She looked at me, then put her glasses on—she always did that if she meant to talk severely, then she said abruptly:
“You’d been missing for two days when they found you.”
“Missing for two days?” I asked, incredulously, “But where was I?”
“You were at the bottom of an old lead mine,” she answered, “on a big heap of dead leaves and ferns. Luckily, it wasn’t one of the deep mines, and also the leaves and ferns saved you, though how they got there is a mystery,” she added.
“But how on earth—” I began.
“Quite so, sir,” she went on, “that’s what we all want to know, how on earth, unless you were mooning along and wandered into a weak place in the ground above the mine. That’s where you were, anyway, in one of the small shafts close to the old ruined cottage. You were quite unconscious; you must have had your camera in your hand, sir, because it was beside you, though how it wasn’t broken is another mystery.”
“Bring me my camera, Merry dear,” I said.
“Very well, sir,” she answered. “That can’t do you no harm”; and off she went, to return presently, gingerly holding my Kodak, as if fearful of it.
She was right. By some marvel it was unhurt; moreover the number of the film it had last turned to stood clearly forth. I would have them developed at once. I felt curious, but I had not yet asked all my questions:
“Who found me, Merry?” I next asked.
“Tommy Hughes, sir.”
“Tommy Hughes!” I said. “What made him look for me?”
“Well, sir,” answered the old lady, “they do say as he found another gentleman once in the same place, and when you didn’t come home, he set off to look for you.”
“Was the other chap hurt, Merry?” I asked.
“No, sir—at least not hurt, sir, because he was lying on ferns and leaves just the same. Oh no! he wasn’t hurt, sir, not his body!”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Tell me, please.”
“Oh, dear sir, how you do worrit, and it’s time for your soup, anyway.”
“Tell me first, Merry,” I said.
She glanced at me, to see if I was in earnest, and then, seemingly, decided that for the moment, at least, I was boss.
“His body was all right, sir, it was his head, at least his wits, sir; he’s been in a lunatic place ever since, so they say,” she amended, with a sniff which, I knew, meant utter disbelief in gossip or village yarns.
I did not so entirely disbelieve, for, as the fragments of memory began to join together, I shuddered as I recalled my experience, and could only too readily believe that a very, little weaker minded individual than I would very easily lose his reason if he went through all I had done. I would, however, leave further questioning until the next day, for I had observed the snap with which my dear old Merry had closed her lips.
The following day my doctor paid me a visit, one of his many, but this time he came in less professional manner, in fact he had every appearance of spoiling for a gossip, I could have wagered my last sou on it, so wasn’t surprised when he accepted my offer of tea, and a smoke, with alacrity. The tea disposed of, he did not beat about the bush, but asked me if I could give him any light at all on my accident.
“I am curiously interested,” he said, “because you are not my first case to have a very similar accident.”
“Did your other patient make as good recovery, doctor?” I asked, instead of, as politeness demanded, answering his question.
“No, he did not,” he replied. “He never recovered and never will in my opinion. He is mentally deranged, though all searching has failed to reveal a cause. He is quiet generally, and peaceable, but in a high wind he becomes frenzied, utterly distraught, his attendants are unable to cope with him, often he shrieks and yells, for the most part unintelligible rubbish. One night, in a furious gale, a man was blown over in the grounds, and the attendants were laughing about it when, without apparent reason, the poor insane chap fell on the luckless attendant and half-killed him, shouting all the time: ‘Stop laughing, will you!’ It’s always the same if the wind blows. They take him to a more sheltered room when it blows hard now. Tell me, will you, what preceded your fall—there must be some sort of link between the two, because, in your delirium, you raved of the wind, though we’ve had no wind to speak of since your arrival.”
“I’ll tell you the story, doctor, though you will be inclined to put me with your other patient, unless I can convince you, and this I may perhaps do, if my camera depicts what I saw.”
I told him my experiences during two days in the woods I loved, I gave him every detail, even to the taking of the snapshots of the place, and he listened, silently puffing at his pipe, until I ended by telling him of how I struck something violently and fell, remembering nothing more until I found myself in my room.
