As before, I was struck with the total lack of exchange of news, none seemed to know or care what the other had been doing; it was perhaps as well, for I might now spend my time as best suited me, irrespective of anyone else.
I was deep in thought when Mrs. Falconer made the only remark as to any arrangement.
“Tea will be on the Low Lawn, John, at four o’clock. We all come in at five.”
“Oh! do we?” I thought. “Well I for one don’t. I’m not being imprisoned a second time, from five until bedtime, if I can help it.” So I just murmured—
“Thanks, I will have a rest first and join you there for tea.”
Then I sought my room, ostensibly to rest, in reality to study the lie of the land, and the iron shutter. I carefully made a mental study of the position of the house, its windows, their outlook, and so on, as I went to my room. I hated my room, hated its big shut-up windows, hated its ugly iron one, above all hated the imprisoned atmosphere of it. I studied the view from those windows. They overlooked a walled fruit garden, beyond which stretched a belt of trees. I craned my neck, squirming violently in my endeavour to locate the part of the grounds the iron window would overlook; finding by my memorised plan of house and grounds that as it was a jutting out angle of the house, it would, as I more than half expected, command an uninterrupted view of the low lawn.
“What a pity I could not begin my work now,” I thought, “and have a view of that lawn about 5. 30.” But alas! that could not be. Very well, I would endeavour to possess my soul in patience, meaning to retire early on a plea of tiredness, I spent an hour on the couch in my room, dozing lightly under the pretence of reading, and 3. 30 found me wending my steps to the Low Lawn but with a dire thought in my mind—
“Suppose my iron window should be barricaded outside as well!”
I had not long joined the group on the lawn before my misgivings were put to rest. I had spotted the iron windows, also immediately above it a similar one, it was an odd angle in a house, though, if left as windows, might have made an attractive corner in the rooms. I would for once, question, but whom? Mrs. Falconer would rise grandiloquently to the occasion flooring me with a single terse reply, that was a foregone conclusion. Maude, not yet having forgiven my intrusion in the morning, would probably loftily disdain to reply at all. Bob was most accessible, so I rose stiffly from my chair, saying—
“Come and be kind, Bob, my leg is worrying me and needs a little gentle exercise. Will you lend me that strong shoulder of yours, in return for a war yarn?”
“Won’t I just,” he answered, springing to his feet, and placing himself ready for my encircling arm to rest along his shoulders. I kept my promise during three turns slowly up and down the lawn I spun out my yarn a little, making it end about the centre of the lawn as we faced the house.
“Half a second, old man,” I then said. “I must have a breath.” We stood, and I gazed at the house.
“Jolly old place,” I said.
“Yes,” he answered. “Are you ready, sir?”
“In a jiff,” I replied. “I’m trying if I am clever enough to spot my room. I’ll bet you a bob I can.”
“Right!” said the lad, all eagerness now. “Try, sir.”
I made one or two feeble shots, which were received with yells of derision.
“I give it up,” I said at length. “You’ve won your bob, so tell me.”
“Why, there,” he cried, pointing, there with the blank window looking this way, with another window like it higher up.
“Of course,” I said, “how dense of me. I remember now—that dull window spoils the pretty room.”
“Might spoil it more, sir, if it wasn’t dull,” he replied.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Bob,” I went on, “look what a picture the lawn would be from it.”
“A pretty picture—I don’t think! I guess you’d jolly quick pack up your traps and quit, if you saw the pretty picture, sir.”
“Look here, Bob,” I began, in wheedling tones, “let’s be chums, and you tell me all about that picture in return for my yarn.”
Scornfully the young voice answered me.
“I didn’t think you were a rotter, sir. I thought you were a sport, but a real sport would see this old shop is dad’s nightmare and play the game. I’m a boy scout, sir, and I try to play the game, it isn’t the game for a soldier to try and make a scout fail to be a sport.”
Humbly, I begged his pardon, feeling about three inches high as I did so, and wondering what his opinion would be of me if it transpired that I had broken open the window—though I hoped to defy detection. In silence we retraced our steps, but I had fallen from my high estate in Bob’s eyes, and could feel I was not any longer a hero, even with a purple and white ribbon—so do our youthful judges censure and condemn!
