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

by Bessie Kyffin-Taylor

  She was a dear girl, and an ideal wife for some country doctor or lawyer; was a capable manager, possessed a clear, clever brain; but to me, “Bossiness” aptly described her, and her love of meddling in other folks’ business was to me a perpetual worry. A new baby, she was there, lecturing the mother; a wedding, she was there, to dress and buck up the bride; a funeral, she was there, to put things in order and boss generally. It wearied me at first, and made me frantic at last, for my dreamy temperament wanted tranquillity, peace, softness.

  My ideal wife was a very different being from this girl, chosen by fate to be mine. I had met my “Dream-girl,” met her in the only spot in all the world in which, so far, I was free from my brother: a friend’s studio in Chelsea, where I made one of a happy Bohemian crowd on the rare occasions I could escape alone to London. So far, Basil had no trace of me there, for my friends of the studio faithfully kept my secret, all of them remembering a single sentence, which I invariably announced my arrival in town with, proving to them I was Dal and not Basil.

  The words were these, though I fear to put them on paper, lest Basil should one day see them, but so far all is safe, and the words “The lotus flower is in bloom” was sufficient to call together my kindred spirits in the Bohemian corner I loved, the atmosphere of which suited me, and where I was known and was myself only, and not the dual personality I so often seemed to be.

  There were one or two artists, a few writers, a few musicians, no terrific overwhelming talent amongst them, but sufficient for each to peg along, paying their way, enjoying a little simple amusement, though the charm lay in the happy-go-lucky spirit of “never crossing our bridges until we reached them,” coupled with the ever-ready hand of friendship and help, which one and all never failed to hold out, if needs be.

  This was my paradise, my oasis in a world that was using me ill, through my twin brother’s evil character.

  In my paradise there was an “Angel;” at least, to me she was one, though most people only saw a little elf-like girl, with clouds of dusky hair and green eyes, a small compact little person, with tiny feet and wee, capable hands. She was usually enveloped in an old greeny-grey painting pinafore, when she was not helping someone who was sick or tired, then the pinny was cast aside, and a practical little person, in well-worn, though well-cut blue serge, with a string of jade beads round her throat, would take the place of the dreamy, fanciful little being of her studio up in the roof of an old house.

  She made enough out of her dainty water-colours for her needs, and to supply those of a few other folks, she occasionally did a small amount of illustrating for papers or magazines, to help out, but this latter work was necessity, and not her wish. Sometimes we did not see her for weeks, but a call to a “Lotus flower” meeting usually unearthed her. She held my heart tightly in the hollow of her little hand, and just to be near her brought out all that was best in me, leaving all that was bitter and wrong far outside. I intended to marry her, as soon as I had an assured position, but this seemed still far distant. So our happiness consisted chiefly of teas in her studio, or walks in unknown bits of old London, with the stars above us and love in our hearts.

  My “castle” came crashing to earth with my forced so-called engagement to Esmé Simpson. I told the whole story to Alys, as I told her most things, sure of her understanding and sympathy; but, on this occasion, the only one in my life, she did not hear me with that wholehearted faith in me which usually characterized her attitude towards me. She listened, that’s true, but listened standing stiffly, coldly, aloof, not curled up on her favourite cushion on the floor in front of her fire; she listened silently, she always did, but oh, what a difference there can be

  in silence! There is the “silence” of warm understanding love, which seems to envelope you, bringing its own sweet helpfulness and sympathy, but there is the “silence” of cold criticism, which chills you through and through, making you hesitate and falter in your tale, as if indeed you were guilty.

  It was this unusual “silence” which encompassed me, as I struggled to tell Alys my woeful story, causing me to stumble, to halt, and finally to burst out with—“Oh, you don’t understand, you can’t! It seems an impossible yarn to ask you to believe that love letters written by someone else should be the means of my getting engaged to someone else.”

  Alys only looked at me steadily for an instant, and then said: “It is almost impossible to think that you did nothing yourself to put into Miss Simpson’s mind the idea that you cared for her.”

