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

by Bessie Kyffin-Taylor

  “How I will feel?” I queried. “Why, how should I feel, except happy to be there.”

  “I hope so,” was her somewhat vague response, as she walked away almost as if she didn’t wish to say any more.

  Later in the day, just before I started, she came to me, saying: “John, you will try and like it all, won’t you, for my sake, don’t let anything worry you will you. Nothing can really do you any harm.”

  In the rush of getting away, her few words had not much effect—indeed it was not until some hours later, when my train slowed down at a little wayside station, and an elderly man in livery met me, that I remembered them, and driving along between high hedges of wild roses, honeysuckle and sweetness of many kinds, I failed to attach the least importance to those little words “nothing can really do you any harm.” Did the little girl mean the jolting of rough roads for my poor leg, or what, I wondered. Then a sudden thought struck me.

  Perhaps her people were not well off and she feared a little roughing it for my shattered health, but this thought was speedily banished, as we pulled up at a charming little black and white lodge, where a smiling woman opened a massive iron gate bearing a coat of arms in blue and gold. Elsie had not told me much of her home, or people, beyond that they were an old family and owned all the coalfields round about them. I had paid little or no attention at the time, for the girl—and not her people or position—was before all in my mind.

  A long sheltered drive, between giant trees, presently brought us to a broad gravel sweep in front of a beautiful half-timbered house. I had scarcely time to see it, however, before I was hailed by a regular chorus of voices from a deep sunk lawn on the right of the house—it was curiously deep sunken. One is accustomed I suppose, to see a lawn stretching away level with the house or almost, but this one, which I later learnt was always spoken of as the low lawn, was at least five or six feet below the drive; it almost gave one a feeling that if it had been a lake—it would have looked prettier that way—one seemed to have to look too far below for it—the walks and flower-beds surrounding it were so high above it.

  At one end of the lawn was a glorious copper beech, beneath which were grouped some seven or eight people near a tea-table, lavishly spread—for war days.

  Two people detached themselves from the group and came to meet me—an elderly man with iron grey hair and slightly bent back, and a slim dark-haired girl, perhaps three or four years older than my Elsie. My welcome was warm, as warm as man could desire from the father of the girl he loved, though, man-like, few words were spoken, a firm hand-grip, a keen look, and then—

  “I am very glad John to welcome the man our little girl has given her heart to. This is Maude, Elsie’s sister.”

  Maude favoured me with a quick scrutinizing glance, shook hands and turned away to a schoolboy brother, who had followed close on her heels.

  My ears, keenly sensitive through long nights on O. P. duties, caught the few words she murmured to him, as she met him.

  “He’ll never stand it, Bob, he isn’t the sort, but mum’s the word.”

  Bob glanced back at me, and then shook off the sisterly hand on his shoulder, and came up to me with a boyish grin.

  “Game leg, Sir? Sorry, lean on me, and come down the steps to Mater and some tea.”

  “Right! many thanks,” was my reply in the same spirit. “I’ll be glad of some tea; it’s been my first journey since the horrible one back to Blighty.”

  “Rotten luck, Sir,” went on the young voice, “you’ll tell me about it sometime, won’t you?”

  “Not much honour and glory about it, Bob,” I replied.

  “But you’ve got a ribbon, Sir, a purple and white ribbon; I know that wasn’t got with sitting still in a funk-hole!”

  “No, not exactly,” I replied laughing, “but lots of chaps who will never get it, have earned that bit of ribbon better than I did. I’ll tell you some other time, if you like.”

  He nodded his head and said—

  “Mater, this is Elsie’s John, dying for some tea.”

  “Mater” made the usual little fuss mothers do make, when something in khaki steals into her flock, and wants one of her lambs, and I was soon in a comfortable chair, my game leg on another, while I was refreshed with tea, war scones, honey, and strawberries as I surveyed the rest of the group—Mr. and Mrs. Falconer, Maude, Bob, a Captain McKlean and his sister Nora, staying in the house, a fair-haired girl in a dark severe-looking frock, whom I subsequently learned had charge of the three boisterous younger members of the family; the Rev. L Roberts, a middle-aged man, who had evidently dropped in for a cup of tea, and the three young members, who lay sprawled on the grass beside their mother—Lottie a cherub, aged six, with red-gold hair, and impish blue eyes, Alec and Ken, twins, just at the knickerbockers stage and brimming over with every conceivable mischief—composed the group, of which, for the moment, I found myself the centre.

