“Won’t you read it out to me?” said she.
He took it and hesitated for an instant. Then he threw it into the fire. “Perhaps it is better unread,” said he. “I think, Hilda, you had best step up to your room.”
There was something in his quiet, self-contained voice which dominated and subdued her. He had an air and a manner which was new to her. She had never seen the sterner side of his character. So he had looked and spoken on the fierce day before the Delhi Gates, when the Sepoy bullets were hopping like peas from the tires of his gun, and Nicholson’s stormers were massing in the trenches beneath him. She rose, shot a scared, half-reproachful glance at Tresillian, and left the two men to themselves.
The colonel closed the door quickly behind her, and then turned to his visitor.
“What have you to say?” he asked, sternly and abruptly.
“There was no harm in the note.” Tresillian was leaning with his shoulder against the mantelpiece, a sneering, defiant expression upon his dark, haggard face.
“How dare you write a note surreptitiously to my wife? What had you to say which might not be spoken out?”
“Well, really, you had the opportunity of reading it. You would have found it perfectly innocent. Mrs. Bolsover, at any rate, was not in the least to blame.”
“I do not need your assurance on that point. It is in her name as much as in my own that I ask you what you have to say.”
“I have nothing to say, except that you should have read the note when you had the chance.”
“I am not in the habit of reading my wife’s correspondence. I have implicit confidence in her, but it is one of my duties to protect her from impertinence. When I first joined the service there was a way by which I could have done so. Now I can only say that I think you are a blackguard, and that I shall see that you never again cross my threshold, or that of any other honest man in this town, if I can help it.”
“You show your good taste in insulting me when I am under your roof,” sneered the other, “I have no wish to enter your house, and as to the other thing you will find me very old-fashioned in my ideas if you should care to propose anything of the kind. I wish you good-day.”
He took up his hat and gloves from the piano, and walked to the door. There he turned round with his hand upon the handle and faced Bolsover with a face which was deeply lined with passion and with misery.
“You asked me once whether I found things different in England. I told you that I did. Now I will tell you why. When I was in England last I loved a girl and she loved me—she loved me, you understand. There was a secret engagement between us. I was poor, with nothing but my pay, and she had been accustomed to every luxury. It was to earn enough to be able to keep her that I volunteered in India, that I worked for the Staff, that I saved and saved, and lived as I believe no British officer ever lived in India yet. I had what I thought was enough at last, and I came back with it. I was anxious, for I had had no word from my girl. What did I find? That she had been bought by a man twice my age—bought as you would buy—” He choked and put out a hand to his throat before he could find his voice. “You complain—you pose as being injured,” he cried. “I call God to witness which has most reason to cry out, you or I.” Colonel Bolsover turned and rang the bell. Before the servant could come, however, his visitor was gone, and he heard the quick scrunch of his feet on the gravel without. For a time he sat with his chin on his hands, lost in thought. Then he rose and ascended to his wife’s boudoir.
“I want to have a word with you, Hilda,” said he, taking her hand, and sitting down beside her on the settee. “Tell me truly now, are you happy with me?”
“Why, Percy, what makes you ask?”
“Are you sorry that you married me? Do you regret it? Would you wish to be free?”
“Oh! Percy, don’t ask such questions.”
“You never told me that there was anything between you and that man before he went to India.”
“It was quite informal. It was nothing—a mere friendship.”
“He says an engagement.”
“No, no; it was not quite that.”
“You were fond of him?”
“Yes; I was fond of him.”
“Perhaps you are so still?”
She turned away her face, and played with the jingling ornaments of her chatelaine. Her husband waited for an answer, and a spasm of pain crossed his face as no answer came.
“That will do,” said he, gently disengaging his hand from hers. “At least you are frank. I had hoped for too much. I was a fool. But all may yet be set right. I shall not mar your life, Hilda, if I can help it.”
