The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Bessie Kyffin-Taylor-From Out of the Silence

by Bessie Kyffin-Taylor

  No one made any remark, except the old professor, who curtly said—

  “Better come and have a talk with me in the library, I will give you a pick-me-up.” Norman, my friend, was ill at ease, and his wife seemed troubled, Miss Brown calmly eating buttered toast, eyed me, and I noticed her curious ring was not on her hand; she saw I missed it, smiled, saying, as if answering my unspoken thought.

  “You need not let that trouble you, Mr. Maxton, its absence is for a purpose.”

  After breakfast during which meal a sort of cloud seemed to hover over us, I wandered away alone, feeling that solitude and fresh air best suited my need. No one made any move to accompany me, so with my pipe alight, I tramped round the garden, scarcely noticing the autumn flowers, reddening leaves, or ripening fruit. The garden, like the house, was old and picturesque, flowers grew as they liked—set borders, and that most inartistic thing carpet bedding were things unknown. Late roses hobnobbed with gaudy sunflowers, and flaunting hollyhocks, a riot of many coloured phlox, seemed herded together, guarded by a hedge of sweetbriar, and here and there a fading clump of night-scented stock drooped pensively; until evening, when it opened its eyes, and scented all the garden with its strange arresting perfume, a quaint sundial, moss covered, and cracked, stood in a clearing and its motto—“I only count the sunny hours,” gave one thought as one passed, of other hours, hours that were not sunny.

  At one end of a long path, was a white wood seat, flanked on one side by a laburnum tree, and half hidden from sight by a lilac bush—my steps took me towards it, as I came upon it, I saw, too late to go back, that it was occupied, occupied by Miss Brown and her everlasting knitting. Courtesy demanded that I should stop to speak, though the lady did not raise her head.

  “Busy as usual, Miss Brown,” I said, in tones I tried to make cheery.

  “Come and sit down,” was her reply, “I want to ask you a question.

  “Am I bound to answer it?” I said.

  “No,” she replied, “not bound, but I hope you will. “How many people did you see in your room last night?”

  “Two,” I replied, unhesitatingly, as if the words were pulled out of me.

  “Ah,” she breathed, “did you—er—have you—ever seen anyone like them before?”

  I gazed at her amazed.

  “Seen anyone like them?” I said. “Why of course not, they were not real—I mean they could not have been alive!”

  “No,” she said, “of course not, but oh! never mind, I only asked from idle curiosity. Are you leaving us today?”

  “Certainly not,” I replied, “at least, I had not thought of doing so, do you wish me to leave?”

  “It might be better for you if you did,” she answered, “but if you stay, you are a plucky man. I must go now. Miss Wood is not well, and I am looking after her.”

  “You would be a good nurse,” I said politely, and for something to say, but I was unprepared for the change which came over placid Miss Brown, her face went paler than its usual pallor, her lips compressed themselves into a tight line, and a gleam shot into her usually quiet eyes, as she sprang to her feet, and holding the back of her seat, flashed out at me—

  “I can’t nurse, I loathe the very word, but these things seem against our will to pass down from generation to generation, and who knows what other instincts pass down with it,” and with that she was gone, and I was alone.

  I felt a little taken aback at Miss Brown’s quick change of manner, also her abrupt departure, but I had desired solitude so must make the best of it. The white seat appealed to me, and my pipe was always a good companion. It was odd, I thought, as I tried to go over in my mind the strange things that had befallen me, I had been here three days, at least this was my third day, and already I had unwittingly offended two of the house party—Miss Wood first, then Miss Brown—the former because I preferred to keep my own counsel, the latter, by the mild remark, that she would make a good nurse. What strange creatures women are! I should have thought any woman would have liked to have been called a good nurse, there are so few who know the meaning of the word “Nurse,” and to my mind they, the modern nurses, are the dullest of women, to judge by those I have known.