Tea was somewhat more of a rag than previous meals, possibly because little Miss Dorcas, with her three charges, joined us at tea, though their other meals were taken in the seclusion of the schoolroom.
I was keeping a furtive eye on my wristwatch, and wondering which of the party would make the first move, when I saw Mrs. Falconer nod to Miss Dorcas, who promptly rose, calling the children to come as she went. I wondered by what means such obedience had been taught and enforced since nine out of every ten children would have begged for “just ten more minutes.”
“The kiddies trot in early,” I remarked, to no one in particular.
“You bet,” answered Bob, “they always go through the fruit garden to the schoolroom, and if they get there before the sun leaves the apricot wall, they can pick one—you bet they don’t miss!”
I smiled, thinking to myself how apt it all was—seemingly so natural—though every move was planned.
Maude and the McKleans were the next to go—Maude talking volubly about finishing the badminton set begun last evening.
They had barely gone before old Jacobs hurried up—this time with a trim maid in attendance—the two cleared the tea things, and departed without loss of time. There was not to be any delay this evening, that was plain.
Mr. and Mrs. Falconer only remained, they were going to sit me out, so to speak! I would alter that plan. I rose, saying—“Might I, too, venture in search of an apricot.”
Mrs. Falconer—a barely perceptible shade of relief flashing over her face—answered—
“Yes, surely, and go in by the schoolroom door, from there you can join us in the Indoor Garden.”
Mr. Falconer rose, as if to accompany me, but his wife’s glance restrained him, evidently it was a little further than even they could, with courtesy, go—to accompany a guest to the fruit garden, as if fearing wholesale robbing of fruit trees. So I was permitted to go alone.
My idea was, of course, to visit the fruit garden, but not to enter the schoolroom door, joining the caged-up company, from then onwards, until bedtime. Oh! no, I was merely going to get an apricot—dawdle a while until the coast was clear and retrace my steps, almost to the low lawn, but instead of descending to it, skirt right round the top of it, and so indoors, when I felt disposed.
I reached the fruit garden, took my apricot, waved gaily to little Lottie in the window—disregarded the beckoning hand of little Miss Dorcas, who was gazing at me through the long window, with almost a look of fear in her dark eyes, and retraced my steps to the path which led right round the sunk lawn.
I walked along it on the far side from the steps leading down into it, halfway along past the group of fine trees, where the tea was usually put. I paused—paused because I had to—I knew that, but tried not to think it. I wasn’t exactly held up, nor was I conscious of briars tripping me up as last night—I had merely stopped—stopped to breathe. Yes, that was it, only I wasn’t out of breath—there just wasn’t anything to breathe; foolishly I found myself saying this idiotic sentence over and over again “not out of breath, but nothing to breathe.”
I had been once in a gas-cloud in France, but this wasn’t like that. This was like nothing; I struggle
d a few more yards, and gazed. The house seemed to have receded, the lawn seemed further below me, and appeared veiled in a bluish haze, thicker and thicker it seemed to get, and as I gazed, I fancied I could discern swiftly, hurrying forms moving to and fro. I struggled on again, intent only on reaching the house. As I advanced, the bluish fog dosed round me, shutting me in, in an impenetrable wall. In vain I struggled, in vain I peered; at last, even beating the fog with my hands, as if to force a passage through. Nothing availed me, and ever and anon I could see the hurrying forms below me. Terror struck me!
Would that I were safely in the Indoor Garden with its warmth and light and beauty, instead of here, enveloped in fog with other forms of which I dared not think, hurrying below me. Would that I had been guided instead of going my own obstinate way. Vain were such repinings now. The shapes seemed more defined, the atmosphere more dense. Feebly, I struggled to see the time by my luminous watch—Eight o’clock! Have I been wandering here so long—it seemed incredible! I must, and will, reach the house, but now I seemed to have lost the house, all trace of it had vanished.
Last night I grumbled that I was a prisoner—indoors. Tonight I was to be kept “Outside the House.”