The next day the authorities at the War office were surprised to receive a strongly-worded letter from so distinguished an artillery officer as Percy Bolsover, asking to be included in an expedition which was being fitted out in the North-west of India, and which notoriously promised a great deal of danger and very little credit. There was some delay in the answer, and before it arrived the colonel had reached his end in another and a more direct fashion.
No one will ever know how the fire broke out at Melrose Lodge. It may have been the paraffin in the cellars, or it may have been the beams behind the grate. Whatever the cause the colonel was wakened at two on a winter morning by the choking, suffocating smell of burning wood, and rushing out of his bedroom found that the stairs and all beneath him was already a sea of fire. Shouting to his wife he dashed upstairs, and roused the frightened maids, who came screaming, half-dressed, down into his bedroom.
“Come, Hilda,” he cried, “we may manage the stairs.”
They rushed down together as far as the first landing, but the fire spread with terrible rapidity; the dry woodwork was blazing like tinder, and the swirl of mingled smoke and flame drove them back into the bedroom. The colonel shut the door, and rushed to the window. A crowd had already assembled in the road and the garden, but there were no signs of the engines. A cry of horror and of sympathy went up from the people as they saw the figures at the window, and understood from the flames which were already bursting out from the lower floor that their retreat was already cut off.
But the colonel was too old a soldier to be flurried by danger, or at a loss for a plan. He opened the folding windows and dragging the featherbed across the floor he hurled it out.
“Hold it under the window,” he cried. And a cheer from below showed that they understood his meaning.
“It is not more than forty feet,” said he, coolly. “You are not afraid, Hilda?”
She was as calm as he was. “No, I am not afraid,” she answered.
“I have a piece of rope here. It is not more than twenty feet, but the feather bed will break the fall. We will pass the maids down first, Hilda. Noblesse oblige!”
There was little time to spare, for the flames were crackling like pistol shots at the further side of the door and shooting little red tongues through the slits. The rope was slung round one maid, under her arms, and she was instructed to slip out from it, and to fall when she had been lowered as far as it would go. The first was unfortunate, for she fell obliquely, bounded from the edge of the bed, and her screams told those above her of her mishap. The second fell straight, and escaped with a shaking. There were only the husband and wife now.
“Step back from the window, Hilda,” said he. He kissed her on the forehead, as a father might a child. “Good-bye, dear,” he said. “Be happy.”
“But you will come after me, Percy?”
“Or go before you,” said he, with a quiet smile. “Now, dear, slip the rope round you. May God watch over you and guard you!”
Very gently he lowered her down, leaning far over the window, that another three feet might be taken from her fall. Bravely and coolly she eyed the bed beneath her, put her feet together, and came down like an arrow into the centre of it. A cheer from beneath told him that she was unhurt. At the same instant there was a crash and a roar behind him, and a great yellow blast of flame burst roaring into the ro
om. The colonel stood framed in the open window, looking down upon the crowd. He leaned with one shoulder against the stonework, with the droop of the head of a man who is lost in thought. Behind him was a lurid background of red flame, and a long venomous tongue came flickering out over his head. A hundred voices screamed to him to jump. He straightened himself up like a man who has taken his final resolution, glanced down at the crowd, and then, turning, sprang back into the flames.
And that was the colonel’s choice. It was “Accidental death” at the inquest, and there was talk of the giddiness of suffocation and the slipping of feet; but there was one woman at least who could tell how far a man who truly loves will carry his self sacrifice.
Julia L. Keefer
A Secret
“A Secret” is a deceptively understated horror story by Julia L. Keefer, a New York actor and author of three plays and a like number of original screenplays. Dr. Keefer, who holds a Ph.D. from New York University, “daylights” as a professional kinesiologist.
I SPENT MOST of the summer scratching and sweating. The mosquitoes loved me. The only relief was the lake—a big blue cold lake. My best friend, Lyana, and I stayed in the water as much as possible, swimming, sailing, water-skiing. I even took skinny dips at night. Something I was told not to do.