  The words were slowly, carefully uttered, but they raised the devil in me, and I spoke words which a lifetime has been all too short in which to regret. We parted silently, without so much as a hand-clasp—we who had been all in all to each other for four years; we who had so repeatedly said, could not live without each other—parted, bitterly, and month of trials, and troubles were my lot ere the sunshine of my little girl’s smile burst upon my sorrowful life, bringing in my latter years the love, the peace, and happiness, that I had thought was within my grasp. On the day we parted, we never meant to meet again, but our lives became interwoven in a manner which left no room for doubt as to our love for each other.

  My existence after this was a round of subtle cruelties, practised by my seemingly fascinating brother, and it made of me a morose and gloomy being. My engagement to Esmé was proclaimed far and wide by her worthy, though mercenary, old father. I fulfilled to the best of my ability my duty of an engaged man, but refrained from marrying, hoping always that something would happen to prevent it. Nothing did, and I could see Dr. Simpson was of opinion that the time was surely come for his daughter’s wedding to take place. Especially as Basil and I were now well off, owing to the death of our parents at sea—an occurrence, I am sorry to say, which left us unmoved, being, as we were, almost strangers to them.

  It was a lovely morning early in May, on which I received a visit from my future father-in-law, a visit which blinded the sunshine, leaving me feeling as if now, in very truth, my last hope had fled. I listened to all he said, and was obliged to agree, that short of playing the villain, there was nothing for me to do but marry the girl, whose name, he said, was suffering through my neglect, and whose health was becoming undermined, owing to her great love for me, and my coldness in responding. So it was settled, the wedding day fixed for six weeks ahead, and it was arranged that, as stated in my father’s will, the first of us to marry was to live in the old home. This arrangement flung Basil into a rage; he did not see why I should live in the home that belonged equally to both of us, so, in a fit of generosity I said:

  “Live here as well!” and, rather to my surprise, he joyfully agreed. I repented of my rashness—only once, and that was forever!

  Towards the end of the six weeks’ freedom left to me, I went up to town, and spent a quiet afternoon in the Art Gallery. I was strolling idly through the rooms when I came upon a little group of people. I only noticed them casually; but, as I passed them, something compelled me to raise my eyes and I looked straight into the green eyes of my one and only love.

  “Alys,” I murmured, but a cold stare and a quick movement showed me I was not even to be considered a friend of the girl I loved. I moved away, hearing as I did so, the gay voice of her attendant swain say:

  “Come, it is 4. 30—tea-time, and I’m starving!” Something made me pull out my own watch, as one so often does, and compare the stated time with one’s own. True, it was exactly 4. 30. I also would go and find tea, but alone!

  I landed back home after the short railway journey, but alighted at the station before our own, intending to have a tramp home after the stuffiness of a London May-day. The walk would take me almost an hour, and the woods and fields appealed to me, so, lighting my pipe, I set out. It was almost dusk when I reached “The Park,” and lights were beginning to twinkle here and there amongst the local cottages, though “The Park,” as our house was called, struck me as looking particularly bleak and dark.

  I entered quietly, and was
slipping upstairs to my own rooms, when I was suddenly confronted at the top of the stairs by Smithson, our butler and factotum, accompanied by the village policeman.

  I thought they were cronies, and perhaps had been having a quiet smoke, and was passing them with a curt “Good evening” when—

  “Please stop, sir,” burst from Constable Gill.

  I stopped.

  “Anything wrong?” I enquired.

  “Yes, sir. Miss Simpson has been found murdered in the old Spinny, and it is my duty to arrest you for murder.”

  “Don’t speak, sir,” he added, in kinder tones, “everything’s against you.”

