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

by Bessie Kyffin-Taylor

  She was dressed in a dark skirt, worn and patched, and a blouse which had once been pink—now washed and faded to a shade of yellow—her hair was dark, though, where the sun touched it, it seemed almost red, her eyes were dark, a mixture of grey and green, darkly lashed, her face a perfect oval—colourless, except for the brown tinge of sun-burn, her little hands burnt nearly tan-colour, were bare of the usual gipsy rings.

  She seemed lost in a dream, and the voice of the driver speaking to her, caused her to give a sudden start.

  “Sylvia,” he said, “why don’t you come and. sit in front and see the glorious view, and the road we are going?”

  “Because,” answered the girl, with a faint smile, “I prefer to try and look along the road I have come.”

  “Always the same,” the man muttered, “always trying to search into the past. Why on earth can’t you give it up, Sylvia, and be content with the future?”

  “The future,” said the girl, sadly, “holds nothing for me—the past, everything—if only I could remember! How long is it Jim, since I first began to live in a caravan? I seem to dimly remember some other life once, and I know, I feel, I was not always here.”

  “I do not know,” answered Jim. “I had been in Australia and news from England brought me home, and I joined this tribe, because I was soon penniless—you were not here then. I was obliged to go away again shortly. I was away six months, and when I came back, you were here—a little girl of ten or so—and here you have been ever since, and you must be seventeen or eighteen now. Mother Alison expects you to marry her son, Jake, you know—are you going to?”

  “No! never!” replied Sylvia. “I hate his coarse ways, I hate his jokes, his talk, his ignorance—everything about him—but I suppose Mother Alison will torment me until I give in,” she shuddered.

  “Do you remember if Jake was here when you came, Sylvia?”

  “I don’t know,” answered the girl, putting her hand to her head in a dazed way. “I forget—I was ill at first, and when I grew strong, I had forgotten. I don’t think I was called ‘Sylvia’ always,” she went on. “Some other name glimmers in my mind sometimes. I must not bother” she added. “I am happy, and even Jake is good to me. He says he has much to make up to me. I don’t understand what he means, but he is generally kind—except if he tries to make love to me, then I hate him, and Alison is unkind to me then. Where are we now, Jim?”

  “I am not sure, answered the man, “but in any case it’s time we had a rest and some tea.” He called to his horses, who obeyed his voice and drew up. He and the girl seated themselves on the bank to await the arrival of the rest of the band.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Sylvia rose, saying:

  “I can hear them coming, Jim, they must be near, I heard Molly laugh I’m sure.”

  “No doubt,” answered Jim, “since she seldom does anything else—useless baggage,” he added.

  “Jim!” said Sylvia, in amazement. “I thought you were fond of Mollie. Alison says you love her, and that you are all she thinks about.”

  “They are wrong then,” said the man, vehemently. “I care less than nothing for lazy Mollie; women and woman’s love are not for me, either now, or ever. My life was spoilt years ago by a dastardly black lie, and for all my careless life of freedom, I am only a hunted animal, never knowing the moment I shall be called upon to pay the penalty for a wrong that was not rightly laid at my door. But never mind little girl, don’t look so woebegone, I’m happy enough under the skies, sunshine or stars, and if sooner or later my freedom ends, well—I must know that at least I leave no woman to suffer.” And lighting a cigarette, he moved carelessly away to his horses, to pat and caress them—his chums, perhaps his safe confidants.

  And Sylvia, with white face and eyes burning with tears she dare not shed, gazed after him, with an aching heart, murmuring to herself:

  “Ah! my love! my bonny brave lad! what is it that darkens your life, and with it, mine? For you love me, Jim; I feel you do, yet, there is some shadow on your life, and because of that you treat me as you do—one day kind, the next cold as ice to me, and my heart is breaking for you, yet I can only be silent.”

  There was not time for brooding however, for two other caravans now lumbered up.