There was a long pause as I finished, he seemed unable to speak, so I asked him how Mrs. Merry came upon the scene.
“She arrived after you had lain long unconscious, saying you had said if you were not home in a month to come and look for you—not hearing, she came and found you, as I have said, and has since nursed you devotedly.
“What does it all mean, doctor?” I then said.
His answer disconcerted me.
“I do not know, though I have heard strange stories told of the pine woods, which you are pleased to call ‘Silent,’ but I confess I have hitherto put them down to an extra glass or two of beer. Now, for the first time, I am bound to think more seriously of them, having on my hands first, the strange maniac, and then you, found in the same spot, under similar conditions, and—strangest of all—on the same day of the year!
“I don’t know the tale, but no doubt your worthy host does, ask him; and, meanwhile, develop your snapshots, though I do not hope for much in the way of proofs from them.”
“I will look in tomorrow, you had better rest now,” and my matter-of-fact materialistic doctor picked up his hat and departed.
I sat at my window for a long time, thinking much, hearing again, in fancy, the roar of wind, the laughter of fiends, the crash of the tree. As it grew dark, I was possessed with the desire, at all costs, to develop those films, so, calling Mrs. Merry, I told her I was tired, and was going to bed, that there was nothing I required, so, bidding her “Goodnight,” I made my rough and ready preparations, lacking all the essentials of a proper dark room, but in these days, tabloids of developers, a jugful of water, a candle-lamp, with a crimson silk scarf tied round it, would serve me very well.
The first negative came up beautifully, just an ordinary common or garden broken-down cottage.
The second was a different story, and I watched it fearfully. There was distinctly, unmistakably, a form of a man going into the doorway!
The third film, taken from the other side of the cottage, showed me a lower window, more or less unbroken, in the frame of which was the face of a man—so much I could see, but to me that meant much, for I knew that I was alone, horribly alone at that moment of taking the photo.
Next morning, I was up earlier than had been permitted for some time, and a very few minutes sufficed to print a rough print from each negative. I stared at them, stared, with my eyes nearly starting from my head. They were good photos, clear, sharply defined, no woolly-looking details, so easily mistaken for other than the actual things I intended to take, except the figure, and the face. Those I neither saw, nor intended to portray, yet there they were, and, as is so often the case, the camera lens depicted what the human eye did not see.
The figure, tall, gaunt, seemed as if going into the house, but the face! the face in the frame of the window was unmistakably the face of the man who passed me, who entered the house, from which issued those screams of agony, the man who later joined the group of people to whom he spoke, the people who made the air hideous with their horrible laughter.
I kept my own counsel, hiding the photos also, until late in the afternoon, the doctor made his appearance. He studi
ed them carefully, and then said:
“I should have laughed at your story, my friend, laughed at your photos of your so-called empty cottage, last evening, but tonight I cannot. I made a few enquiries after I left you, and the outline of what I gleaned was this:
“The cottage was built when the lead mines were working, for the use of the men, and was subsequently taken possession of by a foreman. He was a glum, taciturn brute, given to drink and gambling. He brought with him to the cottage, known as Leadmine Cottage, a very pretty young girl as his wife, though gossips say she was not. He seemed passionately attached to the girl, and also to a little child of three, said to be his niece’s child. The man, by name Woodrow, led an almost double life, one half of which was spent with a gang of men and women, with whom he was said to drink and gamble; and who used to jeer at him for what they spoke of as his milksop life, in the company of his so-called wife.
“When with her, he was simply a devoted husband, and when sober always refused to associate with the gang who other times attracted him. Finally, the gang of criminals—I can call them nothing better—tried to embitter him against the girl, whom they thought was getting a firmer hold on him. One or other of them started to fill his mind with suspicions of the girl, telling him that chance visitors found Leadmine Cottage attractive. They used to follow him home, for the fiendish joke of hearing him abuse the girl and threaten her with worse things if she was untrue to him.
