I had always thought I was a hard-headed materialist, a stolid matter of fact John Bull, but to my last day, I shall never be able to say what my feelings were at that moment—either my heart stopped and my blood froze, or my heart beat trebly as fast, and my blood boiled, I was either in a dead funk, or else I was annoyed beyond words at something quite inexplicable—I shall never know which state of mind was mine, all I was really conscious of was that I lay inert, incapable of moving, dreading I knew not what, until by sheer will power I forced myself to think.
Should I endeavour to reach the door?—the door, by which I had entered this room but twice, and left once, could I then locate it in the inky darkness in which my room was now plunged? I doubted it. Should I yell—for what—to what end? I could not very well yell “help” or “murder” for I was in no need of help, and no one was being murdered, moreover, no mere yell would be heard from this backwater of a passage where my room was. What then was I to do? I lay trembling, trying to keep steady; all was still now, and I cautiously raised myself on my elbow, straining my eyes to peer into the darkness. As I did so, my pillow was gently shaken, so gently, that it seemed as if the idea of shaking it was merely to add to my comfort—it did not, for it reduced me to a state of terror. Suddenly the thought shot through my brain—the other bed! and my hostess’s words—
“Change if you are not comfortable.”
Dare I? The bed I knew was almost beside the four-posters for I had noticed that the little table for my candle, matches and books, stood just between the two beds, thereby being of the same use, whichever bed I chose to occupy. To think was to act now, so I slid out of bed, felt the table by knocking my shins on it, and fell headlong on to the other bed, grabbing the table wildly, to pull it closer, feeling at least it could be hurled at intruders. The first thing my hand came in contact with was—my matches! I seized them wildly, and with trembling hands struck one and lit my candle; holding it aloft I surveyed as much of the room as I could.
Nothing of the slightest account seemed altered, everything looked perfectly normal, beyond one simple item, which I might be wrong in—I had rather hurriedly shed my garments, when I felt sleepy, and man-like had left them in a heap—I am prepared to swear to this, but, now, I saw them distinctly folded neatly and laid ready for me in the morning. Fool that I am, I thought, someone must have entered my room and tidied it, and it was that someone who sighed. That it was a fantastic and highly unlikely thing to have happened, did not seem to occur to my overwrought brain, and nature, now asserting herself, helped me to slip off into restful slumber, from which I awakened, to see the sun pouring into my room, and all as I had left it—even to my garments, in an untidy heap, on the hearth-rug!
“Then I dreamt it,” I said aloud, and feeling foolish and half-ashamed, I carefully remade the little brass bed, and got into the four-poster, where I lay contentedly smoking my pipe, until a trim maid brought my early tea, and announced—“Bath ready, sir, and breakfast in an hour.”
I dawdled over my dressing, happy in the knowledge at the back of my mind, that there were many hours before me ere I again went to bed, a weak form of reasoning surely, for a man with any brains at all, to indulge in.
An hour later as I joined the rest of the house-party in front of the jolly fire in the hall, my misgivings were fading quickly, and I was inclined to vote myself a silly ass, for being disturbed by what I was now convinced was a bad dream, resulting from too late a meal, following over-fatigue. It might have been my fancy that one and all of the party round the fire, eyed me rather curiously, but I flattered myself that I looked fit and fresh, and showed no signs of my troubled night. My hostess asked me in a voice she endeavoured to make natural, “If I slept well.”
“Quite,” I answered, smiling, for I had made up my mind to say nothing of what I thought had taken place. Then the old professor ambled in, glaring at me from under his shaggy brows as he barked out—
“Comfortable night?”
“Why, yes,” I answered, “perfect.”
“Umph,” he grunted, “no accounting for tastes.”
Then we settled ourselves at a well-spread breakfast table, and began to discuss plans for the day.
Mrs. Stuart merely said—
“Entertain yourselves and be happy, luncheon will be ready here at 1. 30, but those who wish to take it out are at liberty to do so. I am driving into Drayton—there are a few things I need, though the shops there are not much to see—anyone come?” she asked.