  The first, hung all over with baskets and chairs, made, so thought the simple-minded villagers, by the gipsies; in reality, turned out of factories, probably in other countries by the hundred. A man was leading the horses: a man with a dark, sinister face, though handsome in a rough, uncouth style, and by his side danced his sister Mollie—almost fair for a gipsy, with saucy blue eyes, up-turned nose, add merry mouth.

  No dark-browed gipsy this, but a laughing, merry hoyden, who thought the world a good place to play in, and whose greatest trouble was the frequent whippings from her grandmother, for what she called “the lazy idle life” the girl led. If a fire was to be made, Mollie would be sitting threading gay beads, to hang round her pretty neck; if there was washing to be done, Mollie would be away in the woods gathering flowers; never at hand if there was work to be done her mother said, though pretty Mollie was far the best hand at selling a basket, or persuading a bony and angular spinster that a hard, unyielding basket-chair “would be cosy, lady, to nurse your babies by the fire, some day.”

  Only one person in all the tribe could ever induce Mollie to abandon her own pleasure and do a turn for someone else: Jim alone achieved this, and to him she gave a dog-like devotion and obeyed his every word.

  It was quickly decided to pitch their tents and remain where they were for the night, and each one was soon busy with his or her allotted task—all but Mollie, who vanished as usual, leaving who would to do her share.

  Tea was soon over, and the men slouched off to pitch tents, water the horses, and make ready for the night; and Alison, “Mother Alison,” as the tribe called her, lit a short pipe, and watched from under her low-beetling brows that the others did their work properly. Mollie’s mother did the lion’s share, and to all appearance was the most fitted for it—tall, strong, muscular, big capable hands, arms which many a man might envy, and a hard, unprepossessing face, from which the coarse black hair was tightly dragged in uncompromising severity. She worked swiftly and in silence, and when all was done, turned to Sylvia, and in a harsh voice told her to “get baskets and be gone to the village to sell them.”

  The old dame, with her pipe, raised her head at this, and said in questioning tones: “Is’t wise, think you, ’Liza?

  “Tut!” answered the other. “We may as well face it, Gran, ’tis many years now, and it’s as well to know for certain—let the child go.”

  Sylvia who was used to their abrupt conversations and never joined in, picked out a few of the prettiest baskets, and made her way down to the village, nestling peacefully below them.

  From his work with the horses, Jake saw her, and called out: “Where art thou going to, lass?”

  “To sell baskets,” answered the girl. “Wish me luck, Jake. Something tells me I’ll have good luck this evening.”

  Muttering to himself, “Mother must be mad,” Jake turned and swung himself up the caravan steps.

  “Mother!” he cried. “Ar’t mad to send the girl to the village, after all these years? Must thee tempt Providence in this way?”

  “Easy, son, easy,” answered the woman. “The girl’s mind has gone, never to return—it never has done, it never will—but this one test I must and will have, for thy safety, then I can rest. The girl will never remember, and thou, lad, ar’t altered in eight years. She will not be gone long, and it is worth it for my peace. Be gone to your work, and be ready for some love-making when the girl returns. I’d be best pleased to see thee wed, and some of her fine lady ways knocked out of the girl.”

  The man slunk out without further question.

  Sylvia went happily on her way all unknowing that she was the object of discussion, and hoping she would meet with a little kindness instead of the usual roughness,
and slamming of doors in her face. Half-dreamily she wandered on until she reached the little village.

  A long, straggling street—one or two poor looking shops and a couple of decent-looking inns was all it consisted of, and at the further end, it seemed to terminate in a high stone wall, into which were set a massive pair of wrought iron gates with coat of arms in gold and blue, and a little way inside stood a neat-looking black and white lodge. A yard or two from the gates was a quaint door in the wall, which now stood open. Sylvia, peering in, saw a pretty patch of garden and an old lady with very white hair asleep in a chair, with a black cat on her knee.

  As Sylvia looked, she awoke from her nap, and, catching tight of the girl, cried out:

  “What do you want? Who are you? Aye! dearie me, dearie me! it’s gipsies, and me asleep! Come here, girl, I hate gipsies, but you don’t look bad and I want a basket.”

  “Which will you have?” asked the girl.

