and Four Short Stories of the Strange and Unusual
by Bessie Kyffin-Taylor
First published under the title
From Out of the Silence
Leonaur is an imprint of Oakpast Ltd Copyright in this form © 2012 Oakpast Ltd
ISBN: 978-0-85706-918-4 (hardcover)
ISBN: 978-0-85706-919-1 (softcover)
http://www.leonaur.com
Publisher’s Notes
The views expressed in this book are not necessarily those of the publisher.
Room Number Ten
I was feeling more tired than tongue can tell, as the month of August trailed its suffocating days along—tired of my work, tired of people and things, especially tired, I think of the neighbourhood in which I lived—a village so rapidly becoming a suburb of a large manufacturing city, that it was neither true country nor true town, the inhabitants also gave one the impression of being neither one thing nor the other—they certainly were not “country” people, nor were they what they struggled hard to appear, “town”—for people who truly live near nature, have big, broad outlooks, and busy town dwellers are too much occupied to attend to much save their own affairs.
While here, in this growing village, the concerns of one, were the concerns of all, from Mrs. So-and-So’s new hat, and how much she paid for it, down to the domestic and marital affairs of all and sundry; it was a soul-killing spot to live in, and I was very weary of it and its perpetual creed of “Thou shalt not—or if thou dost, I shall repeat and add to it, until thou no longer knoweth thine own act or words!”
And so, on this blazing August day, I hailed with delight a pressing invitation to visit some friends at their house in Scotland. The invitation was oddly worded, but they were odd people—I mean uncommon—therefore interesting; they were workers, for a greater part of the year, but as much time as all could spare, was spent in this somewhat isolated spot in Ayrshire; sometimes all of them managed to get there together, at times, only one or other of them could get away, and although I had often been asked
to form one of their party, I had never been able to do so, and now just when I was hungering for quietness, and freedom, and could get away, their invitation reached me—it ran—
Dear Old Man,
Ella and I both needed a rest, so have collected a few kindred spirits and fled to our refuge. Alec will be with us, and probably some of our chums also. We shall fill the house, but if you don’t mind where you sleep! come along.
Your old Chum,
Norman Stuart.
I read the note over more than once, it was so curious to say “if I didn’t mind where I slept,” of course I didn’t mind, I’d sleep in the bath or on the billiard table if need be, so that I could pack and shake the dust of this trying village from my feet as quickly as possible.
I answered the note by return, in the same spirit, merely saying I was delighted and would be with them soon after this letter, adding that it would cheerfully sleep in a pigsty.
As soon as my letter was despatched I shook myself figuratively, and felt all my woes and irritations slipping away into nothingness, even the village with its talking and gossip seemed to recede into its proper state of no importance, as I gaily began—what to me is ever a joy—the collecting of the little odds and ends, which go to make a holiday a real holiday and not a thing of rushing and racing from one excitement to another, so to this end I wandered round my small domain, picking up a favourite book, tucking it under my arm, while I collected writing materials, favourite pencils, fishing tackle, oldest boots, and shoes, with fine disregard of the orthodox method of packing.
Some people make packing a fine art, to me it only means throwing into a large box all that tends to my comfort or happiness, and then dropping in a few clothes, and sitting on the lid. All this I accomplished before the clock struck eleven p. m. , and then with a sigh of relief I lit my final pipe, and turned in.
The following morning I was up betimes, waking with that happy feeling of exhilaration, which foretells pleasure to come, my breakfast was a hurried affair, and I was in the train and off, feeling like a schoolboy, and not by any means the staid literary man of forty-eight, that in very truth I was.
A journey is always a delight to me, and, once in my corner seat, with pipe and book, sure in the knowledge of happy days ahead, I gave myself up to the real enjoyment of this first part of my holiday. Changes at various stations only added zest and interest, for I was one of those people somewhat giving to weaving romances about the most everyday looking people.
My station was about 10 miles from my friend’s house, and not the least enjoyable part of my trip was the long drive in an old-fashioned open wagonette, the only vehicle kept by my friends—they would not hear the word “motor” in their rest corner, so the 10 miles was only accomplished in a little over an hour, but the scenery was splendid, and I believe after all, there is something which appeals tremendously to everyone in the steady trotting sound of a good pair of horses—far above the buzz of a motor engine! At any rate, it fitted much more appropriately with both the scenery and my mood, than the hum of the best 60 h. p. Daimler could have done.
It was growing dusk, when we drew up at an old-fashioned white wooden gate, with the name of the house written upon it in black letters—“High Crags”—Here my worthy coachman descended stiffly to open the gate, with a pat for each steaming gee as he passed them. He had not been a very talkative companion during my long drive, and I had called him grumpy in my own mind, but now as he once again clambered into his seat, he seemed to unbend.
“Staying long, Sir?” he asked. I said I was not sure. “House a bit full,” he volunteered next.
“Is it?” I said indifferently, feeling aggrieved that after silence for 10 miles, he should now feel it incumbent upon him to talk.
