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

by Bessie Kyffin-Taylor

  I remembered nothing more until I came to myself with Smithson bending over me, holding a glass, containing some spirits, to my lips.

  “Smithson!” I gasped. “What is it? Where am I? What has happened?”

  “I heard you call out, sir,” replied the imperturbable Smithson, “and I came, fortunately you had forgotten to lock your door, I found you on the floor, sir, with this broken glass picture alongside of you, sir. Did you slip, sir? Or were you ill?”

  “Neither, Smithson,” I said, wildly. “I—I—oh—I can’t explain; you’d have me locked up as insane.”

  For a moment Smithson eyed me, and then, in a voice more human than his “butler” voice, he said:

  “I understand, sir, I understand, it is an awful thing, sir, but you are not alone in it, sire Mr. Basil has been with me too.”

  “Been with you?” I echoed. “How do you mean, explain please, Smithson.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the man, “he, Mr. Basil, follows me about, has done ever, since he—he—you know, sir—he breaks things, upsets things, turns pictures face to the wall, rings bells, and if I answer them, I’ve heard him give that laugh of his, sort of mocks one, he does, sir, same as he used. He goes along to his own room, sir, and times I’ve gone in, and found the bed all crumpled up like as if someone slept in it, I don’t know if anyone else has heard him, and I’ve kept me mouth shut, sir, you know, beggin’ your pardon, sir, that Mr. Basil was never my favourite, and he seems to be set on paying me back for telling a few things I knew he had done, and blamed you, sir. One of the stable hands did tell me, someone had been playing pranks with the horses one night, though, and that all the beasts were uneasy and fidgety, but I said nothing, and now, sir, here are you, on your first day downstairs, bothered same as I’ve been.”

  “Smithson,” I said, “you’re a brick, don’t let us be beaten, be my friend, as well as my butler, and see this thing through together if we can.”

  “I’m with you, sir,” answered the man, “there’s my hand on it, if I may make so free, you’ve been kind to me and mine always, sir, and I’ll not desert you. Shall I bring a camp-bed into your room, sir,” he added, in his usual matter-of-fact tones, “until you are well, Sir,—I’d better, I think.”

  That night passed quietly, and I was awakened by Smithson at my side with a cup of tea, imperturbable as ever, all trace of his camp-bed removed ere he wakened me. I felt tired, yet in a sense alert, feeling as if I must get up in spite of weakness, for I had work to do which I intended to accomplish.

  Gone, were the fears of last night, gone, the shaken nerves, I intended to win—I was not going to be beaten, trampled on mentally—if I may put it so, rendered unfit, by the haunting of my brother. Surely if his tricks were to be confined to the senseless jogging of chairs, breaking of glasses and such like, they were means of a paltry description, and I would speedily show him I was unaffected by them. So determined a clear brain, in a room full of brilliant morning sunshine! I spent a quiet morning, resting and reading, and decided I would after lunch, try what a gentle ride on my favourite horse would do towards restoring my former health and strength.

  It clouded over towards noon, but I rather liked grey clouds with a warm wind, and started off with a smile and nod to Smithson, who watched me start with rather a solemn look on his face, and a caution “not to overdo it, sir, first time.” Sultan was a little fresh at starting, but gradually settled down and we jogged along peacefully for an hour, when I thought, possibly by the time I got home, I would not have overdone it, first time. As we turned towards home, I noticed Sultan stumble.

  “Steady, boy,” I murmured, “that is unlike you,” and bent to pat his satin, smooth neck. Before I touched him, he shied violently, nearly unseating me.

  “I see nothing to shy at, boy,” I said, but my voice had no effect, and he suddenly stopped dead, beginning to quiver and shake.

  Surely the beast’s ill, I thought, preparing to dismount and lead him, but he suddenly seemed to steady down and impatiently shook his head as if to loosen my restraining hand.

