Until that day comes, I confess to rather enjoying comparing Miss Brown’s green eyes with the emerald stone stolen by her ancestress who first nursed, then murdered, her hapless patient, in the room she seems yet to consider her own, at a certain time of the year, so much her own, that such trifles as the stirring of a dead fire, the shaking the pillow of an unsuspecting guest, are usual happenings, though only in autumn does one see the final act of the tragedy; but I, who saw it, shall never in my life forget, nor do I care who sneers, who laughs at what they are pleased to call my imagination, I saw—I know—as others will—until the emerald stone is restored—the horrible ghastly murder that took place in Room No. 10.
The Wind in the Woods
To say I was an artist would be giving myself too high-sounding a name, yet my days were spent in trying, and at times succeeding, in depicting scenes as I saw them—not people! I never attempted portraits, for the expression on human faces more often irritated me, than interested— every nine out of ten wore such a worried, harassed look, as if, in the race for gain, or pleasure, they had lost sight of all things conducive to rest or repose; I had no wish to paint such things, nor did I wish them to come and pose in their best garments, with a smile such as one and all would, I knew, adopt.
Fortunately for me, I was not dependent upon my efforts with brush and pencil, though I confess I made quite a nice income by them; but it was always joy to me to remember, if I did not want to paint, I need not, for my meals were forthcoming, whether I made the price of them or not.
I was the owner of a charming flat in London. This was my anchorage, and here I was looked after and cared for by an old family servant, a woman well on in years, who had been for long years a faithful friend and servant in my family, and now, in her later years, had constituted herself my factotum, ruling my small domain, and incidentally myself, with a firm hand, never by any chance seeming to realise that I really was grown up, but bestowing the same thought upon the changing of my socks on a wet day as she had done when I was nine or ten. Her name was “Merry”—Mrs. Merry. As children, we had all adored her; as a middle-aged man, I respected and looked up to her, glad to ask and take her wise advice on many issues of the day.
Mrs. Merry was well used to my vagabondish ways, though at times she was wont to say I should be much happier if I married and settled down! I always laughed at her, for my only love story was buried fathoms deep in the dust-heap of forgotten things; and the very words “settle down” sent a cold shiver down my spine—it, the “settling down” process, would mean a wholesale giving up of all those ways I held so dear. No more sudden trekking at a moment’s notice, or corning home any day or any hour, as sure of welcome as I was sure of being safe from questions as to my doings. Mrs. Merry never questioned, though she was always delighted when told where I had been, or what I had done. Sometimes I had sketches to show to her, but as often I had none; in either case, she was convinced of my talent and ability, and her faith and loyalty never wavered.
It was early in July when a sudden desire for trees, rivers, and growing things caused me to drop the work I was on, call Mrs. Merry, and request a small Gladstone bag should be packed as quickly as possible, that I was going away. The old lady looked at me keenly, remarking—
“You don’t look ill!”
I laughed.
“Nor am I,” I said;“but it is hot in the town; also, I feel as if I must see trees instead, of people for a while.”
“That will mean strong boots and knickers, I suppose, sir?” was her next remark.
“Yes, Merry, dear, it will; also plenty of pipes, baccy, books, and a stick. I may paint, or I may not; in any case, expect me back a month from tomorrow, for sure, unless I send you word; and if you don’t hear, why then,” I added, laughing—“someone had better begin to look for me.”
“I do wish you would settle down, Mr. Wilfred,” was the old dame’s parting shot, as she went out to do my behests.
Settle down, I mused, filling a much-used old briar, never, now, though my thoughts went back to those days of joy, when I and a sweet-faced girl with dark eyes and a little fair head just reaching to my shoulder, talked in, twilight hours of a home that was to be. If she had passed to the “Great Beyond,” I could have borne it better than the tale of treachery and cunning, which ended in my dark-eyed love leaving me on the morning, which should have been my wedding day, merely announcing, by wire, that she had married my best chum, Kirk Compton, in London, that morning.