  I was powerless, speechless, and suffered myself to be led away to the village gaol, where I sat, dazed, able to think. Only the merest details had been told to me, simply that about four o’clock, Esmé Simpson had been found shot through the heart lying among the ferns in what was known as “The Little Spinny.”A book was lying close to, a walking-stick—which she generally used—lay a yard or so from her, and the revolver, with one chamber emptied, was at her side. It was, I need hardly say, my revolver. More than this I did not know, any more than I knew how I was going to extricate myself from such a predicament. I was known to have been absent the whole of that day, but no one knew where I had been, even my ticket to London was no guarantee that I ever went there.

  I was not seen leaving the train at my own station, and I question very much whether anyone noticed my departure from the station before. I was seen crossing the fields beyond the Spinny, however, yet, surely, no one in their senses could think I would murder a woman between three and four, and hide in the woods until six, the time I reached home. A sudden thought came to me—

  Alys! She had seen me, she knew me, at 4. 30, in London. Could I send word? Would she come? Would she say she had seen me? Surely, surely, I could trust her, but would she believe or would she doubt? The more I thought, the deeper and darker seemed the abyss before me. I could not see one solitary gleam of light anywhere.

  At the inquest, it was proved to the satisfaction of the neighbours that I, Dallas York, had wilfully murdered the girl I was about to marry, using a revolver, proved to be mine, because it had my name on it. I was committed for trial at the County Assizes, and, so far as I could see, my life was ended.

  I do not propose to dwell on the awful weeks which followed. I had able lawyers from town to aid me, and to them I told my story. I could see, while doing their best for me, they had little hope, especially, as they found the studio in Chelsea, where I had directed them to seek for Alys, empty! and none knew where the lady had gone. Then I implored them to send my brother to me, for surely he would speak; he could not really mean me to be hanged. If he would only come, I would plead and beg for my very life.

  Alas! for my last frail hope, my brother was missing, had not, in fact, been seen since the day of the murder, and village rumour had it that he had said he would not live in the same county as a murderer!

  After this the days went by in agony. Time sped, and my trial was upon me. I was tried, by twelve good men and true, and I was found guilty and condemned to death.

  The last day of my life had dawned. I was past all feeling, as I sat in my cell, waiting the sound of the keys which would herald my doom.

  I heard the heavy footfall of my jailor coming, coming, nearer, louder. I heard the jangle of the keys. I heard the key turn in the lock, and the grating sound as the door swung open, and then—I fainted—

  When I came to myself, I opened my eyes on familiar surroundings. I was in my own bedroom at “The Park,” so much I was sure of, and then followed another blank. Slowly, very slowly, I came to complete understanding, and learned that it was to bring me a pardon that my cell door had been opened, and not to take me to my death, for my brother had, at the last moment, given himself up as the murderer of Esmé Simpson, and was hanged instead of me. He told all before he died, how all his life he had hated me for my superiorness, he called it, and had planned and schemed to injure me always, even to ransacking my desk, and learning of Alys, to whom he had gone, purporting to be me, using our “Lotus flower” code; and finally taking her away to lock her up, and so prevent her giving, as she intended, evidence in my favour.

  It was a sordid, horrible tale, ending with the murder of Esmé, whom he confessed he had always cared for, and whom he killed in a fit of temper, vowing I should not have her, since she would not have him. Poor fellow! he did the only brave deed in his evil life when he confessed, and took the place so wrongfully allocated to me. His last message was given to the chaplain to give me—

  Tell my brother Dallas I have done right by him, but that time will show him his life will not be a calm one in spite of my death to spare an innocent man.

  I did not understand the message then. I do now, and daily, hourly, the full horror of all he intended to convey comes home to me!