“These fiends finally plotted, and eventually sent a young doctor out there, saying someone was ill in the cottage. The unsuspecting doctor called late one evening, and Woodrow was persuaded to hide in the trees and watch. It was, I am told, a wild, stormy evening, one of those sudden storms that come in these mountain districts in summer, and break down corn, lash rivers to fury, and hurl trees and branches to the ground.
“Woodrow watched, and saw the doctor enter, saw him speak to the girl, saw her smile at him, and laughing, give him her hand as she might do to a doctor, who desired to feel her pulse; though this was apparently not the construction put upon her innocent action by her husband, goaded to madness by drink, as well as by his uncontrollable jealous nature. He waited until the doctor had gone, and then entered the cottage, murdered his wife and child, afterwards rejoining his fellow-criminal, whom, it is said, received his news with jest and laughter, glorying in the success of the vile plot which they guessed would give him wholly back to them and their evil ways.
“The cottage and all trace of the crime was effaced, so ’tis said, by the sudden rising of the wind, bringing down a tree, which fell athwart the house, shattering it to bits. The gang are believed to have fled the country, all but one, who later died in hospital after giving the story to a medical man there, whom, by a curious coincidence, if indeed there be such things, wrote it to a colleague of mine, whom I met last night at a dinner. It is a strange story, and one, in the light of your recent experience, not to be gainsaid. The story goes on to say, that in the same month every year, the murder takes place, with every detail complete, even to the rising wind; and that those who know the story and the wood, shun it as the plague, during that month. At any other time, I believe, it justifies our name for it of ‘Silent Wood. ’
“That is the story, my friend, make of it what you will. I have also taken the liberty of asking an aged miner to look in this evening. I want you to be good enough to start chatting casually of the wood, your fall, etc., and show him your photos. Don’t give him any other lead. Now, I will see if he has come. He is very old, but can see pretty well. His little grandchild is bringing him to see me here, to save time, and the old boy wants a dose for a cough.”
With this, the doctor vanished, to return almost at once, leading an old man by the arm. They tell me folks live long up here, and surely it must be so if this is a specimen, for the old man looked ninety, and hale at that, though bent and withered. I gave him a chair and baccy, but instead of filling his pipe, he stared at me with clear, penetrating eyes, and mumbled:
“So you’re the gent that fell down the mine.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m that unfortunate man.”
“Did you fall, or were yer put there?” he questioned, sniggering to himself.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“No, my boy, but I do,” he wheezed, pointing a claw-like finger at me. “I do, yer were put there, my lad, put there, look you, and so will others be, if they do not keep away from the pines in July!”
“I took a picture of it,” I said, after a pause.
“A picture—whatever—” answered the aged being, “show me the picture. I once worked there.”
“Hurry,” whispered the doctor, “he quickly fails. ’
I handed him the picture, holding a powerful magnifying glass over it as I did so.
“Aye, aye! there’s Johnny Woodrow’s house,” he muttered, “all in a heap, all in a heap.”
“This is another,” I said.
“My God!” burst from his shaking lips. “My God, there’s Johnny Woodrow, Johnny Woodrow, my old pal. Why, I thought him was dead, he is dead, I knows he’s dead, how could he live after murdering his wife and little child—murdered them, he did, in the cottage by the pines, and them as interferes with the cottage, he’d put ’em down the mine—he said he would put ’em in the mine to starve, if they move a stone or meddle with wot ’e calls her grave. He told me he’d do it afore he went away, ’is very words were ‘Living or dead, I’ll do it, Bob, ’ and wot Johnny says he’ll do, he will do.”
His old head fell forward on his breast as he finished speaking, so we did not speak, save in a whisper.
“He sleeps,” said the doctor. “Presently he will wake, but will not remember. We will leave him. Mary will take him home, and I’ll send him some stuff in the morning. The old boy is nearly through,” he added, “but I am glad he was here to give you what you wanted—proof!” though proof of what, or for what reason, I cannot pretend to fathom.