  Talk drifted along from war to rations, and back again; from battles to the keeping of pigs, and the price of eggs; from the scarcity of jam; to my purple and white ribbon; and so on, from grave to gay, until the sun, hitherto blazing in glory on lawn and flower beds, gradually began to sink behind the trees, in a pink glow, that lit up the house as if a pink limelight were thrown upon it. I was intently watching it, enjoying the beauty of it, when my attention was arrested by a sudden move among the group of people, as if with one accord they were seized with the same idea at the same moment.

  Mrs. Falconer got up, and trailed away with her knitting in her hand, her ball of wool dragging behind her, I made a move to retrieve it, but was stopped by Bob saying—

  “Don’t worry, Sir, if you begin, you’ll never stop. Mother’s things always trail after her, they arrive at the house in time; we never bother.” He softly kicked the ball of wool on its way, with a sly wink at me, adding—

  “That’s how they get there, unless the twins walk off with them in another direction, among the trees; it’s a wonder they didn’t spot it; oh! they’ve cleared, I might have known; it’s getting late.”

  “Late!” I said. “Why it’s only just after five!”

  “I mean late for the garden,” he said.

  “Late for the garden?” I asked. “Why, it’s the loveliest time in a garden now, when the heat dies down, and the air is all perfume.”

  “Maybe in most gardens,” he replied, “but this isn’t one of them.”

  “Why it’s perfect,” I said.

  “That’s all right, Sir, but I wouldn’t stay too long, it gets—er—damp and—er—well damp,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, as he strolled away whistling.

  “It seems an interesting place, Mr. Roberts,” I said, turning to face the parson. “I do not know this part of the country at all, perhaps you’ll light a pipe, and tell me about my surroundings.”

  The parson got to his feet—hurriedly, awkwardly—blew his nose violently, and said—

  “Yes, yes, my dear major, I shall be most delighted, any time— er—that is, any other time, but now I must hurry away, my parish, you see, my work, er—my duties—you’ll come and see my library, yes, yes, a fine collection. Goodbye, come very soon,—er—goodbye.” And his long lean figure was scuttling over the lawn ere I had managed to gasp a reply.

  A circle of empty chairs, a tableful of empty plates, myself, and little Miss Dorcas, the governess, only remained. She was sewing “Comforts bags” for wounded men—the joy of the Tommys’ hearts. If only more people who can sew, would get on and make thousands more! I lit a cigarette and then said—“Are you vanishing also, Miss Dorcas?”

  “I suppose so,” she answered.

  “Won’t you stay and talk a bit?” I asked. “You see I have to sit still most of my time.”

  “You will be more comfortable in the smoke-room, or billiard-room,” she said, still intent upon her sewing.

  “I couldn’t be,” I said. “A garden like this, a comfy chair, my pipe, and a warm July evening; it doesn’t appeal to
me to leave it for a billiard-room.”

  “No,” she said, “not yet, but it will.”

  “Oh! I must go,” rising as she spoke, and hurried away folding her work. “You will come in when you’ve had enough, I suppose.”

  “Enough what?” I asked, smiling.

  “Enough garden,” she answered, as she hurried away, leaving me the now sole survivor of the cheery group I had come into, not two hours ago.

  Idly I lay back in my chair, puffing away at my war-worn pipe, the drowsy hum of insects lulled me, the scent of flowers soothed, the silence rested my tired nerves and body. I didn’t particularly want to think, but my mind kept wondering what was the need of all these good folks to hurry away to other occupations, one and all leaving their rather crippled guest, without apparently a thought as to how I should get my lame leg up the deep grass steps and into the house later. I wished Elsie had been here, but she had decided to come in a few days, leaving me to get to know her family without her helpful influence.

