Other formats

    TEI XML file   ePub eBook file  

Connect

    mail icontwitter iconBlogspot iconrss icon

The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 5, Issue 3 (July 1, 1930)

The Old House

The Old House

I Had been out all day on the hills, making notes and jotting down descriptions for my new novel, which was to have for its “local colour” this singularly wild and remote part of the country—all flaming gorse and steep frowning crags and complete isolation.

It was a gusty autumn evening, and, as I walked along the lonely track, I thought of the warm fire and the good dinner which would be waiting for me at home. In fact, I fell to musing as to what exactly would be served up to me by my capable landlady that night. I became so meditative that I could actually smell hot buttered toast and coffee, and just at that moment Mrs. Stubbs seemed to me to embody in her comfortable form the very perfection of womanhood.

The wind blew in those sharp drifting gusts which make one feel that Nature, especially out there, is malicious and on the defensive against mankind and his sweeping conquests. Soon the rain came on, whipping my face viciously. I tried to think happily of Mrs. Stubbs, but found myself, instead, musing on things supernatural—spirits of the wind and rain were shouting gleefully in my ears. I rushed along—one with the storm and the night—no longer a struggling young novelist, but an elemental creature, racing with the demons of the forest. From the crest of a little hill far above “Hidden Gap,” where friendly Mrs. Stubbs awaited me, I saw a light half-way up the valley. Often during the day I had wandered up that track, and knew that no house was to be found there, except a broken-down old manor, empty for many years. Strange that a light should be shining there. With its gaunt grey walls of stone, its staring vacant windows half obscured by creepers, and its sublime riotous wilderness of a garden, I had thought it would be a fascinating spot for description in a novel. In fact, in my more romantic moods I had begun to weave a story about its sombre, forbidding walls.

I stumbled, half blinded by the driving rain, down the steep track, wondering who on earth could be camping in the “old house” (as it was called in the village) on such a night. “Probably some swagger,” I thought. “I don't envy him the ghosts and the spiders and the cold, moss-covered boards!”

In a few minutes I had reached the heavy wooden gate which led up an overgrown drive towards the empty house. Tall trees hid it from me. I stood for a moment in the road torn between a very human desire for coffee and toast and Mrs. Stubbs' companionship, and an equally human urgent need to walk boldly up that bewildering drive, knock upon the stubborn, sullen front door of my uninviting house, and converse with the swagger in solitude over a mug of tea and hunks of bread and cheese. Perhaps he would have something to tell me. “You mustn't neglect opportunities, my lad,” I told myself, and banishing all frail thoughts of coffee and comfort. I pushed open the reluctant gate and made my way through the long wet grass. Gaunt old gum trees towered on either side, and a wan, wet moon shone on what once must have been a tennis court in the “dear dead days beyond recall.”

page 60

Suddenly, through the shrubs, I came upon the house. It was much larger than I had thought, and seemed to tower above me, grey and powerful in the moonlight—impenetrable and proof against time—scowling defiance at the wind and sun.

My heart began to beat rather more quickly than usual as I ascended the stout stone steps and gained the creeper-covered verandah. Once there, I couldn't go back. The house, I felt, had me in its grip, and something urged me to wrest from it its secret—if any it had. Funnily enough I had forgotten to look for the light, and only remembered then the purpose of my visit—merely a friendly call on a lonely swagger. I felt an intruder and apologetic towards those sad gaunt walls. What right had I from the world of men to push open the venerable front door? The words of a modern poet flashed into my mind.

“‘Is there anybody there?’ said the traveller,“Knocking on the moonlit door.”

It seemed to me nearly as vile as opening a packet of forgotten love - letters. However, my curiosity overcame my scruples, and I stood resolutely upon the step listening. All I heard was the wind moaning down what seemed to be a very long passage.

I was beginning to enjoy myself, and felt like a creation of Edgar Allan Poe's! Raising my stick, I struck the door three times, most melodramatically, calling: “Hello! Is anyone there?” My voice floated strangely down the hall, filling my soul with an exquisite sense of mystery and excitement. “Now for it!” said I; and pushing open the heavy door with a boldness I was far from feeling, I found myself in a wide panelled hall, still showing signs of former magnificence and solidity. Closed doors on either hand, and a pungent odour of must and decay. “Hello, there!” I shrieked again, rather despising myself for being so obstreperously modern and noisy. No answer, except the wind feeling along the walls with stealthy fingers. “The swagger evidently doesn't want to share his supper; well, he's jolly well going to now,” I muttered, and began to ascend a noble, wide staircase—for the light had seemed to come from an upstairs window. Cobwebs and creepers everywhere; and fitful, pale moonlight, from a narrow window, on the landing. It shone, thank heaven for something familiar, upon a picture of “Bubbles.” His seraphic face looked down encouragingly upon me, and I glowed with gratitude for the first welcome I had received. Here, at least, was a sign that normal people had once lived in this eerie place—any-how, normal enough to indulge in a print of “Bubbles,” which is saying a great deal. Soon I stood in another corridor—also wide and panelled—and at the far end I saw a beam of light beneath one of the doors. There, safely ensconced from the storm, would I find my swagger, probably stretched out on the boards snoring lustily. The fellows are very adaptable, and not possessed with overwrought nerves, or over active imagination. A good feed and a good sleep is all they ask—ghosts and echoes to them are nothing. I stumbled cheerfully down the passage towards the light, paused for a moment outside the door, and called softly. “Is anyone there?”

Was it imagination, or did I hear a short gasp, as though someone had been waiting in there, breathlessly listening to my approaching footsteps.

I pushed impatiently against the door, surprised to find that some weight had been placed against it. My swagger was not feeling at all hospitable. “Let me in, friend!” I called, reassuringly. Absolute silence and darkness; the occupant had extinguished the light. “Don't be an ass!” I cried; “I've just dropped in to have a yarn!”