Dad loved to watch me swim. He said I was a beautiful swimmer and he rowed the boat while I swam across the lake. If I swam faster than he rowed, he doubled my allowance. More reason to stay in the water. When I got out of the water, he hugged me and dried me with a huge towel. Sometimes we went sailing together. I was the skipper while he suntanned and drank beer. He tried to make me go fishing but that was too boring! Even though I had five younger brothers and sisters, he said I was his best buddy.
At night, he made a campfire, hoping I would sing and play the guitar. Sometimes I sang for him and sometimes I didn’t, depending on my mood. I said no first. Then he begged me at least ten times. I didn’t always sing well. But if he’d been really nice to me, I’d sing “Five Hundred Miles.” His eyes got that faraway look and he looked like he was in heaven.
Lyana and I usually slept in the tent. Lyana was fourteen, two years older than me, and the boy-craziest girl I ever knew. She read dirty magazines all night and I read horror stories. I thought her magazines were disgusting and she thought mine were silly.
“Monsters, dragons and ghosts aren’t real. They’re stupid, made-up things for people who are afraid to really live life,” she said as she looked at my books.
Lyana wasn’t afraid of anything. She went water-skiing barefoot, skydiving and cliff-hanging. She dragged me through people’s private property and even to a monastery where we watched the monks undress. Lyana wasn’t afraid of boys. In the summer it was hard to meet the right boys because we were living with our families in the country. But in the city she went out on real dates. She even did it once.
“Boys like to touch you everywhere,” she said as she put her hands between her legs.
Then she took off her shirt and started to stroke her nipples. I put my hand shyly on my tiny new breasts that were beginning to bud. I hoped they’d grow to be at least as big as hers.
Dad noticed I was developing first. He said he hoped they’d get bigger.
Although Mom cooked most of the meals, Dad made pancakes for us every morning while she slept in. We had breakfast in our nightgowns while he served us all kinds of treats: blueberries, maple syrup, chocolate milk, and ice cream on the pancakes if we were really good.
“You can work off a big breakfast. But don’t eat like this all the time. I don’t want you turning into a puffball.”
Dad left the bathroom door open when he took his bath in the morning. He said it was so he could watch TV in the living room. He took such long baths that I had to go in and brush my teeth. He was so big and hairy, floating in the water like a huge ape.
I asked Lyana if her boyfriends were big and hairy like Dad. She liked them big, but not too hairy. She was still waiting to meet a real lover.
“Is a lover the same as a boyfriend?” I asked.
“No, a lover is special. You do everything with him, like a best friend. But he makes you feel different. When he gets near, your heart beats faster, and when he looks into your eyes you tingle all over. As he touches you, your body trembles and aches.”
“The only thing that makes me tremble, ache and tingle is reading about my scariest monster.”
“Yeah, but monsters hurt you and lovers make you feel good,” Lyana laughed as she picked up a dirty magazine.
“He looks just like Dad,” I said, glancing shyly at the naked man.
“That’s cuz he’s the only man you’ve ever seen. Actually they are all a little different.”
After she fell asleep I took my flashlight and looked at her magazines for hours. When I finally went to bed, I had a horrible nightmare about a man who turns into a monster. The monster didn’t drink blood or claw at hair. He did nothing but get close. When he looked into his victim’s eyes, she had a heart attack. He killed people without hurting them. I woke up trembling, shaking and sweating.
The next night the moon made a bright orange path on the lake. Lyana wanted to go for a skinny dip, even though it was against the rules. She never cared much for rules. We walked down to the beach in towels, the stones digging into our bare feet. I took off my towel and jumped quickly into the water. You never know who’s watching. Lyana stood naked on the dock, her grown-up body lit by the moon. She sprinkled cold water over her breasts, so her nipples stood up like hard little pebbles. Then she dove off the dock, making a huge splash. As we swam, we tried to follow the path of the moon; but it kept changing.
Finally Lyana got bored and swam back to the dock. She looked like a mermaid as she got out of the water, her long blond hair dripping down to her waist. She took the towel and rubbed the spot between her legs and across her bum.
