“Candles,” she replied.
“Candles!” I echoed. “We shall want a lot of those to light this room!” She gave me a quick, keen look, but vouchsafed no reply, and went out, returning in a short time with a large and heavy candelabra with five tall candles in it. This she banged down in the centre of the table, and said—
“You’ll light it when you need it,” and departed. The room was getting darker now, so we drew our chairs up to the fire, which we replenished from a wicker-basket full of logs, left for our use. Curiously enough, with so much to talk about, we had fallen into silence. My brother puffed away at his pipe, and I—as was ever my way—had slipped from my chair and squatted on the rug, at his knee. I always chose to sit on the floor in preference to a chair when there was someone with me who understood. There are not many, and, there are very few people whom it is possible to sit on the floor with.
There are lots of people who say they like it, but they only do it because others do it; to me, it is, and has always been real rest—the cosy intimate feeling of squatting or lying before the fire on a rug, watching the sparks on the back of the fireplace, until my fancy pictured them as armies advancing, retreating, joining, fighting, until one side or the other is wiped out. And so I sat lost in my dreams, seeing pictures in the fire, until my brother’s voice brought me back to earth again, with the common-place remark—
“Aren’t you cold, Pat?”
Now, I have a distinct dislike to being brought back to earth from my dreams, and am always inclined for a moment to cordially detest the disturber of my visions; indeed, had it been anyone but my beloved brother, I should inevitably have answered crossly—if I answered at all! But Dick was different, and occupied a unique position in my life; he could enter where no one else dare, so I detached myself from my army of sparks, and answered him—
“I wasn’t cold until you spoke, and yet I have been feeling chilly now you mention it.”
“An answer, my dear Pat,” he said, jokingly, “quite in keeping with your usual lucid remarks.”
“Well,” I said, “we’ve got a fire big enough to cook us, so it really does seem absurd to talk of being chilly,” saying which I gathered myself up from my cosy rug and wandered to the now dim outline of the table. “I will light our most magnificent candles,” I said.
“No, I will,” announced my brother. “Girls never get a light from the first six matches at least.”
“Very well, Mr. Superior, light it yourself; but I’ll bet you an ounce of baccy to a box of chocs’ you will not light them with less than three matches yourself,” and I curled myself up in his vacated chair to await results.
He laughed as he struck a match. I did not trouble to turn my head, my armies on the chimney back were advancing, and I was once again deep in contemplation of their manoeuvres. My brother’s voice again aroused me.
“Pat! Come here.”
“‘What’s the matter now, old worry?” I asked, without moving.
“You have won your bet,” he answered in a voice that struck me as a little queer. “Come here,” he added, “my matches are mad, I think.”
With a sigh, I pulled myself out of my chair, and moved to his side as he stood by the table—in the darkness.
“Light it,” he said.
“‘Why, Dick, what’s the matter?” I asked, as I took the box from him, “your hand is shaking.”
“Light it,” was his reply, “and be quick.” I struck a match, it flared up, wavered, and went out.
“That’s only one of my six,” I said laughing, as I struck another; again it flared up for an instant, wavered, and went out. “Two!” I said “But you blew that one—” He did not speak, and I struck my third, it burnt well, I leaned over to light the candles, and out it went.
“You did blow it,” I said.
“No,” he answered, “all mine did that—there must be a beastly draught from somewhere—try another. I did, and as I held it for an instant, it lighted up Dick’s face, and the extreme whiteness of it struck me. I bent over again, and this time succeeded in lighting one candle.
“There!” I exclaimed, “and only four matches,” but even as I spoke the flame of the candle wavered, flickered, and went out. There was a moment’s silence, broken by a low whine from Timothy, who was trying to shove his cold nose into my hand.
“What is it, Dick?” I managed to gasp.
“I think the place is draughty,” he answered, turning as he spoke to where an old-fashioned bell-pull dangled on the wall, but ere he reached it, the door opened to admit our old dame carrying a lighted lamp; she glanced at us and said:
“Maybe this will give a better light.”
