The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Bessie Kyffin-Taylor-From Out of the Silence

by Bessie Kyffin-Taylor

  “It isn’t a greenhouse,” chimed in a little shrill voice, “it’s a ’ninside garding, come and see ’noranges,” and a moist chubby hand was thrust into my hand.

  “I’m very tired, Lottie,” I said, “may I come in a minute?”

  “That’s just like grown-ups,” lisped the little kiddie, “vey aways say, ‘in a minute’—they forgets.”

  Mrs. Falconer smiled, and patted the chair at her side saying—

  “Run away, Lottie, John’s tired.”

  “John is,” I answered, gladly sinking into the cushioned chair. “Why am I tired, Mrs. Falconer?” I asked. “What is the meaning of it all?”

  “All what?” she asked blankly.

  “The garden,” I said, “the difficulty of coming in.”

  “You’ve been asleep,” she said, “and got stiff.”

  “And the broken tea-things,” I went on.

  “Oh! that’s Jacobs, he’s always having smashes.”And the good lady went on placidly knitting her soldier’s socks.

  Nothing to be learnt there, I thought, as I started chatting about the lovely “garden” in which we sat.

  “It’s like a wonderful Winter Garden,” I said.

  “It is,” she smiled, “only it’s a summer garden as well, after five o’clock.”

  “Maude!” she called suddenly, as if remembering, “you haven’t fed the birds. I’ll do it myself.” And she moved away, wool as usual trailing in her wake.

  I was left to my own devices once more. What an unconventional crowd they were, or is it, they don’t want to talk, I was wondering idly as I smoked a cigarette when Bob sidled up to the vacant chair and perched himself upon its arm.

  “You’ll come in earlier tomorrow, Sir, won’t you?” he asked half-shyly, “it kind of knocks one about to stay late.”

  But I was going to play the same game as others, so answered casually—“Oh! does it? It didn’t knock me about.”

  “Didn’t it, Sir? It did Jacobs,” he added slyly, “he’s what he calls ‘all of a dither.’”

  “I saw nothing to ‘dither’ about,” I said.

  “No, Sir, I daresay you didn’t, but it isn’t what you see that does it.

  “And I most certainly didn’t hear anything odd,” I went on.

  “I hope you won’t, Sir, I did once, and (lowering his voice) I had brain fever afterwards. You won’t catch me out after five.”

  “Bob, come here, I want you,” rang out Maude’s compelling voice.

  “Oh! blow!” muttered the boy, “they are dead scared for fear I tell you, and you cut off and leave Elsie.”With which cryptic ‘give away’ of his relations he strolled off, hands in pockets. Once more I was alone, and content to be so, to light another cigarette and have a review of the rapid sequence of events—my arrival, tea, the sudden scattering of the group beneath the trees, the broken china and my desperate attempt to cross a few yards of turf. I could not make “head nor tail” of any of it—sufficient for me I was in love and prepared to put up with a good deal to await the coming of the little girl I loved. My musings were interrupted by the sound of a bell in the distance.

  “Dressing-bell, John,” shouted someone.

  “I’ll help you to your room,” called Bob.

  “Many thanks, I’ll be glad,” I said, “I—I’m not very good at stairs alone.”

  “You aren’t upstairs, you’re on this floor, Pater thought you’d like it, though I’m blessed if I should—too near the garden for this child to—hang on, Sir, I’m pretty tough.”

  Together we traversed again the long stone corridor, through the hall, along a similar corridor, but of more recent date, being of polished pine, instead of grey stones.

  Bob opened a door about half-way down, saying—

  “There you are, I hope you’ll like it—shout, I mean ring, if you want things. Neither Mum nor Dad ever remember visitors.”

  “Right,” I said, “but I’ll manage,” turning as I spoke to open the window.

  “I wouldn’t, Sir,” said the lad, “it’s beastly—er—damp—”

  There were three windows in my spacious bedroom, two on one side, one at a queer angle, in a built-out corner, this latter was heavily shuttered, barred up and padlocked.

  “Great guns!” I cried, “Who on earth are you expecting to get in—it’s like being walled in—where does it look out? If it’s ever opened!”

