At last came one never-to-be-forgotten night. Willis had been out spending the evening with friends, leaving me alone. During those hours, I endured every conceivable torment from my haunting brother, and I was reduced to a quivering bunch of nerves by the time Willis returned. He saw at once that all was not well with me, nor did he need any spoken word to show him I was in the last stage of exhaustion.
“Doctor,” I began, but he cut me short—
“Don’t say it,” he ordered. “I can see you are at the end of your endurance, but you will not end your torture by taking your own life.”
I stared at him, for though I had never hinted such a thing to him, this end of my trouble had lately been much in my mind. “Cheer up, old man” he went on. “I have another solution, but first I must give you a dose to pull you together, then I have something to tell you; and when I have told you, don’t put me down as an interfering ass. As you know, I have spent the evening with some friends, but they are an unconventional crowd, mostly artists or writers. I am an outsider, but more or less am one of them, at heart, at least, and they dub me their Medico. Tonight the talk turned on ghosts, and hauntings. A young fellow, gave us a strange story of a man he knew, who was, so the man said, ‘haunted’ by the spirit of his brother who had been hanged for murder. Do you follow me, old man. I found myself listening to your story, as seen from another point of view.
“One or two present believed it, and pitied you; several derided it; and a little girl, who had listened silently and attentively throughout, announced that she believed it to be a fabrication right through, that she had reason to know this haunted man, as he called himself, was an untruthful, unscrupulous man, but added she would like to prove his story true, for several reasons. I saw at once that chance, Providence—call it what you will, had led me face to face with the girl you love, and put into my hands, perhaps, a better way of helping you than with my drugs.
“To cut my story short, I managed to get introduced to Miss Stainton, and in a very few moments I had interested her in a case of haunting which was in my care. She listened, open-eyed, believed me, and then rather falteringly asked me could I not get to know her friend and find out if he also was truly, as he believed, haunted. Little by little I led her on, until she confessed to me that she loved this man, but had no reason to believe him, and every reason to distrust him. Then, and then only, I, too, confessed, told her it was you; and at this moment she awaits a sign or message from you, telling her you forgive all her doubt of you.
Gone were my fears, gone my wish to end my life! “Doctor,” I said, grasping his hand, “you give me hope, but, alas! I am a broken-down man, I dare not ask a girl to share such a life.”
“Try it,” he answered. “Who knows that love and all the inspiration it brings, may not help, try it.”
That night, my brother stood beside my bed until early dawn, the old mocking smile upon his lips, I closed my eyes, his cold hand was laid on my face; I opened them, to see him always at his post beside me. As my thoughts wandered to Alys, he shook his fist menacingly at me, his expression seeming to say:
“Do not dare to get the better of me.”
With love in my heart, I dared it all. I rose early and sent a messenger to the address Willis had given me, then waited.
She did not keep me long in suspense, for shortly after breakfast was over the maid announced:
“Miss Stainton for the doctor.”
Willis looked at me, motioned me to go, and with faltering steps I entered his study.
“Alys,” I murmured, fearing almost to put out my hand, “you have come.”
For an instant she looked at me, then, with a sob, was in my arms.
“Do you believe me?” I asked.
“Can you ask?” she answered. “I should not be here unless I did. Dr. Willis convinced me that you spoke the truth, and that I had wrongfully judged you. I am here because I love you, here if you love me, to help you.”
“I have never ceased to love you, dear,” I answered. “But I dare not ask you to share my haunted, troubled life.”
“I am going to share it, however, and it may be neither troubled nor haunted, we will see.”
About a week after this meeting, a quiet wedding took place at a Registry Office. It was not the wedding I would have chosen for my little girl, but we judged it best, as she insisted upon my not going back home alone. We two, and our friend Willis, had a merry little luncheon later, and then my wife and I travelled home.
Once again my home became a real home. In it love ruled and reigned supreme. Alys’ life, her ideas, her aims, were so pure, so true, so noble, that gradually the evil sounds in my house began to grow less and less, until one winter’s day, she had been out all afternoon, I did not know where, and I had been alone; she came in about five, and found me in the library, deep in thought; and, kneeling down on the hearth rug, began to tell me where she had been.
As she began, I suddenly saw the old familiar, queer light begin to appear in the dim room. She saw it, too, and raising her head, looked before her, with shining eyes.
“Basil,” she called, “have you come to say you are sorry?”
I gazed at her, wonderingly, for, as she spoke, the form of my brother stood before us, one pale hand was laid upon her little head, the other was outstretched to me, as with a sorrowful smile he softly vanished, leaving behind him for an instant, a glowing radiant light, in place of the cold, chilly gleams which formerly came and went with him.
Then silence fell upon us.
“Tell me where you have been,” I asked her, in a few moments.
Shyly she answered:
“I went to put flowers on the grave of Esmé Simpson,” she said, “and I got permission from the governor of the prison to lay a tiny wreath on the earth where your poor sinning brother lay.”