Then, for about the third time in my life, I was really surprised. A girl's voice, clear and cold, answered me from inside. “Go away, please,” she ordered; “you can't come in here!”

“Oh, indeed!” I replied, with heavy irony; “and why not, pray? If you are the hostess of this luxurious mansion you are certainly not behaving well to a poor hungry stranger seeking shelter from the storm.”

“Don't be a fool,” replied the feminine voice; “and go away from here. You'll be sorry if you don't!”

Now, I dislike threats intensely, I always have, so my chivalry sank to zero. I pushed mightily, felt the door yielding, and in a moment it gave altogether—revealing darkness, utter and absolute. “Turn on the light, fair lady!” I page 61 beseeched. No answer. Feeling along the wall, at the orthodox height, I suddenly came across the switch, and at the same moment felt a cool little hand, strong and firm, close round my wrist.

“Get out of here at once!” said the same rather fascinating voice, almost in my ear.

“No jolly fear!” I answered. “I couldn't possibly leave without a glimpse of my tantalising hostess!” With that callous remark I turned on the light.

Pressed against the wall was a girl—young, well-dressed and wonderfully beautiful—although somewhat marred by an expression (natural in the circumstances) of terror and most appalling anger. Her hair, cut short, and curling all over her head, seemed to bristle like that of an angry cat, sand her great grey eyes looked into mine with a gradually increasing contempt and scorn.

I made a low and courtly bow, introduced myself, and asked to be allowed to stay for supper. The room—another surprise — was more or less comfortable. In the first place this extraordinary young thing had a big fire burning in the grate, a mattress covered with rugs in one corner, two or three suit cases, quite an array of books, and a goodly supply of food—bread, butter, jam—in a kerosene box. All this I observed in a few seconds, while the girl stood stiff and arrogant against the wall. No queen in her boudoir could have been more stately nor beautiful than this boyish and haughty creature in her little den in a deserted old house.

“You are wonderfully comfortable here,” I said, feeling the strain of the conversation.

“Very,” was the icy reply, “until you appeared.”

“You're not very friendly, my child,” I answered, rather angrily I'm afraid. “Anyhow, if you won't feed the brute he's going to stay by the fire and have a yarn. I've made up my mind, so you'd better make the best of it.” With these bold words, I crossed to the fire and crouched before its gratifying blaze, determined to penetrate the mystery of a young girl actually living alone in this deserted house!

Perceiving that I was harmless, although a male, and evidently frozen and hungry, my hostess decided to be compassionate, and, without turning round, I became aware of movements behind me, as of bread being cut, and that most wonderful of all noises—the rattle of cups and saucers. Soon she came to my side, and I became aware, suddenly, that there was something curiously attractive about this strange lady of haunted houses.

“Make some toast, will you?” she ordered, not ungraciously, and I took from her slender hands slices of bread and, of all marvels, a toasting fork!

Two hours later saw us sitting on kerosene boxes staring into the fire and smoking cigarettes, while outside the wind howled and moaned in the gum trees. I felt very far removed from the haunts of men, and extremely snug and comfortable up there with the girl, unknown fellow-creature who had eaten with me, drunk with me, and was now smoking with me.

“Such things,” I said aloud, “happen frequently in current fiction.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, with a swift disconcertingly direct glance at me. Immediately I felt insignificant and worm-like.

“Why, meeting an adorable girl in an empty house, without knowing who the dickens she is, and what the deuce she is doing, apparently living quite alone in one room. Please explain!” I went on, quite humbly. “I am thoroughly curious, and only a harmess novelist.”

She leant back, puffed her cigarette in silence for a few minutes, studying the fire thoughtfully. Then, with a swift sweet smile, she turned to me.

“You will laugh, of course. As a matter of fact I have come here for a few weeks, because”—here a pause, then—“because, like you, I aspire to be a novelist, and this old house, with its ghosts and secrets, is exactly the place—just the atmosphere I want. So I packed a suitcase, said I was going for a holiday, and I've been here for a week.”

Then I told her how, I, too, had fancied the old house—imagined all sorts of things about it—and we talked far on into the night. She told page 62 me how she had lived there when she was a little girl, how she had known the people who had once lived there when it was a gay and handsome place, full of sunshine and children's laughter.

“Often we used to play hide-and-seek in the dark. Once I hid in this very room, under a bed,” she said; “how long ago it seems!”

“You must go now!”

I hated to leave her there with the ghosts and the whispering winds and rustling leaves, but I realised that she was quite unafraid and really absolutely safe, so I went—saying I would call and bring the afternoon tea next day. “Literary persons, you know,” I said, “must always be friendly—think of Shelley and Keats. We will take our sandwiches and walk to my hill-tops to-morrow. Good night!”

This time I hurried down the drive and out on the road. I realised that I didn't even know her name—it didn't seem to matter. Looking back through the trees, it seemed to me, now that no light shone, that I had imagined the whole affair. I was greeted by an alarmed Mrs. Stubbs, who thought “Maybe I'd broken my leg, down them horrid paths and suchlike.” I assured the good lady that all as well, except that I had lost my heart. And I went to bed, longing for the next day, when I would see my strange young writer again.

After that we used to go for long walks together, out across the gorse-clad hills, sometimes scribbling verses and notes, but more often talking—talking of all things in heaven and earth.

Then, one day I arrived “for tea,” as was my custom, at the old house, and found no trace of my shadowy girl. The room was tidied methodically, but completely devoid of any sign of recent occupation. She had disappeared as she had come to me—like the rush of wind along the passages.

I didn't even know her name—but the old house is still there—and one day she will come back to meet me there.