  After the whirl of tragedy which had enveloped me, I lay ill and weak for some weeks; at times bordering on brain fever, and again just lying ill and spent, waited upon by a hard-featured nurse, whose aim appeared to be business and not comfort; a woman to whom I represented two guineas a week, and disturbed nights; a woman whose very voice grated in my ears, and whose pursed-up lips, as she took my temperature, made me long to shake her, upsetting the stiff set of her appalling cap, and putting a few creases in her starched apron. She was an automaton, and I question much whether, in her stiffly-held head, there was any other knowledge than the measurements of a medicine glass or the reading of her precious thermometer. I was thankful when, at last, I was able to leave my bed, and try to pick up the shattered threads of my life. The dismissal of my nurse I hailed with thanksgiving, and celebrated the event by going downstairs for my small dinner, after which I intended to pass a few hours in the library with a book and pipe, or my thoughts, for company.

  I had successfully managed to dispose of a grilled sole, and was idly playing with my wine glass, when it suddenly snapped in two pieces. How stupid of me, I thought, and what a mess!

  “Smithson,” I called, as the butler hovered near, “tidy this up, will you; I can’t think how I was so careless.”

  The man eyed me gravely, as he set about removing the debris, but did not speak. As he was moving away, my chair jogged violently.

  “Don’t hit my chair, Smithson,” I exclaimed, irritably.

  “Sorry, sir,” he answered, “but I didn’t; sir.”

  “You must have done,” I snapped, and again there was silence.

  Left to myself, I played with the food put before me, feeling weak, tired, unnerved, and unable to eat. I was chilly, too, in spite of a big fire of logs; a curious chilliness, it seemed, but I put it down to all I had gone through, and my subsequent illness; so wended my way to the library, as being a more cosy room than the huge dining-room in which I felt so solitary and alone.

  Alone! did I say, or rather think, yet, even as the word crossed my mind, I was conscious that it was wrong, I did not feel alone! Would to God I had! Some other presence was there, I knew it, I felt it; I knew it when my wine glass snapped, I knew it when my chair shook. It needed not the feeling of chilliness to impress me that as I sat at my apparently lonely table, some other being was there also!

  I resolutely turned, my steps to the library, switching on all the lights as I entered, so that no gloomy corners or shadows could aid my imagination. Taking a book, I drew up an armchair, lit my pipe, and prepared for a quiet read. As I seated myself, the chair similar to mine, on the opposite side of the hearth, wheeled softly towards the fire! and I heard the soft thud, as of a person sitting down, followed by the clatter of the fire-irons. Then I knew! for Basil had invariably sat, feet on fender, usually preceded by the kicking away of the fire-irons. I knew I was ill, but I also knew definitely that this was no phantasy of an enfeebled mind. This was real, vivid, I was not alone, my brother Basil bore me company!

  Steadily I tried to read, never for a single moment unmindful of the fact that
the opposite chair was occupied. When I could no longer keep any attention on my book, I rose, determined to go to bed. As I rose, so did he, pushing back his chair as I moved mine. Something—call it fear if you will—made me pause, hesitatingly, as I reached the light switches. “I will send Smithson to put them out,” I murmured; but a faint soft chuckle fell on my ear as every light was instantly snapped out, and I felt someone pass me.

  I managed to keep some sort of grip on myself as I sauntered through the hall, and leisurely made my way upstairs. Even as I did so, I heard the soft steps, always furtive as they had been in life, follow me to the top, along the corridor, stopping only as they reached my door. Quickly I entered, slamming the door behind me, foolishly thinking here, at least, I should be free and alone. Alas for my hopes! I speedily learnt that not even here could that be so, no matter where I turned or what I did, those furtive steps followed. I tried to pray, to voice some feeble petition that this haunting presence might leave me. It was useless, or I was too powerless.

  Half frantic I sought my bedside where stood a small table on which was a framed photo of Alys. I picked it up, to gaze longingly at her sweet face, but the picture was seized from my hand and dashed violently on to the floor. With a smothered sob of grief and anger, I bent to pick it up, but ere I could do so, a hand was pressed heavily on my shoulder, and I raised my head to see a faint illumination—almost, it seemed to me, like a ring of light, in the centre of which stood—my brother! Pale, drawn, silent, he stood, with a faint mocking smile upon his lips, and a mark as of a rope showing plainly round his neck.