  “Very well then,” I said, “go ahead,” and he started off obediently—probably a couple of hundred yards were accomplished when again the same sudden stop and quivering. My temper was rising, and I brought my whip down pretty sharply on his haunches. Instantly, he reared, and with a wild snort, set off at a gallop, heading for home; half a mile we galloped, when he paused again, but evidently with the recollection of my whip, did not stop, but giving a wild, terrified squeal as of terror, he took off and jumped probably nearly six feet high, as if over a high fence, and tore on down the road home, not stopping until he pulled up of his own accord at the front door, where he stood quivering in every limb, with the sweat in gleaming patches staining his satin coat.

  My return was greeted by a keen look and a profound silence on the part of Smithson, that is, until the library door closed behind him, as he followed me in. Nor did he then wait for me to speak, but his quick “What is it, sir?” seemed almost wrung from him. I answered somewhat curtly, feeling almost too worried to reply at all, describing the whole scene to him, seeing as I did so, that his opinion was also mine, my terrified horse had seen, feared, and finally jumped over something in the road, which I had only sensed and not seen—it was easy to visualize it, however, I had no doubt at all, nor do I think had Smithson, what or who stood in my way. There seemed little to do, and less to say, so we parted, silently, Smithson to get me some tea, I to sink into a chair, light a pipe, and wonder—what next?

  I was not left to wonder long, for Smithson, bringing in my tea tray, was followed diffidently, by Mary Higgs, my housemaid.

  “Mary wishes to speak to you, sir,” murmured the man.

  I looked up sharply, for this was an unusual proceeding.

  “What is it, Mary?

  “Please, sir, I must leave,” gasped the scared-looking damsel.

  “Oh?” I queried, “aren’t you comfortable?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, very, it’s not that; I’m quite comfortable as far as the house goes but it’s the goings on, sir.”

  “Goings on!” I said.

  “Yes, sir, it’s awful.”

  “What is?” I asked.

  “Well, sir,” she went on, growing garrulous, as these girls do, given an opportunity. “It seems like as if someone else was always where I am.”

  “Someone else always where you are?” I questioned. “Please explain, Mary.”

  “Well, sir, if I’m doing your bed, someone pulls the sheet out of my hands, sir, and if I’m cleaning, my brushes and things are knocked down; and—and the worst is, sir, when I’m going upstairs at nights someone walks up behind me, and once, sir, a hand touched my face—a cold hand, sir; and, please, I must go, I couldn’t live here, it’s all so like Mr. Basil and his tricks, sir,” saying which, she burst into tears.

  There was nothing I could say, so I paid her wages, murmured I was sorry, and sank back into my chair, feeling too exhausted and worried to go up and change.

  “Bring me a bite to eat later, Smithson, here; I won’t change, I’m dead tired.”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, moving away with a backward glance at me, almost as if asking if he might stay; but I did not speak.

  Daylight faded with a yellow gleam or two as a parting shot from the setting sun, and the room, which in ordinary times I had loved best in the twilight, now seemed to grow sombre, shadowy, eerie, or was it my imagination? I thought not, for I was conscious of a feeling of chilliness as I bent down and threw another log of wood on the fire.

  I had every wish to get up, turn on all lights, dispel the gloom, but it seemed foolish, for it was still twilight; moreover, I felt a disinclination to move, or was it inability? Slowly the shadows deepened, immovable I sat, wanting to get up, yet fearing to attempt it, without knowing why; there I was, a fairly able-bodied man, to all appearances, comfortably-seated in a big armchair, before a glowing fire, in a room of which the appointments left nothi
ng to be desired, surrounded by every comfort, needing but a touch to flood the room with brilliant though tastefully shaded electric light, but that touch—I could not give, I knew it, was conscious of it in every sense and nerve; knew that, free man as I appeared to be, I was bound in my chair as surely and safely as if I had been fastened with iron bands—I could not reach the bell.

  My tea was a thing of the past. Smithson, knowing my love of firelight and quiet, would probably leave the tea things unmoved for an hour, unless—and there lay my one and only hope—it occurred to his brain to come with some excuse, or without one, to see if “things” were all right. It was ridiculous, I argued with myself, to feel compelled to remain here; I would not, I would assert my boasted will-power and get up. As I determined this, a growing sense of weight oppressed me, I struggled to rise, but invisible hands kept me down; invisible but plainly felt, their cold clamminess touching my face, my neck, my hair; I sank back, still with all my wits about me yet terror stricken, shivering.