Probably it is an unknown thing, I have never heard of it being done, that someone could so think of a murderer as to pity him and softly lay a flower upon so dishonoured a grave; but maybe the very act of love would inspire the unhappy soul to long for better higher things; and in the eyes of his Maker, repent and struggle to atone in the Great Beyond for the sin he committed on earth. I may, or I may not be right in my theory, but I prefer to think that this act of tender love on the part of my dearly-loved little girl was the means of aiding my unhappy brother, as her tender love and devotion helped and strengthened all with whom she came in contact.
Be this as it may, from that day onwards our home and ourselves were free from all trace of haunting. As the years passed, they only served to hold us firmer in our endeavours, as they held us more and more securely in bonds of love, faith and comradeship.
Nothing could shake our trust and love for each other, devotion seemed almost a weak word to express all that we lavished on each other. Dr. Willis, our most valued friend, stayed with us often, and had been heard so say, jokingly, he wouldn’t mind being haunted, if it brought such happiness, though he and I knew it was love for “all things great and small” that brought happiness to us, as it must to all.
Sylvia
It was just one of those days when all the world seemed to go awry, or it appeared so. Probably, I was over-tired or worried, for war news and rationing were both beginning to leave their mark: war news, because one must wear a smile, no matter how long the casualty lists grew; rationing, because I was rapidly becoming worn out, perpetually struggling to feed us all somehow. All this is really not sufficient excuse for nerves at the point of breaking, as mine were; and I, for once, welcomed a severe attack of “flue,” followed by my doctor’s advice to go away for a couple of weeks to pick up. Without the “flue,” I should have felt compelled to ignore his advice in these strenuous times; but, triumphantly armed with that evil germ of “flue,” I felt I was justified in taking it.
As usual, I took my ticket for a little-known spot in Wales. I say “as usual,” because it was the one spot I loved best—a spot which will ever hold my happiest memories, as it h
olds some of my saddest.
I felt uplifted, invigorated, merely gazing upon my beloved mountains as the train ran down the long incline before it stopped at the station—names are unnecessary, so few people know it. Alighting, I made my way to the old inn which stood in a large open square at one end of the village street—a street composed of little houses, about four nondescript shops, two better shops, and a post office. I did not care what the shops contained—I loved them all, and the people were my very good friends.
There was a tiny shop where I could buy a morning paper, as well as fishing tackle and flies; and there I paused, just to see if my friend, who dwelt there, remembered me. He did; so I went on my way, to receive the welcome I was always sure of from the good people at the inn. A bright fire was burning gaily in the sitting-room (always called mine) although it was June; for up here in the hills, evenings were chilly until perhaps August. I did not pause by the fire, my steps took me straight to the window, to gaze on a view which to me, has not an equal in this or any other country which I have seen.
I have stood at that window times uncountable. I have looked at these high mountains when they have been snow-covered; I have watched the mist and driving rain lashing down them until every trickling stream was white foam. I have watched them with tears in my eyes; I have stretched out my arms to them and laughed. I loved them, and the valley beneath them, as I have loved few things in this world; and this June evening, I think I loved them best of all, as they stood serene, steady, grand, far above the worries of the day; seeming, by their great peace, to sooth my jangled nerves, bidding me look up, be hopeful, and not cast down. A faint purple haze hung over them, giving promise of a glorious day tomorrow, and I watched until one or two stars were visible, and lights began to twinkle here and there from distant farms; then, with a sigh of happiness I turned to my evening meal, which I had entirely forgotten.
A peaceful night in my quaint bedroom found me early next morning, feeling already tons better, and quite ready for a tramp. I knew before I started, which way my feet would inevitably turn; I could not help it, up the valley following the little river up and up, I knew I must go, away from the cottages, past where the river narrows and falls in a mad rush for some twenty feet, up, and still up, until I reached the wild moorland, where I knew I should find a patch of mauve, scented orchids.
It has always been a source of wonder to me how such things as scented orchids came there, on that rough wild moor; but I always found them there in June, and revelled in their beauty and scent. I was not by this time, more than three miles from the village, yet I might have been a hundred, so still, so solitary was it. The crying of baby lambs, and the rushing sound of the river, now left below me, were all the sounds to break the silence, of the everlasting hills, and here I stayed for many hours, resting, idling, dreaming; the world, war, rations, all forgotten.
I supposed I dozed, for when I came back to earth, I found it was nearly four o’clock. Time I was moving I thought, and forthwith began to walk to the nearest farm, where I knew they would gladly make a cup of tea for me. Towards it I wended my steps, carefully carrying my bunch of orchids. The farm I wanted lay a little further up the mountain, off the beaten track, yet not far from a main, if somewhat rough road. I would have my tea, I thought, and return by the road, as being easier walking for my first day.
I got my tea, as also my welcome; and in a little kitchen, rough but homely, I rested and chatted.
“You are late to go down,” said my friend of the farm, “are you not afraid?”
“Afraid!” I said. “Never, up here, and I love to go down to the village in the dusk, and watch the lights twinkle on the hills; but I will not leave it any longer, so ‘Goodnight,’ and very many thanks,” and the farm door closed behind me.
How glorious it was, how serene! I couldn’t leave it, I didn’t care if I got back for dinner or not, the air was so pure, so clean. Some people would say like champagne, though, personally, I always consider that simile a slight on pure mountain air!