‘Maybe it will,” Dick answered, as she slowly withdrew and closed the door.
The glow of the lamp showed the room in a new aspect, though it only lit up a part of it, leaving the corners dim and shadowy. Neither of us spoke as we once more drew near to the fire. Dick was the first to break the somewhat long silence, and his remark was addressed to his dog:“Come here, old boy, I want to talk to you,” he said. But Timothy was deep in slumber, or appeared to be, for he took no notice.
“Well if you won’t, you won’t, so I’ll smoke instead,” added Dick, pulling out his well-worn pouch and filling his old briar. Whether Tim smelt the baccy or had decided he would join in, I do not know, but at this moment he rose, padded softly to his master and placed his front paws on Dick’s knees, wagging his tough scrap of a tail as if to apologise for his recent neglect.
“One minute, boy, till I get a light,” said his master, “then I will talk.” And he struck a match, ready to light his pipe. One second it remained a steady bright light and then went out. At the same instant, Timothy gave a low growl which ended in a whine, as he slowly drew himself backwards from his master’s knee, and still keeping his eyes fixed on him, slowly backed until he was pressing heavily against my skirt. I, too, was watching Dick, and saw his face grow still paler, and the hand that held his pipe trembled.
“You old villain,” he said, in a voice he strove to keep steady. “You blew that out, grunting like that. Come here,” but Tim only cowered back.
“What is wrong, Dick?” I managed to stammer at last.
“I don’t know,” he answered, “but I think we are all overtired, and bed is the best place. Come along, dear, I’ll see you to your room. It is a little early, but you are tired,” so, putting his arm over my shoulders he quietly pulled me out of my chair and led me away, Timothy now quite himself again, gleefully trotting at his side.
My bedroom, quaint, clean, and cosy, and lit by a small brass lamp, looked all that I could desire, and bidding “goodnight” to my dear old brother and his faithful pal, I locked my door and was quickly in bed and almost as quickly asleep, my last waking impression being of a faint, soft, indescribably-sweet scent wafting over my face. “Lavender!” I murmured, drowsily, “how nice!” And I knew no more, until I was awakened by a thump at any door, and I heard my brother sing out:
“Time you were awake, lazy bones. Tim and I have been out for an hour.”
“Shan’t be long,” I called, and I bathed and dressed in record time.
Our day was spent in prowling round and exploring the quaint sleepy little town, with its old-world people most of whom, stared at us with interest, but seemed too busy with their own little lives to trouble much over the doings of the strangers in their midst. We wandered back to the inn for lunch, which was excellent in a plain, simple way, and beautifully cooked and served. About an hour later we went out again, and this time went further afield where the country grew more hilly and rough, and was chiefly wild uncultivated land with very few trees.
“I don’t think much of it,” I ventured to remark, as we stood to rest a minute.
“Nor I,” answered Dick, “except that it is quiet, the air ripping, and Timothy is having a great time.”
“It may be,” I said, “but I want my tea. Shall we try and get some here in a cottage? There is
a light over there,” pointing, as I spoke, to what appeared to be a cottage window.
“Very well, let’s try,” said Dick. So together we descended the hill and approached the cottage.
Our knock at the door was answered by a gruff voice bidding us enter.
“Doesn’t sound promising,” whispered Dick, but we obeyed the voice and entered a tiny kitchen, spotlessly clean, but evidently poverty-stricken. Two people sat before the fire, a grey-haired man in rough clothes, smoking a long clay pipe, and a pretty fair-haired girl of about eighteen.
“We wondered,” began my brother, “if we might ask you to make us a cup of tea, my sister is tired, and we are a long way I think, from the inn.
“Welcome, Mister. Put the kettle on, Isobel, and come you near the fire, Miss,” said the man, as the pretty girl rose and did as she was told without speaking, then he looked at us.
“At the inn, be you?” he said.