Now was my chance. I would go with her, and procure, if possible, an electric torch, or failing that, would wire home for mine, which I had left behind me. Joyce Wood looked at me with a bright quick glance, as I accepted my hostess’s invitation, and said—
“I’ll come too, if I may, I want some silk.”
“Come along,” said Mrs. Stuart, “there is just room for three of us, and you can show Peter round while I shop. We will lunch at the ‘Bear Inn, ’ and get tea here, on our return.”
“ Is it far?” I asked.
“No,” she replied, “only fifteen miles, but slow with horses, though I love them; we will start in an hour,” she went on, “so mind you are ready.” And she went gaily away to attend, I suppose, to all those little duties, which make a house like this run as if with oiled machinery.
One by one the party dispersed, until the only people left before the fire were Miss Brown and myself. I really had not noticed her much the previous evening, but now, as she sat in a deep chair, her white hands busy with some knitting, I was rather struck by the restful feeling she seemed to have about her. She was not a tall woman, but proportionate, and her face, though pale, was not an unhealthy pallor, her head bent down over some intricate part of her work, was a glossy brown—very neatly dressed and with an absence of combs and big pins, such as most women love. I could not see her eyes, but I was watching her white firm hands, with their beautifully-kept nails, when my eye caught sight of the only ring she wore, a curious ring, an ancient emerald in a dull silver setting; it was more like a man’s ring than a woman’s, and something made me say, in spite of appearing rude—
“I am admiring your ring, Miss Brown.”
She looked up with a quick start, meeting my eyes, with a pair nearly as green as her emerald stone. I was startled. She laughed a low amused laugh.
“And now you are comparing my ring with my eyes. Everybody does,” she said, “though that is not why I wear it.”
“May I look at it?” I asked.
“From a distance,” she replied. “It has a curious history and does not bring luck to most people, so I never let it leave me.”
“You are not superstitious, surely?” I asked, for her answer amazed me. She looked so little like a person of that kind.
“What do you mean by superstitious?” she asked. “If you mean will I walk beneath a ladder, most certainly I will, and spill salt and sit down thirteen, quite cheerfully, but if you mean do I believe that certain gems have evil, attached to them, I do, as I also believe that certain impressions are retained by things worn by people at tragic moments, and, given sensitive people to handle them, I believe they can and do bring about curious happenings.”
“You amaze me,” I answered, “Will you talk to me again on this subject?”
“Yes,” she answered, “tomorrow, not any more today.” And with this I had to be content, and as she seemed to have relapsed into silence and her knitting, I wandered away in search of boots and coat, to be ready for my hostess and pretty companion for our jaunt to the market town. It was a gay little drive, the country was looking superb, and it was one of those days when bushes and banks were veiled in shimmery gossamer, when shadows seemed deep and long, as the sun lit up vivid patches of red leaves here and there, making a wonderful scheme of colour and beauty.
Mrs. Stuart drove, and was too much occupied with her team to bother much with her passengers, so Miss Wood amused me by running comments on most things, though once or twice she seemed
on the point of saying something, then seemed to suddenly pull herself up, relapsing into silence. Our drive took almost two hours, for the roads were hilly, but about one o’clock we rattled up the main street of Drayton, and pulled up at the “Bear Inn.” Here Mrs. Stuart gave the gees into the care of an aged ostler, and we entered in search of a meal, after which, she left us to do her shopping, leaving me wondering greatly how I was to get rid of my companion to transact my own little bit of business.
“I am going to buy some sweets,” Miss Wood announced presently, “so come along.”
I was a little surprised to find the girl in a rather quiet mood, and more than a little surprised, when she suddenly said—
“Mr. Maxton, tell me the truth, did you really sleep well last night?”
I answered her in my most off-hand manner—“Of course, Miss Wood, but why do you ask?”
She turned and glanced at me, but without answering my question, merely said—
“Oh! very well, either you are well able to hide your feelings, or else you passed a night—not usual—for those who sleep in No. 10.”