I wandered slowly along, humming a little song, drinking in the beauty, until a tempting gate seemed to call forcibly for a halt, and I took my favourite position on its top rail, for just five minutes. Five minutes passed, and then another five, and still I lingered, gazing at the pink light in which the setting sun had bathed the mountains. As I gazed, I heard the distant creaking of wheels, as if some lumbering cart or van was coming up the winding hill. I will just wait until it comes.
I heard the creaking coming nearer and nearer; and the stamp of horses’ feet as if they strained pulling up the hill, louder and clearer; until I found myself saying, “One more corner, then I can see them and go.”A whip cracked, as a slowly-moving caravan hove in sight.
Two figures walked beside it, a man and a woman, seemingly silent, probably tired. Up the hill they came, a few baskets dangling at the sides of the caravan, the door of which stood open. Now they had nearly reached me, so nearly that I could speak to them. Slowly they passed me.
“Goodnight,” I called, but neither answered me. They moved on, unseeing, apparently unhearing.
“Rough road,” I said again. No answer was vouchsafed to me. They were past me now, just past me, and I turned to watch them, going along a bit of straight road.
There was nothing on the road! No slow-moving caravan, no straining horses, no man, no woman; the road, clear and white in the falling dusk, was empty—save for myself. Yet they had been there, I had seen them, spoken to them, and now they had gone, gone without a sound; but, as the thought crossed my mind, I was startled by two pistol shots, which rang out clearly, echoing and re-echoing among the hills, and then silence, deep silence, as if the mountains held some secret which they would not share. I found I was trembling, cold and scared! What did it all mean? Where or what was that caravan? Who were that man and woman who could vanish so completely and so swiftly? I could not answer, but my walk back developed into a run, so eager was I to find myself once more back in the village, amongst friends.
Later that evening, the doctor of the little village paid me a visit, but chaffed me upon my absentmindedness, though he ended by asking me if I didn’t feel well, and ordering for me a hot drink. Presently I revived, and ventured to ask him if he had ever met a caravan on a lonely road in the hills?
He met my question by another: “Have you seen it?”
“I have,” I replied; “and if you promise not to certify me as insane, I will tell you about it,” and then and there I told him my story.
He listened in silence until I finished, and then said:
“I am unable to explain it; but if you are not tired, I will tell you a story.”
I give his story as he told it to me, only adding:
“I am not the only person who saw and heard the caravan, nor am I the only person who believes it still lumbers up the mountain road as the dusk falls.”
“I will not tell you the story in my own words, my friend,” said the doctor, as he lit his pipe. “I would rather tell it as it was written down by my great grandmother, who, I believe, got the story from one of those who lived in it. She wrote it, and a friend of hers later rewrote it from her facts; wrote it, he always said, because even today, as you have proved, the remembrance of that tragedy still remains with us. It is many years ago, and who can tell for how many more years, someone, with a more sensitive nature than others, will see and hear the lumbering caravan. Maybe some will, as you did, speak to the man or woman, meeting with nought but silence—the silence of those long gone, and yet whose spirits live at times amongst their old haunts.”
“But now, my story, for the time is getting on.”
Many years ago, on such a fine day as this, a gaudily painted caravan was jolting slowly on its way along one of the most beautiful lanes in Wales, lending a picturesque touch of colour to an already lovely scene. High mountains towered on every side some of them with their grand crests bidden in a faint-hanging mist, which only served to give them the touc
h of mystery which the unseen always lends. Foliage was at its greatest beauty. Banks and fields were gay with wild flowers, hedges sweet with wild roses and honeysuckle.
The heat was intense, dust lay thick on the roads. The mountain rills and little torrents, so rushing and racing in the winter when the snows melted, were quiet now, and only the winding river at the foot of the hill moved on, though even that was in a sluggish way, as if it would rather hang about in pools without making an effort to glide along over the stones towards the sea. All nature was drowsy; the cattle under the trees idly flicking the flies with their tails, stood, as if even that necessary labour were a toil.
Here and there a group of hay-makers rested under the hedges, glad of the respite, and the only thing which seemed bent on getting along was the slowly-moving caravan. It was evidently the leader of a band of gipsies, for a long way behind it, one caught a glimpse of the roof and little chimney of another caravan.
The first one was gaily painted in reds and blues, the little windows were closely curtained with spotted muslin, and any brass that was visible shone like burnished gold. Two strapping grey horses drew it, the driver walking beside them. He was a splendid-looking man, probably about thirty years of age, dark, clean-shaven, broad-shouldered and muscular, dressed in riding attire, with breeches and gaiters, a blue flannel shirt with a low collar, showing a strong brown throat and neck. He wore a slouch hat, and swung a little switch, though he seldom used it on his horses.
The rest of the gipsies must have been far behind, or resting within the caravan, save one other—a girl—who sat on the steps at the back of the caravan, her chin resting in the palm of her hand, her eyes fixed steadily on the long road they had just traversed.
The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Bessie Kyffin-Taylor-From Out of the Silence Page 17