“Yes,” I replied, “it is very comfortable.” He grunted, and mumbled some words, of which I only caught a few about “rather be here than there,” and went on smoking. The girl, meanwhile, filled a brown tea-pot, put a loaf and some butter on the table and curtsied, saying:
“That is all we can give you, Miss.”
“It is splendid,” I said. “I am very grateful to you.” And there was no doubt we most thoroughly enjoyed our tea, but it was getting darker each minute now, and we had some way to go, so did not linger by the cosy fire loath as we were to leave it.
Dick offered the old man some silver, but he refused it with much dignity, saying:
“No, mister, you’re very welcome. I wish ye a ‘goodnight, ’ and if ye’re any ways troubled, maybe I can help yer, if yer ask, but I’ll not say ought until ye do.”
This somewhat vague speech conveyed nothing to us as we smilingly nodded and took our departure.
It was quite dark now as we stumbled along the unfamiliar roads. Even Timothy lagged a little, as if he realised that his mileage was nearly double ours after all the hunting he had done. We were all glad I think, to see the glimmer of the red limps from the inn door come in sight, and our steps were a bit quicker as we covered the last few yards. The old oak door was closed when we reached it, the big white cat was sitting on the mat, as before.
“Puss! Puss!” I called, bending down, but the sight of Tim, with bristling hair, must have startled the cat; for, as I bent to pat it, it was no longer there.
“Which way did the beast go, Dicky?” I asked.
“Blessed if I know,” he answered, with a laugh, “but Tim is evidently tired, or he’d have been after it, instead of standing growling about it. But come, let’s go in,” opening the old door as he spoke, putting an arm through mine as we tramped up the stairs together.
Our meal was ready for us, and the fire burning gaily, but there was no other light in the room. I left Dick, and went off to get tidy; and for the first time really inspected my room, as the previous night I was too tired, and this morning I was hurried out so quickly. It was a much larger room than I had thought, and there were two other doors into it: one, being hidden by a chintz curtain had missed my eye altogether; the other I had noticed vaguely, was studded with heavy nails, and both locked and barred. Well! that was safe, anyway, and the curtained one did not trouble me, since obviously, it was not for use. I moved my lamp and began to do my hair. How quiet it was, I thought, there might be no one else alive in the place; though, as this thought crossed my mind, I heard a murmur of voices close to me.
“Someone else coming to stay,” I thought, and went on placidly doing my hair. Again I heard the voices, and a soft, tinkling laugh reached my ears. I paused, with my hairbrush in the air, to listen, and heard a man’s voice speaking. I could nearly hear the words, the tone at any rate, was clear; a deep domineering note seemed to run through the whole sentence, almost a commanding sound, and then the silvery tinkling laugh. Pretty, I thought, but mocking; then there was silence, and I finished my dressing humming a snatch of a song, and left my room to join my brother. I found him asleep in the depths of his big chair, Tim at his feet, one eye steadily fixed on his master. Evidently the rest of our meal had been placed on the table unheard by Dick, for our coffee-pot was there also, covered with a gigantic scarlet cosy. Softly I bent over my dear lad, and planted a kiss on his forehead. He woke with a start.
“Hello, old girl, that you? I must have dropped off, I suppose, it’s the strong air. I remember hearing you talking to someone, and then I dozed.”
“I wasn’t talking,” I answered, “though someone was in a room next to mine; newcomers I suppose. Come and have supper, but not by firelight only, we’ll light—er—the lamp.”
“I really would like to light the candles,” said Dick, “if they will light, but I’m going to put them over here out of any chance of draught,” saying which, he lifted the heavy candelabra from the table and put it gently on the top of an old oak chest at the end of the room furthest from the fireplace, and striking a match, held it high above his head triumphantly.
“There!” he said. “I knew it was a draught.”
“You are six feet tall,” I laughed, “and are holding it quite two feet above your head, so the chances are it is out of a draught.” Laughingly he brought the lighted match down, and suddenly gave a startled exclamation, as, with a quick flicker, the match went out.