  Well I’ve certainly made a mess of things, how to extricate myself I couldn’t think. An hour passed quickly in my musing frame of mind, the horrors of the night were fading or had faded here in the sunlit garden, among the perfumes of a hundred flowers. Dare I be unsociable any longer, I wondered, or was it my duty as a guest, to go and seek the other members of our party? My question was answered by the approaching sound of footsteps, followed by the hurried appearance of my hostess, Mrs. Stuart, who breathlessly flopped on to the seat saying—

  “Oh, Peter, you idiot! you’ve gone and upset Miss Brown. Wasn’t Joyce enough for you, you big clumsy manbody?”

  “Dear lady,” I managed to say, “I am quite at a loss to understand you, I merely intimated to Miss Wood that a still tongue suited a certain happening, and to Miss Brown I paid the highest compliment of saying she would make a good nurse!”

  Speechless for an instant, Mrs. Stuart looked at me, and then—

  “Peter, you didn’t? Not really? Oh, for heaven’s sake, tell me you didn’t say that!”

  “Most surely, I did,” I answered, “and why not, good nurses are extinct, or so it has seemed to me—tell me where I have stumbled please, that I may go on bended knee humbly apologising!”

  “Stop fooling,” she ordered, “and listen, though I am under a promise not to tell you anything really, I can explain your faux pas, I care nothing for Joyce Wood’s touchiness, that can be explained later, but Miss Brown! that is another story!”

  “We only got to know her through taking this house, it had belonged for generations to her people, and. although she didn’t live here herself, she would only consent to let it to people who would allow her to retain some link with the place, allowing her to stay in it in their absence or some arrangement of that kind. We were so taken with the place, its quaintness, its beauty, but above all its remoteness, that we rather hurriedly agreed to anything, so that we got possession of it.”

  “The first time we came, we did not see Miss Brown, the second time, she was here when we arrived, quite at home looking as if the place belonged to her, I was, I confess, not too cordial, but she speedily disarmed me, telling me she was not filling up our space, because her quarters were in a part of the house little used, in fact, rather shunned by most people, but she preferred it, and had not any nerves, moreover at this time of the year (that was just this time last year) she really must be in her old home, there was nothing I could say, and she very soon won us all, so much so, that now, whenever we are here, so is Miss Brown—she is invaluable to me, she attends to so much in the house for me, leaving me free to rest or enjoy myself. I couldn’t do without her,” she added—“and there! you’ve ruffled the dear, like, oh like anything,”

  “I’m still in a fog,” I murmured.

  “I know you are,” she answered, “and am I not doing my best to get you to see through it.”

  “Proceed,” I said, “I may see daylight before luncheon.”

  “Peter, you’re impossible.” This with a stamp to emphasize it. “The point is this,” she went on.

  “So that there is a point!” I ventured.

  “Don’t interrupt please, as I said the point is this—all of Miss Brown’s relations for ages have been nurses!—one after another, great grands, grands, and so on, have all developed nursing tendencies; they don’t seem able to help it, and years ago, one of the grands or great grands—I forget which—murdered a patient by poisoning him in this very house; it was never quite known for what reason other than spite, or carelessness, the jury said ‘carelessness’ but her family didn’t, and one or two of the family who subsequently became nurses, were obliged to give it up, because the stain had somehow stuck, and people feared them. Nothing was ever missed, belonging to the old man the woman murdered, except a ring he alwa
ys wore, but, as there was never any proof to show he had not given it to her, as she said at the trial, it remained in her possession, and has been handed down.”

  “The emerald jewel, I suppose,” I asked.

  “Yes, the emerald jewel,” answered Mrs. Stuart, “but it has an uncanny reputation, and no one has ever worn it as long as Miss Brown has, and she says she will wear it in spite of the curse it seems to have attached to it.”

  “What’s the curse?” I asked sceptically.