  I felt something pass before my eyes, I can best describe it as a wet cloud; and, before my horror-stricken eyes, my room seemed to alter, walls seemed to fade, bookcases to recede; I seemed to see only high stone walls, a scaffold! God in heaven! and my brother hanging by the neck. I screamed, as I fought with my hands beating the air, as if to push this awful horror from me. Some maid must have heard me, for Smithson rushed in, to find me, fully conscious, panting, struggling. Instantly he raised me, carrying me to the window, which he flung open.

  It was an hour later ere I could tell him the awful thing I had seen.

  “Will you give it up, sir?” he asked, “and come away.”

  “No!” I said, “not yet, though I may have to unless something else settles it; though what can, I do not know, for as he tortured me in his life, so my wretched brother is determined to torture me still.”

  Rather to my surprise the remainder of the night passed quietly. I was correct, I think, in calling it “torture,” as, evidently, the torture was to be intermittent and just enough at a time to keep me perpetually in a state of nervous tension.

  The day following my twilight horror I never saw nor heard anything unusual, but my household, stablemen, etc., were all subjected incessantly to discomforts and annoyances. Another maid gave me notice, and fled; a stable lad, with eyes all but jumping out of his head, shaking knees, and stammering speech, tried to tell me a garbled tale of the horses all taking fright and lashing out; all but Stella, my brother’s mare, who “whinnied, rubbing her soft nose up and down for all the world, sir, as she did when Mr. Basil petted her; and, please, I can’t bear it, sir, I’m off.” That left me with Smithson, my housekeeper, a pert kitchen girl, who boldly acclaimed she cared nought for spooks, and two men for the garden and stable. We all by this time were fully alive to the trouble, but so far were all determined to see it through. I had my doubts.

  The next day came, still quietness; what did it portend? For I could not think it meant peace. I knew my unhappy brother too well for that, still I was thankful for small mercies. What should I do with my quiet hours so long as they were left to me? thus I mused over my after-breakfast pipe. Should I ride? I thought not; that was to court trouble. Should I walk? I did not think so; for, though honourably acquitted, the village folks, and others, too, still looked at me askance, nor seemed anxious to rush to me. I would not give them the chance to cold-shoulder me. The other direction from the village? No; I could see the spinny from every side, some day I might walk past it, but not yet; there was therefore nothing left but a prowl in the grounds, read, or write. I was just about to get my cap, when a sudden ring of the front door bell made me hesitate. I would wait a minute, just in case a friend had called to look me up; but alas! for my hopes, it was only a telegram, brought up by Smithson.

  “Any reply, sir?” he asked. I opened it, read it and reread it.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “You know I’ve never left the place, Smithson, but this is from a friend I had once in London—

  The wire read—

  Don’t ever come to see me again. I wanted to see you—I would have made friends—but you have spoiled it coming like that. ALYS.

  “Say ‘No reply, ’ Smithson,” I managed to say, “and don’t come until I ring,” saying which I closed the door, once again reading my wire. “Alys!” What did it all mean? “I would have made friends”—oh, how my heart beat at the thought of such happiness—“but you have spoiled it coming like that.” Like what? I wondered, for full well I knew what had happened. Alys must be back in her studio. Basil must have shown himself to her as of old pretending to be me. But how? What had he done? Oh, God! show me a way out of my misery. What will quieten the unrestful spirit of my brother; will nothing make him cease his persecution of me—living or dead?

  Long I sat, with my head bowed on my hands. I saw no way out, I was helpless. Even my loved little girl could have come back to me, but he had prevented that. It would have been better if my life had paid forfeit, for to live in such misery was beyond my power.

  Should I go to Alys, throw myself on her mercy, tell her the whole story; let Smithson do his share. Could we convince her; and if we did, to what end? She had failed me in my hour of dire need, but that it was not entirely her fault had been explained. I would go to her. This decision made, I was restless for daylight so that I could go at once.