  “It’s opened till five p. m. ,” said the lad, “and it looks on to the low lawn. I’d leave it at that, Sir, it I were you.” And he edged himself through the door.

  “Alone again!” I thought, lighting the inevitable cigarette. What an extraordinary family they seemed to be, so detached, as it were so self-absorbed, but above all, so skilful at playing into each other’s hands—even the smallest of them aiding in the now apparent determination of each one not to remain alone with their wounded guest, and future relative! Why? I wondered. What did they fear? This last thought was a subconscious one, for I had not hitherto consciously thought of fear in any form. Well, time would reveal perhaps, meantime, it was a fresh interest—an unusual interest to find myself a guest in a unique house, full of unique people, all doing their best to keep me from finding out “Something”—well—“Something” that so far hadn’t a name—it would amuse me to circumvent them, and help to pass the days until my girl came.

  And now to dress for another scene; the scenes were certainly following one another in rather rapid succession—perhaps too rapidly for a “convalescent” and yet, I have a firm and fixed belief that the quickest way for a sick person to become a well one, is to keep the mind occupied, busy, interested, to fill up the days and hours, leaving no time for brooding, or speculation as to the why or wherefore of one’s apparent slow healing; thoughts of health bring health, just as quickly as brooding melancholy brings depression, and subsequent ills in its train. It has been truthfully said, that the wounded lads who have recovered best are those whose outlook has been buoyant and cheery, those of whom “even a swamp did not depress them,” as Mark Tapley would have said. My days certainly gave promise of being full enough.

  I had finished my leisurely dressing to the running accompaniment of this train of thought, just as a silver chime of low notes rang through the house. “Pretty” I thought, “and much better than the boom of the orthodox family gong, which always suggested to me the dullest of meals.” No one seemed to be passing my way, no cheery voice called out to me their offer of escort. Very well, I would find my own way, since it did not appear to have struck anyone that so far I had not been in any room other than the “Indoor Garden”—if it could be called a room, or that I had not any idea of my bearings.

  I switched off the light in my room, and started to locate the dining room. I need not have hesitated, for the whole family were gathered in the Hall, talking, laughing, and in high spirits. There were not any other guests, simply a family party. The Hall was beautifully lighted from above by reflected lights—I mean the actual lights were not visible. The windows—there were three—were heavily draped in a light shade of gold, almost giving the idea of sunlight, as they caught the light from above. I am not a great hand at these things, sufficient to say the place gave one a feeling of brightness and comfort, without glare or striking colour.

  I was nodded to as if I were one of them, as with one accord, we moved away to the dining-room. Probably I was expecting the usual sombre dining-room of an ancient family mansion— oak furniture, sideboard like a silver-smith’s window, family portraits in gilt frames—but whatever I expected, it certainly was not the gay room in which I now found myself. There were not any pictures, nor did one miss them, for the walls were painted a shade of deep cream, with exquisite flowers, in groups, and sprays upon them; the chairs were of some highly-polished light wood— in appearance like a bird’s eye maple—in place of the usual dado round the room, was a curved in recess, filled with plants and flowers with tiny electric lights among them here and there, deftly shaded by foliage
and flowers. The dinner-table was a blaze of wild flowers, spotless linen, and shining glass.

  I was slightly breathless as I took my seat. Mrs. Falconer smiled, and I explained my rather gasping condition, by saying—

  “Your rooms do take a man’s breath away, Mrs. Falconer, they seem to transport one into a fairyland of flowers.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I hope they do. You see—” and she hesitated a second—“we cannot enjoy them outside the house, as most people can, so we have them and a gardener inside.”

  “I should miss a garden,” I said bluntly.

  “You wouldn’t, miss ours,” she said, as she turned away to speak to Bob on her other side.

  I enjoyed my dinner, which was perfect in a simple way, and in the glory of that room of flowers, I did not notice, not until when next I found myself in my own room, that, on an August evening, I had dined in a room hermetically sealed, as far as an open window or fresh air was concerned. Later we gathered again in the Indoor Garden for smokes, games and music. There was not any drawing-room which also delighted me, as I have a wholesome horror of those abominable apartments with their set chairs, cushions of silk only to be looked at. Silver table—neither use nor ornament,—and corners filled with framed photographs of friends, so-called, for whom you care nothing at all, do not miss, and whose pictures you often keep in a drawer until a day when they come to call, when you at once put the right set out, trusting to luck that no one will give you away, though occasionally they have been known to do so!