  Well! I must make the best of it; at least, I could rest and enjoy the peace of it all. I did my best to go to sleep, but signally failed, though nothing could be more perfect than my surroundings for such a mode of passing a little of the time I seemed destined to spend alone. It was gloriously, warm, and I was pleased to find no trace of damp, such as I had feared, and which would certainly necessitate my moving. No, it certainly was not damp, of that I was sure, then what was it? For it was something, though what I meant by it, I haven’t the remotest idea. I felt confused, surely I must be sleepy, for my mind, usually alert, seemed dulled, almost as if I were once again under the noxious influence of morphia, as I lay in my chair endeavouring to collect wits that appeared to have a tendency to become scattered, I saw coming across the lawn an elderly man-servant. He approached the tea-table, and with one eye on me, stolidly began to clear away the tea-things. Then he coughed, and hesitatingly said to me—

  “Are you thinking of going in, Sir? Can I help you?”

  “Well, I wasn’t,” I replied, “but perhaps I will, if you will give me an arm, when you have cleared away. I am not in any hurry.”

  “Very good, Sir, but I’ll help you first if you wish, though it is getting a bit late.”

  “Late!” The same word, and again I asked—“Late—for what?”

  “Late—er—for the teacups, Sir,” he replied.

  “For the teacups!” I said, astonished.

  “Yes, Sir, I mustn’t be late.” Saying which, he gathered them up on his large tray, and set off with his load. He hadn’t gone more than five or six yards when he appeared to stumble or slip, staggered to recover himself, and the tray and china crashed to the ground.

  “There,” he gasped, amidst the wreckage, “I knew it was late.”

  I regret to say my first feeling was one of idiotic merriment, something about the old man, amidst the debris of china and odds and ends of food, struck a latent sense of humour in me, and I laughed unrestrainedly. Not so the worthy butler,—he, with an expression, that baffles description, slowly rose and stood staring at the broken china for the space of a full minute, before turning to me, as if to reprove my merriment. I frustrated him, by saying—

  “I am sorry to laugh at you, but ‘over there’ we somehow learnt to laugh at calamities, and it seemed to help.”

  “Very good, Sir,” he answered stiffly, “I understand, but it isn’t funny, Sir, not leastways what I call funny.”

  “No,” I said, “I can see your point of view. I suppose it means censure for breaking good china.”

  “No, Sir, it isn’t that, for it isn’t good china, it’s cheap—because any delay means a smash, and we’re late today, as I said.”

  “I fail to understand you, my good man,” I answered, “I’ve seen many queer incidents lately, but I can’t see why the clearing of a few tea-things from a garden table should mean they will be smashed if left late, though it is but 5. 30 now.”

  “Quite true, Sir. May I help you in now?” he said.

  “Won’t you remove the smash first?” I asked.

  “No, Sir,” was his emphatic reply. “I will not, they wait till morning, they do.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, feeling the hopelessness of it—the old man must surely have a slate off. I would perhaps hear further of the smash later. Meantime, I was conscious of a wish for a more cheery spot, so turning to the old butler, remarked—

  “I will try the steps now if you will give me an arm, but I cannot go quickly.”

  “No, Sir,” he replied, “you certainly cannot, leastways not here, and we’ll maybe get there sooner by going slower.”

  As an Irishman, that speech appealed to me, and I chuckled as we started our crawl towards the steps. True, I was compelled to move slowly, but I certainly had every intention of moving at least as quickly as I had been able to do during the last few weeks. This, however, was far from the case, some inexplicable “Something” retarded my every step! I found myself trying to put into words my inability to get along, in a joking way. I said to the worthy butler—

  “I must have grown stiff sitting still so long, I feel as if my feet were unable to carry me.”

  “Quite so, Sir,” he answered, imperturbably, “lean on me, Sir.”