  Next morning I was up early, catching the first train up to town, carefully avoiding, as far as possible, those of my neighbours who were likewise bent on London.

  Usually, I enjoyed walking through the streets, having a look at shops and people; but today I was too intent upon my errand to loiter by the way, so hailed the first taxi, bidding the man drive quickly to Chelsea, when I would further direct him. As we neared the block of buildings where the studio was, my courage began to ebb. I almost wished I had not come, as, with trembling knees, I climbed the worn stairs, halted for an instant before the dull brown door with its old knocker, noticing, as I did so, that the copper plate with Alys’ name on it was shiny and bright. Then she is here, I thought, and knocked my own familiar knock. The door opened slowly, and Alys stood before me, wearing an old green overall as in days gone by. She stood an instant looking at me before she spoke, then asked in ice-cold tones—

  “Why have you come?”

  “Let me come in,” I said, “I have much to say; be just if you cannot be kind, for the sake of old times.

  Something in my voice must have touched her, for she drew back, motioning to me with her hand to enter.

  I did so, and felt the same restful calm steal over me, as I had ever done in her quiet studio, here, shut in from all sounds, save the dull rumble of the busy world outside.

  Fear left me, cares seem to lessen; for a brief moment I even forgot what had brought me here, so happy and at rest did I feel. Quite quietly, just in her low, sweet tones I had loved so well Alys spoke to me. Will you please sit down, she said, and then, as if she too remembered, her voice altered, becoming cold, as if she spoke to a stranger, as she added: “And kindly explain why you have come in spite of my wire, telling you not to come again.”

  “Again!” I said. “I have not been before, not since my trouble.”

  She laughed a little mocking laugh.

  “You are pleased to add untruthfulness to the rest of your horrible behaviour,” she said.

  “I am telling you the truth,” I answered, “absolute truth!”

  “Truth!” she replied. “You don’t, apparently, now the meaning of it. You came here, you gave me the Lotus Flower signal, I let you into the studio, where you stood laughing at me; I thought you must be drunk, until you touched me and your hand was as cold as death. You walked round my room, you upset my things. I begged you to go, you did not answer, only looked at me with the expression of a fiend, your eyes sunken, your face ghastly. And then you held my face between your two horrible cold hands, and I felt myself going faint; I screamed, and my charwoman came in. You must
have slipped out as she came in, I did not see you go; and now you sit there telling me you have not been here, and you talk about ‘truth.’ Why are you here again I ask?”

  “Will you hear me patiently?” I said;“hear my story, and then judge me. I will prove to you I was not here.”

  She seated herself some little distance from me, merely inclining her head to tell me to proceed.

  Carefully, without exaggeration, I told my tale. She listened unmoved, for a while, but gradually I saw a dawning interest in her eyes, when I told of the receipt of her wire after the morning I had spent of indecision, and for which Smithson could vouch; she seemed to become suddenly alert, and rising from her seat, came swiftly to me.

  “Your story,” she began, “sounds an improbable yarn. There are but two small items that make me even half inclined to believe you. The first—I know it was not you who sent me the false telegram, which resulted in my being kept a prisoner until your trial was over. I will tell you about that horrible time later on. The second item—whoever it was who came here, purporting to be you, did not give your signal on the knocker, and tonight I heard it; I felt I must open the door. I am glad I did; but, oh! your story is too horrible to believe. I must prove it; I must know. May I return with you; your housekeeper will, I know, look after me. There are things I must find out; will you let me come?”

  Would I let her come? Dear heaven! how my heart beat at the mere thought of it! Alys, my one and only love, under my roof! But I must not frighten her, so merely said—

  “Yes, come, my housekeeper shall look after you; come by all means if you are not afraid.”

  So within an hour we left together, managed to find a quiet place for some food, sent a wire to Smithson to order the car to meet the evening train from town, and to tell Mrs. Goodson, my housekeeper, to prepare rooms for a lady. We caught a train about four, arriving at our station somewhere about eight, where the run-a-bout met us. The short distance to “The Park” was soon covered, though it, like the rest of our journey, was almost passed in silence. I helped Alys out, handing her bag to Smithson, with the remark—