  It was about 9. 40 when the sudden need of some fresh air seized me with uncontrollable longing. I had lived in the air so long, it was impossible for me I felt to remain shut up indoors, especially as there seemed an unwritten law forbidding the opening of windows anywhere. I was idly wondering how I could best escape to smoke a quiet pipe in the fresh air, before turning in, when my worthy father-in-law to be dropped into a chair beside me.

  “Getting tired, John?” he asked. “I should turn in early if I were you, we are all early-to-bed folks here.”

  “No thanks,” I replied, “I’m not tired, I was admiring that painted view of the far end of this lovely place, though I should have thought glass on all sides would have better carried out your idea. What would the view be if that end were also glass?

  “It all depends upon the time of day,” was his reply. “In the morning it would show you the garden, the Low Lawn,” he said, “but—now for instance—well, it wouldn’t, or if it did, you would rather not see it.”

  He left me no chance to comment on his explanation, merely stated the fact, leaving me to make of it what I chose.

  I didn’t make much, needless to say, except to make up my mind more firmly to fathom what they were fast leading me to look upon as a “Mystery,” and as I have the healthy Englishman’s dislike of mysteries, I did not intend it to be one for longer than I could manage.

  “Very well,” I thought, “independence is my attitude henceforth, for when I came to think of it, I had been led, influenced, ringed about, as it were in an unobtrusive kind of way ever since my arrival a few hours ago. We would see!”

  I rose, shook out my pipe, strolling away as I did so, to where the piano stood under a bank of roses. Maude was playing soft snatches of rag-times. Bob was lounging by her side, Mrs. Falconer nodding over her knitting close beside Mr. Falconer who was reading, while Captain McKlean and his sister Nora, with whom I had not so far had any conversation, were idly knocking the clock golf ball about.

  “Come along, John, and sing,” said Maude, breaking into the old familiar “Long, long trail.” “All soldiers sing this, so begin.”

  “I’m not just in singing form at the moment,” I replied, “and I’m a little tired. I’m just going to smoke a pipe out of doors, before I turn in, was my calm announcement. But, had I dropped a bomb in the midst of them, the effect of my few words could not have been more startling. Mr Falconer dropped his paper, with a muttered “God bless my soul!” Maude crashed into a jumble of wrong notes; Bob said but one word—“Golly!” and Captain McKlean and his sister dropped their putters, joining the little circle hurriedly. Mrs. Falconer woke—I don’t mean she merely opened her eyes—she seemed suddenly galvanised, as she rose, saying—

  “John, as my future son-in-law, I ask you not to leave the house tonight!” There was a tense silence for a brief second, but I was determined.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Falconer, but I see no reason to comply with such a curious request. I am a soldier accustomed to be out and about in all weathers. I am not a hot-house plant, and if I do not breathe some fresh air, I shall neither rest nor sleep; my little evening walk is my best sedative, and I must ask your kind indulgence of my whim—Fresh air I must have.”

  Bob’s was the sole reply—

  “If you could get it fresh, Sir, it would be all right.”

  Mrs. Falconer seated herself again, without further words.

  Mr. Falconer had disappeared.

  I bowed, wished them all “Goodnight,” moving way feeling like anything but an honoured! guest. I wended my way back to the hall; it was empty, so, slipping on a coat and my hat, I made for the front door, beneath the golden curtains. I pulled one back and stared idiotically at the solid wall beneath it; there wasn’t the faintest suggestion of a door, yet I had entered by one— that, I knew. I walked all round. An unbroken carved cedar wood panelling ran right round to a depth of four feet.

  There wasn’t a chink nor an opening, except the way to my sleeping corridor and the stone passage I had just come along. I felt as if I should lose my temper in a minute, but determined as I was, I retraced my steps to the Indoor Garden, meaning to ask where was the door, or any door. I reached the place only to find it dark, silent, empty; one and all must have gone to their rooms by some other way, probably suspecting exactly what had happened, would happen. Annoyed and irritated at being thus foiled in my desire, I had no choice but to go to my bedroom. The whole house seemed sunk in the silence of sleep, though it was but 10. 30, and I shut my door with a rather vicious slam that echoed and re-echoed along the corridor.