“It must be dry by now,” I thought to myself. But she kept rubbing. As I began to get out of the water, I saw Dad standing on the cliff above the dock.
“Lyana,” I whispered, “Dad’s on the cliff.”
“Hello, Mr. Lewis,” she said calmly, wrapping the towel around her body.
“You shouldn’t be swimming alone at this hour, girls. Come right in,” he shouted.
I stood frozen on the ladder, hiding my girl’s body from his sight. Lyana knew I was scared.
“No problem. We’ll be right up.”
I watched his figure move up the hill towards the house. I was so scared I couldn’t even dry myself. Lyana giggled as she wrapped the towel around me. We ran up to the tent in time to see Dad open the back door.
That night I had another nightmare about the monster who kills people by looking at them.
The next morning Dad didn’t make his usual great breakfast. He said he was punishing us for swimming alone at night. We weren’t allowed near the water for a day. I had to help him cut the grass in the field and Lyana had to help Mom clean the closets. Lyana didn’t mind cleaning closets because it was like exploring. But I hated cutting grass.
I stayed in the field all day, moping like a punished dog. Dad and I didn’t say a word. We each had our own lawn mower and it took forever to mow the field. The heat was suffocating and the mosquitoes ate me alive. I sweated and itched like never before. I did my best, trying to cut every single row perfectly. I wanted Dad to say I was doing a good job. I wanted him to smile, or hug me or squeeze my hand. But he just looked at the lawnmower and the field.
I guess I was too old to get a spanking. When I was a little girl, he used to spank me. I’ll never forget those spankings. All of a sudden, he became very quiet and serious. He took me by the hand and led me to his room. He told me to pull down my pants and lie face down on his bed. Then he got a long belt from his closet.
“I don’t want to really hurt you,” he said.
I never remember feeling pain. I was never sore, bruised or bleeding like other kids. The belt touched my b
um lightly. But I cried anyway. I cried because I had disappointed Dad.
Now at twelve years old I was still being a bad girl.
Suddenly Dad stopped the lawn mower and looked at me.
“Lyana isn’t good for you. She’s too grown-up.”
“But Dad, Lyana’s been my best friend since I was eight years old.”
“Does she talk to you about boys?”
I blushed as I imagined Dad listening to our conversations in the tent.
“You aren’t ready for boys.” Then he raised his voice angrily: “You’re too young to even think about boys, do you hear me?”
As he looked into my eyes I saw the monster who kills without touching you.
I turned away shyly. “Do you like the way I cut the grass?”
“Don’t change the subject. I’m going to talk to your mother about Lyana. Now finish your work.”
I spent the rest of the day sweating, itching, and crying silently.
For the next week, I slept in the house and Lyana slept in the tent. I missed her but I had a chance to read more horror stories. We still played together during the day.
Then one day while we were raking the beach she said she had something important to tell me.
“You can’t tell this to anyone, promise?” I gave her my Girl Scout’s word of honor.
“Last night, real late, your father came into the tent. He was really drunk. When I woke up, he was on top of me, kissing and touching me everywhere. His breath stank so bad. I told him to leave me alone. He said he wouldn’t hurt me: he wanted to make up for punishing us. He said he’d be really nice. I said I’d scream if he didn’t get out. He got up and pulled some money out of his pocket. A lot of money. For me, if I didn’t tell anyone. I said okay if he’d go back to the house. So he left and I kept the money.”
I was too terrified to ask questions. At first I didn’t believe her, but Lyana never lied to me. That evening her family came to pick her up—two weeks earlier than planned. We hugged and she said she’d see me in the city.
For the rest of the summer I did chores. I couldn’t go on adventures by myself because I wasn’t a daredevil like Lyana. I hoped that by being a good girl, Dad and I would be best buddies again. He was so nice and polite I began to think Lyana was lying. Maybe it was a bad dream. He wouldn’t do a thing like that.
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