“Aye,” he replied, “’ppears like as if they’ll have to use it this time.”
“Use what?” I asked.
“It,” he answered, lowering his voice, and bending towards me. “It, Sir, Room Number 10, but I pity the one who sleeps in it, I do so.”
“Why?” I asked, with a faint feeling of interest.
“Best not ask, Sir, best not ask, but there we are, whoa—whoa—my beauties,” he went on, all in one breath, as he rattled up to a big wide open door from which a welcome blaze of light streamed out lighting up glimpses of thick shrubberies.
“There you are at last!” sang out a cheery voice as my friend, big, strong, rugged looking, Norman Stuart, stretched out a welcoming hand and led me into the hall, where a big wood fire blazed, before which stood two figures—girls—both of whom eyed me curiously, as, without waiting for an introduction, they said si
multaneously “Come and get warm, it’s nearly dinnertime, so we must run,” and run they did, with a flash of pretty frills and high-heeled shoes.
“And now, old man, let me have a look at you.”And with this remark my friend wheeled up a big chair in front of the blazing fire. “Come and get a warm first,” he added, “and then I’ll trot you upstairs to your room.”
He stopped speaking somewhat abruptly, busying himself with his pipe, while I revelled in the warmth and comfort.
After a few minutes I asked him who the pretty girls were, and he laughed.
“Two of Ella’s pals,” he said—“Miriam Langdale and Joyce Wood, great sports they are, full of nonsense.”
“Who else have you here?” I went on.
“Let me see, he replied, “How many are we? There are Ella and I, those two girls, Alec and two young fellows from the same Hospital—Medical Students both of them; Professor Sturges, though he doesn’t bother with any of us, being fathoms deep in his scientific studies, is an interesting old chap, when he cares to talk; and Miss Brown.”
“Oh!” I said, “and who may Miss Brown be?”
“She’s just Miss Brown,” he said with a laugh—“rather an oddity, but a clever woman, one of those rather silent women with curious ideas on many things, a woman who never appears to hear or see half the time, but who never misses anything really—a woman apparently hard, cold and reserved, but, to those who know her, one of the most loyal, true, tender-hearted beings in the world, and always ready with a helping hand for any trouble.”
“A nice mixture,” I said, “do they all agree?”
“Um,” he muttered, “more or less, though the professor and Miss Brown spar a bit, and those two saucy girls lead them both a bit of a dance, but anyway,” he added, “form your own judgment, you will see them all in half an hour—you have just that time before dinner, so I will take you to your room. We have done our best for you, so I hope you will be—er—comfortable—and—er—sleep—and all that,” and pulling himself together, he started off, up the dark oak staircase, I following, admiring as I went, the whole scheme, if one could call it so, of the decorations, the dark oak stairs, vivid crimson stair carpets, walls of duller red, bare of the orthodox pictures, which people put on their stairs and landings, when they won’t fit anywhere else!
The old beaten copper lamps at the corners of the banisters and on the landing above, each dark oak door with its own specially designed knocker and number of the room in copper figures—an old oak chest, an oak table with an orange-coloured azalea in a quaint pewter jar, and one or two old engravings, gave a tone of comfort, and the whole atmosphere was one of soft restfulness.
“Sorry, old chap, we are crammed to overflowing on this landing—you are down here,” said my host, as he led me down two steps and along a passage somewhat narrow and feeling slightly chillier than the other part of the house, to a room at the far end. “You are rather far away from the rest of us,” he said, as if apologising, “but you said you did not mind,” and he put his hand on the handle of a door, at the same instant my eye fell on the copper number. Room No. 10, stared me in the face, and the words of my worthy driver beat in my brain, as I entered.
My friend having opened the door and ushered me in, did not come in with me, but turned, muttering—
“Hope you’ve all you want, come right down when you are ready,” and bolted from the door, shutting it after him.
Probably if I had never heard the words “Room No. 10” spoken as they were by my driver, I should have been wholly, as I was in part, entranced by the room in which I found myself, and as I gazed around me, I determined to wipe from my memory any previous thought of the room, and put the driver’s words in their proper category, as the silly vapourings of a stupid servant, and to give myself up to the enjoyment of my surroundings.
The room was spacious, but with a somewhat low ceiling, the floor of black oak had a square of peacock blue carpet in the centre, the ceiling was painted with gold stars, representing the Northern Hemisphere, there was an enormous oak four-poster bedstead, piled high with snowy pillows, and covered by a thick eider-down of satin in shades of blue and gold, the fireplace was roomy and old-fashioned, with steel fittings which shone like silver in the dancing firelight, a big basket chair, with a blue and white cover, was drawn near to the fire, and a log box of beaten copper stood near at hand, piled up with logs of wood.
The only thing that struck me as out of keeping was a small modern brass and black bedstead, in a corner of the room, and this also was made ready for occupation. Was I to have a companion? or stay, possibly it was for choice, as many people do not care for a four-poster—to me, however, it appealed, and I straightway ignored the modern bed.