Denser and denser grew the appalling thickness of the air. I feared to move a yard in advance “If only it would lift a little, just enough to enable me to go forward in safety.” Even as I spoke, the atmosphere grew perceptibly clearer. I took one step forward, to find myself standing on the edge of a precipice or what seemed like one. I was now facing the sunk lawn—sunk indeed!—for it seemed far, far below me, with a drop from where I was standing of I dare not contemplate what depth, where shapes were ever hurrying to and fro. Cautiously I bent nearer, in a way almost glad to gaze on some movement, rather than into the impenetrable wall before me.
As I gazed, a figure seemed to come close up to me out of the void, stretching its arms towards me as if to drag me with in. I saw no face, no definite shape, beyond the shadowy outline, and the arms. I shrank back, and back, to find myself pressing against the shrubs. “Could I keep in that position without losing my bearings?” I wondered, for if I could, I was then backing away from lawn and house. How far the fog extended, I could not guess, but to press back from the lawn seemed the only thing to attempt. I was weak, spent, almost done, but I threw my last ounce of strength into this move. Crash! crash! went branches behind me, my weak leg was failing me, and I found myself feebly trying to pray for help. And now the shadowy forms seemed to follow me, closer, closer, they pressed forward, as I pressed back. Suddenly, I fancied I heard a faint shout, then another. I tried to answer, but was powerless, terror had made me dumb. Another shout—
“John, where are you?”
I could not answer, but gave one last push, and fell.
I opened my eyes to find not a search party, not a feverish gang of people, fussing over me, but merely Mrs. Falconer, with a flash of brandy in one hand, a light rug over her arm, leading a magnificent hound by a long chain. His acquaintance I had not made; he was licking my face and hands, when with a long shudder I sat up.
“Mrs. Falconer,” I said.
“Yes, John, Gelert and I. Do you feel able to walk? We have some way to go, before you can rest.”
“Are we far from the house?” I asked.
“The house, as far as we are concerned, has ceased to exist until daylight,” she answered.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Of course you don’t,” she replied, “and were not content to be guided.”
“No,” I said ruefully, “but how topping of you to come.”
“No one else can,” she said, “only Gelert and I can come. But now you must try to move.”
I took a little of the brandy, and struggled to my feet, to find I was on the extreme edge of the shrubberies, beyond which appeared to be meadows. With my final twist back, I had landed on my back into the meadow, nothing resisting my strength, and, of course, fell.
“How deep is the shrubbery I backed through, Mrs. Falconer?” I asked.
“A matter of perhaps thirty or forty yards,” she said. “Fortunately it occurred to you to back.”
“Why?” I said.
“Never mind why, just now,” she replied, “we must hurry. Look.”
I looked, and saw the fog creeping after us. Gelert growled menacingly, ever and anon turning to face the way we were leaving, once, springing as if to grasp something, his eyes like fire, saliva dripping from his massive jaws. A few moments passed, and Mrs. Falconer breathed—
“Hurry John, you must.”
“I can’t,” I gasped.
“You must,” she said. But even as she spoke, I felt the impress of a hand heavily on my shoulder. The hound growled, prepared for a spring, I thought, at my throat, as with a quick word and sudden jerk, Mrs. Falconer dragged me through a gate, sinking down on the roadside with a whispered “Thank God!”
I suppose I lost consciousness for a few moments, for when next I opened my eyes, I was covered with the rug, my head on Mrs. Falconer’s knee, Gelert beside her, with his great paws close to her.
A faint, grey light, as of coming dawn, was visible, the atmosphere was clear and balmy, and very silent.
Mrs. Falconer rose, and her voice was once again the cold, unemotional tones of my hostess. I vaguely wondered if it had been all part of a horrible nightmare, and had I dreamed that across it I heard her voice, anguished, distressed, calling, calling. There was nothing now, in either her voice or bearing, other than the lady I had hitherto known.
“If you are rested, John, we will go home,” she said, in slightly ironical tones, “you will no doubt be glad of a bath and sleep.”