  “There, there, I never could choose anything in a hurry. I must chance your being honest. Come inside and put them on the table.”

  “What a pretty kitchen,” said Sylvia. “Do you live here alone?”

  “Aye! alone now,” said the dame, “unless my lady sends for me to the castle.”

  “It must be very lonely,” said Sylvia, gently.

  “It is so, too lonely for me at times, and I weep over the old days—long since gone, and my bonny bairn—the light of my eyes.”

  “Had you a child?” asked Sylvia.

  “No, no, none of my own, but my own in all but name—but there, I’m a stupid old woman, talking to a gipsy girl, but sometimes it is so silent, I feel I must speak. Sit you down, I’ll get you some tea; you have a gentle, sweet face.”

  “Who lives at the castle?” asked Sylvia, as she drank the tea the old lady made for her.

  “Only her ladyship—poor dear lady!”

  “Is she ill?” asked Sylvia.

  “No, no, not ill, except in mind. She has scarcely spoken since the awful thing happened.”

  “Can you tell me about it?” questioned the girl.

  “Yes, I suppose I can,” said the old lady, who was not averse to a gossip when anyone would listen. “Anyway, I can try, though it’s a gruesome tale.”

  “Old Sir John Foulks was alive then, and it was always a grief to his wife that they had not a son to come after them; but when Sir John died, he directed by his will that his two nephews—the sons of his younger brother, should live in turn for twelve months each at the castle, and that my lady was to decide in four years which would more fitly inherit.

  “It could not be decided by seniority, as they were twins. They drew lots as to which should come on the first visit, and it fell to Lionel.”

  “Well,” continued the old lady, “Mr. Lionel Troy came, but somehow he did not seem to get on with the people. He lacked the qualities which make men loved: he was weak-spirited, nervous on a horse, did not care for shooting, and preferred an afternoon at the White Arms drinking and playing cards, to a day after the hounds, and he grudged every rabbit and bird shot by anyone but his own pals, and they were a queer lot. He wasn’t straight even in his dealings with poachers, but uses dirty underhand methods of catching them, and was bitterly disliked in consequence.

  “Mr. Max came next, and his first twelve months was a very different thing. He was all that his brother was not—genial, frank, manly, generous, a thorough sportsman—his worst fault being his hot, uncontrollable temper; and though strict, he was just, and not too hard on the men who snared a few rabbits to feed big families with.

  “The terms of the will were, unfortunately, well known, and gossip among the villagers caused a feeling of bitter jealousy to spring up between the brothers.

  “Well, Mr. Max’s first visit came to an end, and Mr. Lionel’s second year began; but just at this time, a niece of her ladyship came home from India—her husband died there, and my lady offered a home to her, and her little girl aged ten. Ah! my bonny baby, how sweet she was! my little Chrystabel,” and the old dame paused to wipe her eyes, not seeing that the mention of the child’s name had brought a strained look to her guest’s face, and that, with dilated eyes, she was breathlessly hanging on every word, with white face and quivering nerves.

  “That year was a better one for Mr. Lionel, he was softer, more lovable, and was trying hard to win favour; and the reason was little Chrystabel. He adored the child, and her soft baby fingers could lead him anywhere. Indeed folks began to say he would win through his love of the little girl; but, just getting near Christmas, he lost ground again, through a bitter time with the poachers; and he got one fellow—a stranger—locked up for a month; and it came out that the fellow was a skilled poacher, and was catching game for a man who was ill and couldn’t work, and whose wife and little ones were starving. Feeling ran high in the village against Mr. Lionel, and all felt he had lost.

  “The morrow was the day for Mr. Max to return; and by some chance, through deep snow, Mr. Lionel was delayed, and the brothers met. It was late at night when Mr. Max came, and little Chrystabel, whom he had never seen, had gone to bed. Had she been about, with her sweet face, perhaps the tragedy would never have happened, but the two young men met in the library—met as enemies, and in bitterest spirit. They were heard with voices raised, and using angry words. Mr. Lionel was twitting his brother for being a saint, ’ and poor Mr. Max lost his temper, and called Mr. Lionel ‘a sneaking cad,’ who tried to curry favour; and then there was a scream—a pistol shot, and someone burst into the room to find traces of a fierce struggle—an open window, Lionel dead on the floor with a bullet through his heart—and silence.