Trouble of that kind takes one of two lines, it either sends a man, or woman, to the bad—that is, to drink, gambling— anything of a wild, riotous kind of existence to, as they think, help them to forget—or it sends them into themselves, to more or less live a life of solitude, finding companionship in books or hobbies, fearful of making friends, lest they, too, should prove unfaithful; one’s faith in goodness shattered, it is years, if ever, before one comes into one’s own, realising that there is infinitely more in life than the shallow so-called love of one girl. And so, as I was not addicted to drink or cards, I became a recluse, or almost. I had a few friends, was voted a good chap, but a cynic, and gradually left to my own devices. I was happy as the years went on, finding my books and work all sufficient, while my fervent love of nature proved the healing of my sore, and I was content.
July 20th stared me in the face from a large lettered calendar, as I woke for my early cup of tea, on the day I was starting for a whole month, somewhere in Wales.
There is not any object in making a mystery of my destination, except the small fact that my chosen haunt was a very well-known district, within only an hour’s journey from a large manufacturing town; therefore, it is possible that there are people who might recognise and locate the district if I gave more than a mere hint of its place on the map. It has been for years a very favourite corner of mine; the hills which surround it are not so high as to be unclimbable, they are heather clad, though here and there one came upon an oasis of sprongy turf and golden bracken—what I call, in my own mind, “kind hills”—high enough to lift one up from life’s little worries, but not high enough to be awe-inspiring, or to frown down upon us puny mortals.
The rivers are fishable after rain, otherwise one can inspect the stones, which form the beds of these mountain streams, and decide among the dry stones which place might best conceal a trout, when the next rain comes; personally, I am quite willing to believe that once there were fish in plenty in the stream, but that lean years had driven the farm folks to catch them the best way they could. Perhaps the chief beauty of the place lay in the charm of its many and varied woods—at least, this was to me the magnet which drew me here generally once or twice in a year. Up on the hillsides the woods seemed to open out, one into another, ever revealing fresh beauties of trees, from the tender green of the sapling birch to the hoary old beech or oak of many years old; beneath their green arms, the ground was carpeted with soft tiny wild thyme, wild mint, and little flowers of many kinds whose names were unknown to me. Most of my hours were spent deep in the heart of these woods, which never failed to hold me entranced with their ever-varying lights and shades.
Below, nearer to the river, there were woods also, but of quite a different nature, there, high pine trees of sombre hue towered above you, each one seeming to say: “Let me stretch up to the blue sky and leave the gloom of this wood beneath me.” For gloom there undoubtedly was, yet I have liked that gloom; sometimes, on a hot summer’s day, I have enjoyed lying on a soft, dry heap of pine needles, listening to the gentle coo of wood-pigeons, nesting high above me. “Silent Wood,” as I called it, was always sheltered from wind, for the pine trees were close together, and beyond a soft sighing wind in the tree tops I never remember feeling the wind from any quarter. The sunlight seldom penetrated the “Silent Wood,” save only in single shafts between the pines, or, maybe, in some clear patch where a tree had fallen or been cut down; but, even lacking sunshine, it was always warm and dry.
One side of th
e wood was bounded by a path, the other side by the stream—at least in autumn and winter it was—for in summer it dried up or trickled away to reappear a mile or so further on, as if it had tumbled into some old mine shaft; and later, changed its course and returned. “Silent Wood” was not my favourite, but it had a fascination for me, difficult to describe; and on this July morning, when I bid farewell to dear old Merry, and started for my holiday, “Silent Wood” was much in my mind as a quiet place to rest in, before I tackled longer, steeper walks, or began to think of taking canvas and paints with me.
My journey was long, also suffocatingly hot, dusty, and tedious; many people were travelling, and my compartment was well packed with bundles and packages, as well as people, so I hailed my last change with a sigh of relief, for soon the hills and trees would surround me instead of the bricks and mortar I had grown so tired of.