My dressing-table was a fine old piece of furniture, only thinly covered by a muslin cover, on it stood a quaint jar, full of late dahlias—the only really vivid note of colour in the room. It was in my opinion an ideal room, my eye fell on the fitted-up writing table in the window with joy, as I foresaw many quiet hours of happy scribbling.
No one came to help me to unpack, so I concluded the staff was limited, but I managed to unearth my dinner garments, and clothe myself unaided, just as the dinner-gong boomed in the distance. With a last glance of admiration round my quarters, I blew out the candles, and prepared to make my way down to the hall.
All the company were assembled round the fire, as I came down the stairs, and my hostess, Mrs. Stuart, came quickly to meet me.
“So sorry, Peter, I was not here to receive you, but you know us of old, also our unconventional ways, so I knew you would understand. Now let me introduce you, children,” she went on addressing them all—
“This is Mr. Peter Maxton of literary fame, some of you may have read his books, and if not, you will find them in the library. Peter, these are two naughty girls, Miriam Langdale and Joyce Wood, of no use, except as ornaments; Professor Sturges with whom you will quarrel; and, Miss Brown, whom you will hate tonight, dislike tomorrow, endure the day after, and finally adore, as we all do. The boys are late, so we will not wait for them, but go in like Indians, single file, and eat.”
Miss Joyce Wood promptly attached herself to me, with the remark—
“Sit by me, Mr. Maxton, and I’ll give you all the wrinkles about our motley crew, and their fads. I haven’t read your books, so don’t talk about them, all my time as given to other things.”
“Bridge, I suppose,” I answered, “and golf, and buying clothes, and such things.”
“If you care to consider you have read and summed me up, very well, we will leave it at that,” she answered demurely. “How do you like your room?” she went on, “Miriam and I arranged it; it’s nice, isn’t it?”
“It is delightful,” I answered, “No one could fail to be happy in it.”
She glanced at me quickly, but did not pursue the subject of my room, chattering through the remainder of dinner on all sorts of subjects.
The evening passed all too quickly, without any attempt at entertaining in its best known sense, but, in what I consider
the truest form of it—the leaving each and all to follow their own bent. If anyone wanted to sing or play, they wandered to the piano, and did so, without any of that wearisome “Will you play?—Oh, I really can’t—I only play to myself.”
The professor I did not see again, so concluded he had gone to the library, where I afterwards learnt he spent most of his time.
Miss Wood played and sang, my host and Miss Brown were lost to all in a game of chess; the young men had ’phoned they were dining with friends, and we were not to wait up for them, so my pretty hostess and I drew up our chairs for a gossip of old times and friends.
It was a quiet, restful evening, but my long cold drive had made me sleepy, and I was glad when about 11 o’clock a move was made, bedroom candles were lit, and we made our way upstairs.
Laughing ‘Goodnights’ were exchanged on the main landing, as one after another vanished through their nu
mbered doors. My hostess lingered a moment and then said—
“Do you remember your way, Peter, or shall I show you?”
“Not a bit,” I answered, “I know, quite well,” and I fancied a distinct look of relief passed over her face.
“Very well,” she said, “sleep well, oh!—and—er—sleep in whichever bed you prefer, both are ready—”
“Right-o!” I answered, “but give me the big one for preference; I’ve always longed to sleep in four-poster.”
She smiled—“Please yourself, and change if you don’t like it,” and with a little wave, she followed the girls and I wended my solitary way down the other corridor to Room No. 10. The room was in darkness as I entered, save for the red embers of a departing fire which apparently no one had made up for the night; still, it looked very cosy, even if a trifle sombre. I soon had a more cheery blaze and sat down before it, for a short read, as was ever my habit, before turning in. I was soon deep in my book, deeper than I had intended to get, and as my wood-fire subsided with a little rush of sparks, I realized it was close upon midnight, so, hurriedly prepared for bed; for a brief instant I surveyed my two beds, both looked the acme of comfort, and though, for some unaccountable reason my inclination now turned to the modern one, I nevertheless decided in favour of my four-poster, and was quickly in a comfortable nest of pillows and beginning to feel very sleepy, so, blowing out my last candle, I closed my eyes and gave myself up to sleep.
Possibly I had been asleep an hour, maybe less, when I awakened suddenly and completely, in full possession of my senses—I could not account for it, and yet was possessed by the feeling that something or some person had awakened me. The room was in complete darkness, and I groped for my matches on the table by my side where I had placed them. I could not find them, though the table was small, and my hand swept the whole of it from side to side, and end to end—“Odd,” I thought, “for I certainly remember putting them there.” However, they were not to be found, so I settled down once more. Hardly had my head touched the pillow, when I heard a faint, soft sigh—there was no mistaking it—I could not call it the wind moaning in the chimney, or anything else, but just what it was, a soft, faint sigh!
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