  “The police were sent for, and evidence seemed all to point to poor Mr. Max as his brother’s murderer and a warrant was issued for his arrest, and a search for him was made; but in vain, he had gone, as if the earth had swallowed him, and the most awful thing was, that when, some hours later, I went to see my baby, to see if the disturbance had awakened her, she was not there! Not a trace of her could be found, and never has been.

  A sudden sharp scream brought the old lady to a stop, and she jumped up, to see her guest fall suddenly, heavily, hitting her head on the fender.

  “Oh! what is it?” moaned the girl. “I—” When she opened her eyes some moments later, after a violent shaking by the old lady, “Something seems to have happened to my head—What were you telling me? Oh, I know. I remember, a library—men—fighting—what does it all mean? Tell me quickly—has that library got red walls with big gold birds on them? Is there a rug with a big bear’s head on it? Tell me—tell me.”

  Trembling in every limb, the old lady nodded.

  “Yes, yes. Who are you? How do you know?” she whispered. “My old eyes fail, but there was something in your voice which held me from the first.”

  “Take me to the house,” said the girl. “I must see the house. I must remember, but it is all so dim.”

  “We will go,” said the old lady, “but I am weak and frail.”

  Together they set out, and as they neared the castle the girl shuddered, and gazed.

  “Take me quickly to that room,” she said, and the old lady led her through a side door along endless passages, and at the entrance to a fine hall she stopped abruptly.

  “Go yourself,” she said. “See if you know.”

  And slowly the girl crossed the hall and turned the massive handle of a door, and entered. As she did so, the old lady turned on the lights and flooded the room with a soft glow; and, with a low cry, the gipsy girl sank down on the floor.

  “It is,” she sobbed. “I am right. I remember the room. Two men—one I knew, the other I did not. I had left my dolly, and crept down in my nightgown with bare feet to get it. They never heard me, and I stood at the door. I can see it all again,” she sobbed. “A window flung open, a rough man entering, who shouted something about paying back, and raised a pistol he had in his hand, there was a shot, and Mr. Lionel fell; the other man never moved, never saw me
, but the man with the pistol saw me, and called out: ‘God! a child!’ and I felt a fearful knock on my head, and never remembered again—until now. I found myself in a gipsy caravan later; was told I had been ill, and had always lived there; and life has been one long struggle to remember. Oh! where is my mother—my grannie? Does anyone know me?”

  Silently, with the tears pouring down her withered cheeks the old lady put her into a chair and went away telling her to remain; some twenty minutes after, she returned, bringing a frail, white-haired lady, probably not more than forty years of age but looking many years more.

  “Will you speak to this girl, please, Lady Maud?” asked the old woman.

  Lady Maud turned to the girl.

  “Speak, girl; who are you?” she gasped. “Who are you with my Chrystabel’s eyes and voice?”

  “I am your little girl. Oh! mother! mother! try to remember me!”

  And there in the old library every detail of the tragedy was gone into, and at last the blame was laid at the right door.

  “Must I tell?” sobbed the girl. “It was Jake—I remember now, but he has been good to me—must I tell?”

  “I fear so,” answered her mother, “for poor Max is homeless and suspected until you do. It must be done now—at once. Come, dear.”

  ******

  A few hours later a carriage drew up by the gipsy encampment, where quiet and peace seemed to reign. A wood fire was burning, and round it sat, or lay, the gipsies.

  Old Mother Alison, smoking her pipe, was holding out her skinny hands to the blaze; Jake and his mother were sitting, talking in low tones; Jim, lounging gracefully, silently smoking, and pretty Mollie was twanging two strings of a worn-out banjo.

  With a low cry, Sylvia sprang into the midst of them.

  “Oh! my friends,” she cried, “I did not mean to harm you. I have remembered, and I had told all before I realised all that it meant. Forgive me! Forgive me!”