A broken-down trap, drawn by a fat Welsh pony, met me at my station; from thence we crawled up four long miles of hill ere I reached my favourite quarters, an old farmhouse in which I was always a welcome guest, and where two cheery rooms were always at my disposal. The peacefulness of that first evening will linger in my memory for many a day to be able to gaze around, seeing nothing but hills, fields, trees, and sky, instead of houses, chimneys, motors, and people, was pure joy to me; when, after a simple meal, I lit my pipe, I felt intent to linger in the warm, hay-scented air indefinitely.
There are those to whom the contemplation of such a holiday, as the one I thought lay before me, would have been a dire penalty, those to whom solitude and nature would spell boredom and weariness; and I pity all those natures, for they know not what they miss.
I passed a gloriously restful night, and was up early, with a long day of golden sunshine ahead of me. I had never been here in July before, early spring or September had been my usual seasons; but to be here in July, in radiant warmth and beauty, was a treat I was prepared to revel in.
Day by day slipped away, in almost complete idleness, until a week had vanished, almost unnoticed by me, for calendars had been left behind me, and I, more often than not, forgot to wind up my watch—I had no use for time. I ate when I felt hungry, and slept when I was tired; but the end of this week found me thinking of brush and canvas, so I decided to take lunch in my pocket, trusting to luck for some tea if I desired it, and prepared for a long day’s sketching. “Which way do you think of going, sir?” asked my hostess, more, I fancy, from politeness than from any real interest in my goings and comings.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I answered, “but probably I shall wander to the woods.”
“Which, sir?” she next enquired, a little to my surprise.
“Probably the shadiest,” I replied, smiling, “the one below with the pine trees, and silence, is the one I most fancy today.”
“The higher woods are nicer, sir, don’t you think?” was her next remark.
“No, I don’t,” I said. “I like the pine woods, they are always so intensely silent; one never feels any wind there, and there is a breeze today.”
“That is true, sir,” said Mrs. Hughes. “There isn’t any wind there—as a rule.”
“As a rule?” I echoed. “Why, I’ve never felt it there, not even in autumn.”
“No, sir, you wouldn’t then, but you may now; and I’d go to the upper woods if I were you.” Now Mrs. Hughes had never, to my knowledge, taken the slightest interest in my doings previously, and her persistence this morning simply had the effect of making me feel perverse, as is the way of men; so, smilingly, I bade her good morning, determined, in my own mind, that “Silent Wood” should be my destination for that day. The good lady ventured no further remarks, but turned away to busy herself with farm duties, leaving me to set off without further questioning.
There was a slight breeze, just enough to make walking more pleasant, but rather more than I liked for sketching purposes, so I was glad when I dipped down from the path by the river-side to the edge of my pet woods. They were, as ever, still, dark, and airless, just as I had pictured them many, many times as I smoked my pipe beside my studio fire while busy London surged on, beneath my windows.
In those woods, I have always felt as if I must tread softly. I do not remember ever to have sung or whistled there; yet, there was never anything to disturb, for I have never seen even a rabbit, it seemed too sombre a place for animal life; moreover, there was nothing but dry pine needles for them to eat. I don’t remember ever seeing the wood-pigeons I occasionally heard above my head; so, lacking animal life, the place was even more silent than deep woods usually are.
It suited me in my present mood, however, and in the intense silence lay its greatest charm. Somewhere in the world there are a few kindred spirits, I have no doubt, to whom such perfect silence and freedom from every jar would appeal, as it appeals to me—those who often crave for just one hour’s unbroken silence, and who find it one of the most difficult things to attain; those to whom the incessant opening and shutting of doors, clattering of things, ringing of bells, voices, and the coming and going of people have to be endured with a smile, though every nerve may be on edge, and the aching for quietness is almost— more than can be borne—those people, and those only, will enter into and fully understand the intense charm to me of “Silent Wood.”
I entered it, as usual, on this morning as on many previous ones, walking softly as if not wanting to disturb its peace by so much as a snap of a dry twig, and as I walked deeper and deeper into the shadows it seemed to grow stiller and more silent. The scent of the pines was soothing, and the warm, dry air seemed to draw it out and intensify it.