  I did, but speedily found I was trusting to a broken reed, for the man stumbled at every other step. To an onlooker we must have had every appearance of a couple of very drunken reprobates struggling home after a wildly dissipated night, and not, as we were, a worn soldier with a game leg, leaning for support on the shoulder of a worthy grey-haired family retainer, crossing a little space of smooth green turf, leaving behind us a heap of smashed china! If I had been asked to describe that march, I should have said—

  “Oh yes! I am aware that I was said to be walking across a smooth expanse of velvety lawn, without so much as a croquet hoop to trip me up, but seemingly I was struggling through a close tangle of strong briars, which entwined themselves round me as if they were endowed with sense, and each successive one was struggling to twist and pull harder than the other. That was my impression; yet, on that expanse of smooth green, there was not a single item to suggest such a state of affairs. Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, with the perspiration streaming from us, we reached at last the steps, mounted the first, and were confronted by a heavy pressure, as if to force us back.

  “Stick to it, Sir,” whispered the old man. And we did, but it took all my limited strength and his combined, to press through that invisible barrier, and finally reach the top. The presence relaxed then suddenly, and I breathed more freely, nor did it need the butler’s muttered “Hurry in, now, Sir,” to urge me to the greatest speed my exhausted frame was capable of.

  I entered the hall, with a word of thanks to my worthy friend, who disappeared in haste through a baize door, mopping his face.

  I dropped into the nearest chair, feeling far more done than I ever remembered feeling after long hours in the trenches, and was content to lie back with my eyes shut, until I heard a mocking voice say—

  “Drink this, John, you’ll be all square in a minute.”

  I wearily drank what was offered to me, opening my eyes to see the slightly quizzical face of Maude looking at me.

  “Thanks!” I murmured, “it’s a trying day.”

  “Very,” she responded, “in the garden. I watched you coming in. Rest a few minutes, and then I will take you to the others. They are in our indoor garden; we prefer it. Then she went away, leaving me to rest. I must have dozed for a few brief moments for again I did not hear her. until she spoke, in a voice that, to my sensitive ears, still had a mocking note—

  “Come along, John, you are quite alive, you know, come to the others.”

  She helped me up, with a good strong pull,—the kind of pull our young women are beginning to acquire since they metaphorically took their coats off, and gave up fancy work and crochet for making shells, milking cows, and tilling the land—and having got me on to my feet, she calmly tucked m
y arm through hers, saying, laughing—

  “Elsie won’t mind, you know.”And led me down a long stone corridor with a broad crimson carpet running down the centre, a few old coaching scenes on the walls, one or two heavy oak chairs on either side, and in each of the two windows an old-fashioned flower-stand filled with flowering plants.

  “What a ripping corridor!” I said.

  “Yes,” she answered, “it’s rather nice, but this is nicer,” she added, throwing open a big glass door and drawing me forward into what I can best describe as a gigantic greenhouse, though Maude’s words of “our indoor garden,” more aptly describes it. It was immense, having a dome-shaped roof, painted a clear pale blue. Three sides of the place were of glass, through which lovely views were seen, the fourth side was an exquisitely painted landscape of a hayfield and trees stretching away into the distance. For a moment one scarcely realised whether one was looking at real scenes or painted ones, or where one began and the other ended. Clumps of shrubs here and there made secluded corners, where cosy chairs and couches were placed.

  A hammock was slung under another tree—one side of the place was trelliswork, with glorious roses rambling over it, and everywhere were flowers or flowering plants. The ground was dull green, like a solid linoleum; in one corner clock golf was marked out; Badminton occupied another place, and under an orange tree was a large round table, with writing materials and many magazines; the dome top could be worked by pulleys and rolled back, the whole idea giving one the atmosphere of a lovely foreign garden.

  All the family were present, though each seemed intent on his or her occupation and no one seemed to have the remotest thought of leaving it for a stroll in the garden outside, though a most perfect summer evening was vainly calling.

  An hour ago I should unhesitatingly have said they were cranks, or had bees in their bonnets, but now—well—I was not sure what I truly thought.

  “Won’t you come and sit down, John?” called Mrs. Falconer.

  “Thanks!” I said, “I was feeling rather struck in a heap, this is such an unusual greenhouse.”