  “You needn’t sneer,” she replied, “you know something of it by now, if I am not very much mistaken. I may not tell you more, Peter, but, to tell Miss Brown she would make a good nurse, was simply awful! The poor soul loathes the very word, yet the tragedy is, she can no more help nursing than she can keep from walking, it’s in her blood, and she’s always nursing someone. A headache!—there’s Miss Brown,—a sick animal!—there’s Miss Brown, she simply can’t keep off it, but, the horrible thing is, that just as he died, the old man cursed his nurse, and all her descendants, swearing that others should also be denounced as murderesses, whether they deserved it or not, and several of them got into trouble of sorts, one gave wrong medicine in the dark, and all but killed her patient, and so on, there are still one or two Nurse Browns about, but they have not an enviable reputation. Our Miss Brown swears she will never be a nurse, and feels most acutely the disgrace of it all, and the very name ‘Nurse’ is like a red rag to a bull.”

  “How on earth, Ella, was I to know?” I queried.

  “Oh!” she answered me, “didn’t last night show you.”

  “Lord, no,” I said, “how could it?”

  “Well you are blinder than I thought,” she snapped, and then, as swiftly changing, she went on—in honey-sweet tones—“Tell me, Peter, are you too scared to go through tonight?”

  “Not a bit,” I answered valiantly, “but you seem pretty sure I’ve got to go through it.”

  “Miss Brown says so,” she answered demurely.

  “Oh! d—— Miss Brown,” I said, losing patience at last, “it’s some got-up tale, I don’t believe a word of it, and anyway what has Miss Brown got to do with me?”

  “She gave up her room, that you might come—Room No. 10 you know—and she is doing all she knows, that you may not be disturbed, that is all,” she answered—“the professor is helping her and we shall be thankful if you will go through it, and stay on, it will be over tonight, and you will have peace.”

  “Try not to think about it, I may not tell you more, I should go to bed early, in the little bed, if I were you, and tomorrow, not today, you can apologise to Miss Brown, she may perhaps believe then that you did not make an intentionally cruel insinuation, but now, she believes you did, she can’t see how it could be otherwise.”

  “Dear Lady,” I said, “the fog is thicker than at the beginning.”

  “I know,” she answered, “and it will just have to be until tomorrow, then we shall see and all be free to talk, but until then the professor insists on your being left in the fog, as you choose to call it. I must go now, Joyce and Miss Brown are spending the day together in my morning-room you will not see either of them, so get a good tramp with the other men, tire yourself out and keep as cheery as you can. See you at lunch,” and with airy wave she had gone, leaving me to my solitude and a good deal to occupy my thoughts.

  Thinking things out, I speedily found, was but to land myself deeper in the maze of perplexity. I had grasped the main idea, that a murder had been committed in the room I slept in, presumably by a long-since departed relative of Miss Brown, who, feeling the disgrace still clinging to her name and family, comes to sojourn here, where it all took place, to keep it ever fresh in her memory! How like a woman! A man would have shunned the spot, unless he could do any good. I wonder if our Miss Brown has some idea of laying the restless spirits, which—let me whisper to myself—most certainly do take possession of Room No. 10! Why does the silly woman wear the emerald ring? Where is it, that she is not wearing it today, and not least, what is the programme for tonight?

  Ah! tonight—let me confess, in spite of fooling, my sarcasm, my bluffing with Mrs. Stuart, I am sick when I think of tonight, I am in a dead funk, and dread it unspeakably, but I’m going through with it, with my teeth clenched, it can’t surely be worse than last night. Well, I can but wait for what transpires. The day was not happy, nor could I shake off entirely the feeling of fear, any more than I could feel content, knowing I was in disgrace with two women of the party. Luncheon was soon over, the usual standing about with cigarettes after it, seemed by mutual consent to be abandoned, Mrs. Stuart and I alone remaining. A happy thought occurred to me.

  “Mrs. Stuart,” I began, “do you think the two fair ladies with whom I am in disgrace, would permit me to visit them in their seclusion?”

  “No, Peter,” she replied quickly, “no, they are both determined not to see you until tomorrow, I think they are right, you must do something else to pass your time.”

  “May I see the professor then?”

  “Better not,” she answered, “I’m real sorry, Peter, but they all know and understand the position, and do not wish to speak of it. If you really funk the thing, I’ll make up a bed on a sofa for you.”