“Thank you,” I answered, in the same off-hand way. “I shall.” I was deadly tired, sick with pain, and now, in the quickly-coming dawn, felt, and I should not hesitate to say, looked, like a truant schoolboy, caught out of bounds, and conveyed home to receive due chastisement. I felt cowed—no other word describes it, yet deep in my heart lay a feeling of annoyance, that I had been found. I was quite conscious of not feeling nearly as grateful as I ought, and of being still a long way from discovering the why and wherefore of strange and terrifying happenings.
That I had seen, things, not of this world, in the ordinary meaning of the word, I was well aware. Nor was I unduly fearful of them, the horror lay in the suffocating fog, and in the apparent wish to haul me into some abyss. I was not afraid of mere forms. Some of us out in “No-Man’s-Land” were not unknowing of other forms being present as well as our comrades in the flesh. There are those of us, who, in spite of the jeerings of scoffers, still say, that the Angels of Mons were not the phantasy of unhinged minds, nor even a mirage due to a tot of rum.
Therefore, I, among many others, have learned to be less sceptical and not to take nonunderstandable things as impossibilities.
The truant schoolboy feeling clung to me all the way home. I shouldn’t have felt surprised had Mrs. Falconer taken me by the hand and bidden me trot along. As we neared the house, I observed smoke from one or two chimneys. What time it was I did not know, nor greatly care. In silence we entered the hall, hearing a large clock boom five as we did so.
A small round table was drawn near a blazing freshly kindled fire, a kettle steamed on the hob, toast, and bread and butter were there, but not a sign of any person.
Still in silence, Mrs. Falconer threw off her fur coat and cap, and warming her hands at the blaze, she uttered one of her usual terse remarks—
“When you have had food, John, I advise a bath, bed, and a still tongue. The household are aware you remained outside when you had better have been in. Details of your experience are not desirable, and for Elsie’s sake, I do not advise a repetition of foolhardiness, I also ask you to conform to the house rules, which, are made as little irksome as possible.”
I did not reply beyond a mild bow and she went on—
“I am going to lock Gelert up now. I counsel bed for you, and the doctor to
see your leg in the morning, Goodbye.”
I had prepared an elaborate speech of thanks for her timely help, but she cut me short, saying—
“Your best thanks, John, will be to conform to rules; no one else has ever tried to kick them over quite so deliberately before.”
She left me then, and I dragged my throbbing limb to bath and bed, too weary to think or conjecture further.
When next I awakened it was 10 a. m. No one apparently had been near me, so I rang my bell. Old Jacob answered it, looking at me reproachfully, as he asked if he might bring breakfast because “‘Madam’ has ’phoned the doctor to call.”
“There was no need,” I said—“he may even order me to lie still.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jacobs, his tone implying “that’s it.”
A plentiful breakfast tray speedily arrived, and with it Bob, who perched himself on the foot of my bed, eyeing me as one who wished to know without inquiring. I vouchsafed no information, so he started off.
“Rotten luck, Sir, but only your own fault—quite instructive and very thrilling—Hurt your leg, Sir?”
“A bit,” I answered.
Then lowering his voice he whispered—“Anything touch you? Fog, I suppose, and people.”
“Oh, no,” I said, “at least I don’t think so.”
“Think so!” he ejaculated, “there would not be any think about it.”
“What’s it all about, Bob?” I asked.
“Better ask the gov’nor, Sir, not me.”
“P’raps so—clear now, Bob—I’m going to dress.”
“Right-o, Sir,” said he as he lounged away.
Fearing a doctor’s visit to maul me about, I dressed and tubbed quickly, and was just about to put my jacket on, when I noticed a long tear in the shoulder, also the shoulder strap was missing. “Then someone did touch me,” I said aloud, staring aghast at the ripped shoulder, dismayed to think what a giveaway it was to the household as it was my only available coat for day. I had better concoct a yarn to account for it, and get a maid to mend it, while I dressed. I rang the bell and a plain-looking person with glasses and a long nose answered it.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Bessie Kyffin-Taylor-From Out of the Silence Page 9