“Is there anything to prevent my sleeping peacefully there?” I asked.
“Oh! never mind,” she said, in rather annoyed tones—“Mrs. Stuart may be vexed if I say anything, so don’t ask me, only try to endure it, it would be a pity if you cannot, I think we are a jolly little party too,” adding—“I shall be a quarter of an hour in this shop, will you meet me again then?”
Rather with too much alacrity, I said I would, and turning away, I left her to her own devices, while I hunted for a torch. I was afraid I was to be doomed to disappointment, so visited the post office to send the wire requesting my own torch should be instantly despatched. I was relying upon a dependable light perhaps more than I was fully conscious of.
The old postmaster, on reading my wire, raised my spirits tremendously by saying—
“If it will save you, sir, I have one of them new-fangled lighting things—it was give to me a week or two past by a visitor, and I’ve no sort of use for such things, for when I’m home, I likes my lamp, and when I’m out, the stars is good enough light for me. I’ll sell it you, sir, and glad to be rid of it.”
I was thankful, gladly paying him the three shillings he asked for a twelve-and-sixpenny torch. Having tried it and found it sound, I slipped it in my pocket, and went on my way rejoicing, to meet Miss Wood.
“You are punctual,” she said, “now come and buy sweets,” so with my spirits higher, because of my torch, and with its possession, my dread of the night much less, we behaved like two children let loose in a sweet shop, laughing, fooling, tasting, and buying.
“The others will welcome us home,” she said, “but, oh! do stow some of these parcels in your pockets, we look so greedy!
Without a thought, I took the torch from my pocket to make more room, but I realised instantly that I had given myself away as her eyes fell on it, and a quick “Oh!” fell from her lips. “Then you did tell me untruths,” she said, “and I believed you. I suppose you think buying sweets is all I am capable of understanding, very well, so be it,” and she drew herself up in offended dignity.
I made no attempt to explain, but followed her from the shop as if in disgrace.
Our drive home a little later, was dull and strained, fortunately Mrs. Stuart was too busy to notice us, and as we reached our own door, we were hailed with shouts from three young men, who all rushed to be first to assist pretty Joyce, so our somewhat forced remarks to each other passed unnoticed.
Tea was a merry meal, though Miss Wood did not appear, she was tired she said, and would rest in her own room.
It seemed to me that there was a constant effort on the part of everyone to keep the tone of conversation as light as possible, and, as evening approached, there was an outcry for lamps, instead of firelight. The two young medicals promptly hauled me from my cosy chair, and marched me off for a game of billiards. ‘Won’t you come, too, Miss Brown?” I asked, seeing the little lady sitting a little apart as usual, absorbed in her knitting.
“No, thank you, Mr. Maxton, I must finish this sock,” she said. “But, later, perhaps after dinner, I will play you a game.”
‘That is a promise,” I said, laughing, as I followed the two young fellows.
We played on until one of them said—
“By Jove! we’ve only twenty minutes before dinner, come on you chaps,” and fled.
The other man, a tall, slim youth of about twenty-nine or so, with a pale face, sleek black hair and rather piercing dark eyes, linked his arm in mine and escorted me up the stairs and along to my room, which he entered with me, and he poked up the fire, while I was lighting my candles.
“Which bed did you sleep in?” he asked, abruptly.
“Why?” I asked.
“I was only wondering,” he answered, “personally, I loathe four-posters.”
“I like them,” I said, “I slept in that one.”
“What! all night?” he gasped.
“My dear chap,” I replied, “would you get out of a warm bed into a cold one in the middle of the night?”
“I might,” he answered, “one never knows, but I must dash off now, my room is the first you come to at the end of this passage, if—er—if you should want anything,” and he went off hurriedly. Once again I surveyed my room, and once again I thought it a perfect room. I carefully locked the torch up in my bag, hurried my dressing, and went down to dinner. I was still conscious of odd glances at me, and was faintly aware that for some reason I was of interest to the little company, even the glum old professor cast a questioning eye upon me from time to time, but I showed nothing, gave no hint of any unusual happenings, so dinner and a merry evening passed pleasantly, although Miss Brown failed to keep her promise, saying she had some letters to write for the early post, and had promised to go and see Miss Wood who had a headache.