  One instant I thought, feeling myself wavering, then—

  “No thanks,” I said, “I will see the thing through, don’t bother about me. I was going to ask one of the men to share my vigil and have a talk by my fire, instead of going to bed, but I find they will be away until late, so there is nothing for it but just my lonesome. As a matter of fact, dear lady, I utterly disbelieve a third of the yarn, and the rest doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s a good view to take,” she said, with a smile, “but now I must go. See you later.” And once more I was left to my own devices. I would shelve the whole wretched affair, and go for a good tramp alone, I decided, so, without waiting for company I set off, and tramped steadily over moor and hills until nearly five, the country was at its best, or rather as I loved it best, except for a feeling of sadness the autumn always brings, I prefer the bracken, golden and bronze, rather than in spring when its tender green fronds run the risk of being cut and blackened by icy wind; I love the trees turning to crimson glories, the berries scarlet or purple banging from every hedge, best of all I love the vivid red of the mountain ash berries, those glorious clusters, which the wandering gipsies say bring luck to the wearer.

  There are not any tints even in the freshest of spring green and yellow, to compare in my mind with the glory and colour of waning summer. A thought of tea, however, hastened my footsteps, but no matter how belated one was, fresh tea at once appeared, nor were the toasted cakes all cold and sodden for late comers. It was as I expected, tea was almost over, but I was not by any means neglected.

  “Now we’ll be cosy,” said our hostess, when the last scone had vanished, “Miriam, dear, play and sing to us; you come and sit by me, Peter, and you, professor, you will stay for some music, won’t you?”

  “If Miss Miriam sings, madam, I could not go,” the old fellow answered, as I wondered what manner of voice was this I was to hear, for the first time—I had been too absorbed in other things to have paid much attention hitherto—to the slim fair haired girl—who now moved quietly to the piano, in a dim corner of the Hall—

  “Shall I light the candles, Miss Langdale?” I asked.

  “Not unless you wish, Mr. Maxton,” she answered in a soft low voice, “I like best to sing or play in the firelight.”

  Silence fell upon our chatter, as the first soft notes of her choice reached us. I do not know the name of anything she played; I am a mere man, whose busy life had neither time for music nor romance in it, but there was both in this girl’s music, her soul was in her playing, and memories long called dead were awakened, sad memories, sweet ones, all came, as if at the call of a Pied Piper, memories I had relegated to the dust-heap of forgotten things, now stood before me, as if to say, “you may relegate us to t
he dust-heap, but memories that have once lived, never die, sooner or later something recalls us, maybe a perfume of a flower, or perhaps music—sooner or later something brings us back.”

  Presently, but without a pause the music altered, a few soft chords floated softly through the fire-lit hall, and a soft deep voice, clear, resonant, full, yet without a trace of strain, or effort, took up the air, every word, every syllable reached us—old as the song was, often as I had heard it, its beauty and charm as sung by Miriam Langdale that evening, in the silence and warmth in that old hall, I shall never forget.

  The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,

  Are as a string of pearls to me,

  I count them over, every one apart,

  My Rosary, my Rosary.

  Softly, thrilling, the words came—

  Each hour, a pearl, each pearl, a prayer,

  To still a heart in absence wrung,

  I tell each bead unto the end,

  And there, a cross is hung.

  Fuller, deeper, rang the lovely voice, there were tears in it now—

  Oh, memories that bless and burn,

  Oh! barren gain and bitter loss,

  I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn

  To kiss the cross, Sweetheart,

  To kiss the cross.

  The last line rang out—

  To kiss the cross, Sweetheart,

  and died away in a sob of anguish—

  To kiss the cross.

  Unmoving, silent, we sat, each one wrapt deeply in their own memories, and surely those hours spent with one beloved, were truly likened to a string of pearls, as surely as there are very very few who have not known the “bitter loss” or who do not, agonised by sorrow, strive to “kiss the cross.”

  The professor was the first to move, but he only went to the piano, laying his hand for an instant on the bright hair of the singer—he attempted no thanks. Miss Langdale rose from the piano, and kneeling by Mrs. Stuart said—

  “I have saddened you, but I wanted to sing your favourite.”