“You touched my hand,” he said, “and blew, I felt it.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t bother,” I said, “the lamp will do”; and, reluctantly, Dick moved away, deep in thought, giving his hand a furtive rub as he went.
We did not try again, but had our meal by the light of the lamp, then drew our chairs close to the fire, making a place for Tim between us; but the old dog was uneasily moving about the room, hair on end.
“What’s the matter, boy,” called Dick, “come here.”
But Tim only roamed about restlessly.
“I thought I saw the white cat come in,” I said.
“So also did Tim, I should think—look at him!” said. Dick, pointing to the dog standing rigidly glaring at the oak chest.
“He gives me the jumps,” I said. “Make him lie down, Dick.”
But Tim was deaf alike to entreaties or commands; and finally, Dick went to him and picked him up bodily, depositing him in the big chair beside him, where the old dog snuggled down with a deep sigh of satisfaction.
Presently the door opened, and old Martha entered, to clear the table.
“Have other visitors come, Martha?” I asked.
“Yes, Miss—no—I don’t know,” she answered, confusedly. “I only have to look after you, Miss. Goodnight,” and she passed out more swiftly than I had seen her move.
“I know there are people—I heard them,” I went on. “Well, and if there are, said my brother, “do you wish for other company?”
“Never, while I have you, dear,” was my reply. “I was only curious, it seems such an out-of-the world corner for anyone to come to. There I hear people speaking again; listen!” I said, and as we listened, we distinctly heard voices.
“We are not alone that’s sure,” said Dick, “our solitude is invaded.”
“But this room is our own anyway,” I answered, “and we will be comfy, but I must just run and get my knitting; don’t go to sleep till I come back.” And I went off to my room. It was in darkness, and I had to grope round for my knitting which I knew I had left on the bed. I was just about to put my hand where I thought I had left my work, when I heard again the silvery tinkling laugh, but so close to me, I thought someone had mistaken the room.
“Is anyone there?” I asked.
There was no reply, though I heard the soft swish of a silken dress, the quick tap of high-heeled shoes, and a door softly shut.
“Stupids!” I thought, “they might have answered whoever they were.” And then, having discovered my matches, I lit one, and glanced round. I had just time to see the chintz curtain over the hidden doo
r softly swaying, when my match went out.
“Um,” I remarked, “I’ll settle that door before I sleep.” And forgetting my knitting, I groped my way to the door, bent on reaching Dick and the light without further delay.
As I closed my bedroom door, I felt someone brush past me in the darkness; I felt really annoyed at the stupidity of country people and their very sparing illumination.
I opened our sitting-room door softly, and went in. I was half-way across the room, when Tim suddenly sat up, and gave vent to a long moan, and then a series of short, sharp barks, and fixing his eyes beyond me, glared, snarling and growling.
I turned quickly to see why all this fuss, but there was nothing, no one, and I told the dog to lie down, and not to be foolish. I might have spared my breath, for Tim continued to snarl and growl, glaring always beyond me.
“He must hear these new people about, I think,” I said, in answer to Dick’s questioning look, “there was someone in my room, evidently mistaking the room, for they must have gone out by another door I have, for I saw the curtain which covers it, moving when I struck a match.”
“Oh! but that won’t do, old girl, I can’t have mistakes of that sort happening. Come, and I’ll fasten it,” said Dick, rising from his chair, shaking himself free from Tim’s too loving embrace.
So together we returned to my room carrying the lamp, followed by Tim, who came as if under protest, growling all the way.
Setting the lamp on the dressing-table, Dick glanced round. “Where’s the door?” he asked. “I’ll jolly soon settle mistakes.”
“There it is,” was my response, “there under that chintz curtain.”
“Why, you small cuckoo!” he said, laughing, “you must have had forty winks, for I dare bet it’s many moons since that door opened, it’s fairly rusted up; look at the lock and bolts, they are fast shut, and the key turned too.
I looked, but unconvinced, shook my head, saying:
“That door was opened, dear boy, and I intend to open it again, so help me.”
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Bessie Kyffin-Taylor-From Out of the Silence Page 20