  “Now for my windows,” I murmured, “for a breath of fresh air I must and will have—”

  “Futile wish! unattainable longing! my windows were thick plate glass, minus fastening of any description—“Foiled again!” I murmured, as I began a minute inspection of the iron-shuttered window, which was some three or four feet above the floor, with a broad window-sill. A bit of a risk to get on to that I thought, with a lame leg. I’d best leave it for tonight, but it worried me to be beaten—so with a good deal of pain, I dragged myself up on to a chair, from whence I could at least feel and inspect the shutter. My inspection brought forth a prolonged whistle! I had discovered a weak point—true it was padlocked—but the hasp through which the padlock passed was thin, and needed only a good file and a steady hour’s work to cut it through, when, so far as I could see, the shutter could be rolled back to its socket.

  “Right-o!” I said gaily, “that is for tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will buy or steal a file, and then—”

  Feeling more settled in my mind now, I got into my bed, determined on two points—tomorrow would see that window open, and that I would to all intents, play the game, nor appear conscious of what was an actual fact, that after 5 p. m. I am able-bodied—or fairly so—member of H. M. Forces, was a prisoner.

  I did not expect to sleep, lacking fresh air, but as I got into bed, the coolest breeze blew round me, and I noticed for the first time, that at either end of the room, high up, were steel electric fans, moving silently and rapidly.

  “Then the ‘Prisoner’ isn’t to smother,” I thought, as I dropped into a profound sleep.

  I awoke feeling rested, refreshed and fit, in spite of a night of closed windows, to which I was quite unaccustomed; tea was brought to me at 7. 30 and I rose, feeling ready for whatever the day might bring; it was not going to bring my little girl, alas! though she hoped to be with me within the next day or two.
In my heart was a lingering feeling that it was just as well, for she might, probably would have, interfered with my plans. I joined the family party in the hall a little before nine. All were in the best of form, the hall door stood wide open though I carefully refrained from taking any apparent notice of the fact.

  Breakfast was served in the dining-room, which had undergone a slight change—there were fewer plants, fewer flowers, and two large windows were thrown wide open to the sun and air. The same detached spirit was plainly seen, as last night, all were intent upon their own devices. It struck me as unusual that the three guests—one of them a cripple—should not be consulted in the smallest degree, as to their tastes, ideas or wishes for the day. Not a single comment was made as to the previous day, its doings, or the evening of it. It gave one a feeling that “sufficient for the day” was a saying ably carried out. I waited for a kindly suggestion, such as—“Would I care to drive? Would I prefer a lounge in the garden?” Nothing, however, was forthcoming, so I asked blandly—

  “McKlean, are you coming to smoke a pipe in the garden?”

  “Captain McKlean is coming with me,” answered Maude. “I have to go to town for some things.”

  “Town,” I might mention, was a small market town, called Singletown, consisting of a main street, a bank, and in the high street, varied shops of a small mixed kind, and boasting quite a good ironmonger’s, a lending library and hospital, up to date.

  Now this began to look awkward, obviously I should be de trop, yet reach that ironmongers I must and will.

  “I wonder if you would take a passenger to town, as well?” I asked. “I have a little shopping to do, and cannot walk far.”

  “We are only going to be an hour,” replied Maude. “Can’t I shop for you?”

  “Sorry!” I said, “I am afraid not.”

  I knew in her heart Maude was hating me for a spoilsport, but I had to get that file, so at the risk of being voted a nuisance, I smilingly asked again to be taken.

  I was taken, but I knew in every fibre of my being I was all that I feared, a spoil sport. I had to put my feelings in my pocket, and when duly dropped at the best stationers, slipped from there into the ironmonger’s without delay, the moment their backs were turned. Joyfully I selected three good files, stowing them away in an inner pocket, while ostentatiously carrying a library book and packet of stationery as well as a box of toffee—of a war kind—as a peace offering for the huffy lady. We reached the house again, well before lunch-time.