We parted a little later, my doctor and I—he to go on with his work for sick humanity; I, on the morrow, to return to my studio in London, back to the turmoil of town, back to live among the haunts of men, to leave the beauty of hills and rivers; but in some quiet hour in my studio, maybe during some winter night of wind and storm, I shall hear again the hideous laughter, shall dream of the scent of the pines—nay, perhaps I shall even try to forget the horror of all I went through, and may memory, sometimes kind, only recall the peace, the scent, the perfect still quietness of the woods I loved best, when I knew them only as
“Silent Wood.”
The Twins
The tragedy of my life is summed up in these words—“Basil and I were twins!” It doesn’t sound tragical, it doesn’t sound even interesting, but hear my story, and pity me.
From the hour of our birth we were remarkably alike: both were dark, both had brown eyes. In fact, so much alike were we that the usual tricks were resorted to by both mother and nurses to distinguish us, and if, as once happened, my blue-ribboned rattle got changed for Basil’s pink one, why, then, I swallowed a nauseous dose of medicine, intended for him. That was the start: from then onwards, my brother’s misdeeds were laid at my door. My indolence, laziness my father called it, was put down to my brother.
If our parents had been really interested in us, they would have studied our various temperaments, discovering that only in appearance had we the remotest resemblance; and, knowing this, if they had guided us, taught us, and led us, all the sorrow that eventually fell to me would have been non-existent. But parents differ so; some give all their thoughts, time and money to their children, ours gave none. They were wrapt up in each other, and in the gay social life they led. We were more of a bother than a joy, our bringing up depending chiefly on the ministrations of our nurses, and the rough tutoring of an old Scotch gardener, aided by stable men, odd boys about the park—all and sundry, in fact, who could do us harm instead of good!
The difference between us in appearance was so very
slight that even our coachman had been known to bring a pony ready saddled for me, who at heart was an arrant coward, whereas Basil would ride pretty nearly anything on four legs. I have seen him try to ride a pig, a sheep, and a cow. He was fearless where horses were concerned, adored animals of every kind, being kindness itself to sick or maimed ones. The kink in his character being love of self, he would stoop to any lie or subterfuge to escape deserved punishment, never having the least scruple about letting me suffer for his misdeeds. He rarely opened a book, except French ones—prohibited—and these were usually found on my shelf, or in my drawer, never in his.
In our school days, it was Basil who went out of bounds, for sweets, cakes, etc., to the tuck shop, but it was my cap, and very likely my jacket, that he wore, and my room the stuff was stowed away in, until he had time to eat it! In holiday time, it was Basil in my pyjamas who acted “Ghost” and terrified the maids; Basil who lamed my father’s famous hunter, but my whip that was found in the paddock; Basil who was seen drinking beer in the village “pub,” but I who was kept a prisoner in my room, and not allowed to go to the skating carnival in a neighbour’s park; Basil who enjoyed the society of Esmé Simpson, the doctor’s daughter; and so it went on.
Occasionally the truth would be found out, and then folks said to me:
“Why don’t you assert yourself, give Basil away, and let the right shoulders bear the blame?”
My reply invariably was:
“Too much trouble; besides, it is difficult to swear away the evidence before people’s eyes.” It was my whip, it was my cap, they were my pyjamas. No one could get away from those facts, my and nature was becoming warped and morbid through long years of injustice, from which there was no redress.
Later, Basil grew more and more unscrupulous, and several times feigned my handwriting, using my notepaper, etc., writing notes, purporting to come from me, to Esmé Simpson; until, at last, the old doctor, called on me to know if I intended asking his girl to be my wife! To Basil, all this was a huge jest; to me, it still further embittered my life. I was only twenty-four, I did want Esmé; our comradeship, which began in our childhood, was really, in my mind, just a sweet chumship, without a deeper note; but the letters shown to me by the doctor were masterpieces of love-making, and so it came about, as usual, my denials were unheeded, and I was forced into an engagement with Esmé, whom I did not love, and did not want.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Bessie Kyffin-Taylor-From Out of the Silence Page 13