We were all off to bed early tonight—at least we all separated early—my friend Norman accompanied me upstairs after a last glass of whisky, but as before, he did not linger chatting to me, but merely saying—
“Pleasant night, old chap,” he went off, leaving me, for my second night in Room No. 10.
I proceeded to make my arrangements for the night, in a most thorough manner. I heaped up the fire first until the leaping flames lit up even the dimmest corners of the room, making the polished floor between the rugs shine like glass. I calmly surveyed my two beds, quickly making up my mind to occupy the four-poster, so drew the little table well between the two, but in such a position that I could, if needs be, easily reach the little brass bed. I had decided not to sit up in the orthodox way and await the arrival of my visitors, ghostly or otherwise. No! I determined, I would go to bed, and to sleep if possible. I whistled cheerily to myself as I undressed, tucking my torch into the pocket of my pyjamas. I turned in, and settled myself comfortably. After about an hour’s reading, I blew out my candles, and prepared for sleep. I did sleep, and was awakened as suddenly as before, but this time by hearing the fire being gently stirred. I looked, expecting to see a bright blaze as the result, but black darkness greeted me, yet I could hear the coal being moved. I strained my eyes and ears, listening intently, and trying not to light up my torch, now ready in my hand. I heard the poker laid down. I heard the soft shuffle of felt slippers crossing the polished floor, nearer and nearer to the bed they came.
I heard what sounded like a tinkle of a spoon against a glass, and a soft hand was laid on my wrist, rendering me powerless to light my torch, and turning me cold with terror. With a frantic plunge, I got to the other side of the bed, hoping and praying I should have strength to hurl myself across the little space into the brass bed, but to my unspeakable and everlasting horror, the other side of my four-poster was not empty! Someone was there—some form! With frenzied strength I sat up, flashing my torch as I did so, I suppose I was awake—I suppose I was sane though I would prefer to think I was asleep, or mad.
In my four-pos
ter lay an old man—a man with a drawn livid face, closed eyes, and snow-white hair, one of whose hands lay outside the covers—claw-like, livid—on one finger of it shone a ring—an uncut emerald in a dull silver setting! winked in the light of my torch, as I held it tremblingly, for the light to shine as far as could be. Beside him stood a woman dressed as a nurse, holding a medicine glass in her right hand, while the other hand held his wrist; an evil smile hovered on her thin lips, and her hair, lit by my torch, was dull iron grey, flattened into a hard line above thin straight eyebrows; I glanced hurriedly round, my whole room seemed changed—a large screen stood round the bed, shielding the window, the writing table seemed full of bottles, in place of my books, garments, which were not mine, lay scattered about.
I was so paralysed with terror, I could neither speak nor move, but clung to my torch as the cold sweat poured from me. I saw her raise the old man’s head. I saw him drink the contents of the glass held to his lips, and then, with a frenzied leap, I made one dash for the little bed, and fell on it, fainting.
It must have been some time after when I regained consciousness, for the dim light of early morning was struggling through my drawn curtains. I got up, flung back the curtains, letting in the light; it was Just five o’clock, so the horror had occupied possibly some hours, and I was still alive, though badly shaken. My room was as I had left it; I, wearied beyond telling, now, in the blessed light of day, dropped off to sleep, heavily, dreamlessly, and did not awaken until, as before, my little maid entered with my tea, she gave a little start of surprise on seeing me in the little bed, but made no remark, beyond—
“Your bath is ready, sir, and breakfast in an hour.”
I took my tea and my bath, though I felt unhinged, and worn out. Later when I met the party at breakfast, I did not attempt, as before, to conceal the fact that I had not slept, and was not feeling very fit.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Bessie Kyffin-Taylor-From Out of the Silence Page 2