About the centre of the wood I paused to look and listen. Not a sound broke the stillness, save only the faintest cooing of the wood-pigeons; so there, in the patch of sunlight, I drew together heaps of pine needles to form a couch, stretching myself on it in complete enjoyment, canvas and brushes idle by my side.
The natural outcome of such an environment and such quiet calm was to fall soundly asleep—a glorious, restful sleep— knowing that there could not be any early knocking at my door, no engagements to keep, nothing, no one for whom I need wake until I had slept all I desired. I woke at long length, with the softest of breezes blowing gently on my face; so softly as to make me wonder, in my half-asleep state, if it also were part of my dreams; but no! there it was again, soft and cold, and this time a little stronger. I opened my eyes. Surely it must be night! I thought. How many hours had I slept? It seemed dark, yet high up between the pine-tree tops I could catch a glimpse of blue sky.
Then it is not late, I thought, but how dark it is here under the trees. I must see the time, and shake myself into a more reasonable state of mind, for, truly, I feel almost nervy! So my thoughts ran as I raised myself from my pine-needle couch, and stood up. I glanced round and could scarcely believe it was my beloved “Silent Wood,” it seemed so chill and dark, not the soft gloom I was accustomed to there, but an eerie darkness as of a gathering storm; but ever and anon a little moaning wind swept past me, each just seeming more chill and dank.
“Horrible!” I murmured, fastening up my coat before preparing to pick up my little knapsack of odds and ends, “horrible! I never thought the place could be so chilly; I’ll get out as speedily as I can for it must be late.”
I peered at my watch, which was difficult to see in the gloom, to find I had, as usual, forgotten to wind it.
“It is probably about four!” I said aloud, “but it’s like night!”
I spoke aloud, and my voice seemed to come back to me in mocking echo from the far side of the wood, “like night”
“I never knew there was an echo,” I thought. “I’ll try again tomorrow,” I said clearly, and back from the distance came the echo—“tomorrow”—and a hoarse laugh came with it.
I started, I had not laughed! Then, who?
“Oh, you idiot,” I murmured, giving myself a shake, “it’s some country yokel answering you back, making a fool of you; pull yourself together and get
off home—you require your tea.”
So, with a last look round, I turned my face towards home, and tea, but my feet seemed weighted, and seemed as if I could not leave the wood, eager as I was to reach the daylight. I seemed to have already dragged myself double the distance I had to go ere I found myself at the edge of the wood, shivering in every limb, chilled to the bone, unnerved, as I could not believe possible, over—nothing at all! In the warmth of the sun I speedily recovered, and was ready to laugh at my own stupidity; to prove this to my own satisfaction, I gaily shook my fist at the woods behind me, calling back—“tomorrow,” and, far away in the distant darkness, I fancied—for it could only have been fancy—I heard a mocking echo and a faint sound of laughter, as if the word “tomorrow” floated back to me; fancy or not, it served to hasten my steps, and the farm kitchen with its cheery tea-table, which I hurried to reach, quickly dispelled any lingering fear I might have felt.
For the first time, since my holiday began, I passed a restless night, burdened, when I slept at all, by dreams of mocking voice and laughter. My first thought on waking was one of dire vengeance, on someone, for causing me to lose a night’s precious sleep. I would repay them, I vowed, as I sprang up, preparing to dress as rapidly as possible.
“Will you be in, sir, for lunch, or will you take it out?” asked my hostess as soon as I had finished a wonderful breakfast of home-cured ham, fresh eggs, scones, and home-made jam.
“I will take it out, please, Mrs. Hughes,” I replied. “Some of that fine ham, and some bread and butter, if you will be so good. Don’t make it into those abominations called sandwiches though, it would utterly spoil both bread and ham. I never can enjoy food done up in that way, the bread tastes of ham and the ham only tastes of bread, and both are dry and worn out by the time you want your lunch; so separately, please—if you love me.”
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Bessie Kyffin-Taylor-From Out of the Silence Page 11