But a man cannot dangle about a woman’s skirts for months, without a desire to assure himself of what is to be his real fate. Dreading rejection—hoping an acceptance—he rushes forward; and I, Squire Orton’s only heir, had, at beautiful Florence Bradlaw’s feet, that Christmas Eve, besought her promise to be mine.
The declaration had not taken long to speak—nor the answer. The result was the following tableau. I was standing, with gloomy, angry, despairing brow, near the table; Florence a few paces off by the fire, calm, though her colour was heightened, her head slightly bent, and her fingers plucked, unconsciously, to pieces some winter flowers I had brought her.
“This, then, is your final reply, Florence?” I exclaimed huskily, after a moment’s silence. “After all, you do not love me—you will not marry me?”
“I did not say I did not love you, Sydney,” she answered, quietly, without any agitation, glancing up. “I said I could not, under the circumstances, marry you.”
“And those circumstances?”
“Your utter dependence on your uncle, Squire Orton. He is, if report speaks true, very—pardon my saying it—fond of his wealth and Miss Mayfield. Supposing, were you to offend him, he were to disinherit you? You would be penniless! What should we do?—I, who hate, abhor poverty!”
“Florence!” I cried earnestly, “you should not feel it; I would work day and night that you should not.” Then I could not refrain from adding, rather bitterly, “But this is scarcely a proof of real love.”
“Excuse me,” she said; “it is, in my eyes, the truest, being destitute of all folly of romance, which ever leads to misery and discontent. Better in marriage, as other matters, to look well into the future, than leap blindly.”
I was silent; her words cut me to the heart; but I loved her. After a space, I said, “Why should he disinherit me—I am his heir?”
“A fact a dash of his pen can alter,” she rejoined, her cheek flushing with passionate indignation, as she continued, “Why would he disinherit you? For wedding me, whom he hates equally as he loves his gold.”
I did not refute it; I knew well enough what she said was true. My uncle was never flattering in the terms he applied to Florence. “Heartless!” “Extravagant coquette!” “Selfish flirt!” were among the mildest. Thus her supposition of my disinheritance was not improbable. Did he imagine the gold he held so carefully would be squandered by my wife, I felt he would cut me off with a shilling. To prevent the chance of this, no doubt, was the reason that, though over twenty-one, he yet treated me as a boy. My allowance was large, but entirely dependent on his will.
“I have received your answer; I accept it, Florence,” I said, coldly. “I suppose it is farewell with us for ever?”
“I do not say so!” And lifting her dark, brilliant eyes, she shot at me a glance that thrilled through every nerve, causing them to throb with the fever of my passion. “There is no hurry to decide yet, Sydney. Let us think the words just spoken were never uttered. Let us be the same as before, and wait. Who knows what may happen even in a few weeks?”
She extended her hand, and as I took it, her unpronounced thought seemed to communicate itself to me. My uncle was old—the winter was a severe one—he might die.
“Florence,” I said, a tremor running through my frame, “tell me, if I were master of Orton Hall, would you be mine?”
She drooped her eyes, hesitated, and murmured, “Yes; if you were master of Orton, Sydney, this hand should be yours at once.”
“Then, heaven forgive me! but I wish this day I were, for my love is more than I can bear.”
I drew her rapidly towards me, imprinted a burning kiss on her lips; then, frightened at my audacity, hastened from the house.
As the crisp snow flew scattered by my angry tread, I reflected with rage upon the misery, as I thought it, of my position. A man in years as heart, the penuriousness of my uncle held me like a schoolboy. Money I might have, but not freedom. Northumberland must be my home, as his. Though my wings were strong, I must not fly from the parent nest.
“Better had he flung me forth to starve,” I ejaculated, fiercely; “better if he had given me some profession, where I could have fought my own way in the world, and wedded whom I pleased.”
It yet was not too late, and I determined to see and put the suggestion to him at once, for the Hall was insupportable parted from Florence.
On entering, I encountered Susie Mayfield, an orphan and protégée of Squire Orton’s. Rumour whispered that she was the only child of the only woman he ever loved. I believe it was so. Pretty, ever-gentle Susie, I regarded as a sister. Indeed, after Florence, I adored her. She and I seemed one. Though two years her elder, it was to her I had ever carried my boyish troubles; and many a time, in that innocent period of our lives, had wept out my angry passions on her breast.
Once I had been on the point of death from fever—a malignant one—when Susie, despite all remonstrance, had never quitted my couch. On an effort being made to remove her, stamping her foot in girlish rage, she had exclaimed, “If you take me away, I will catch the fever, I will; but I won’t if you let me remain!”
She did remain, and when consciousness returned, it was a blessed thing, after the wild, fevered delirium, to gaze on Susie’s affectionate little face, as she flitted with a grave air of importance about the bed. I vowed I would never forget it—that I would love her as a dear, dear sister all my life.
I told her so; she blushed, laughed, said she hoped I would, then abruptly quitted my side, not to return for above an hour.
But men are ungrateful monsters. When I got so well as almost not to remember I had been ill, I fear I had neglected Susie Mayfield, especially when Florence Bradlaw, the belle of the county, engrossed my whole attention.
As we now met, I was passing her unnoticed, when starting, she exclaimed, “Oh, Sydney, you are ill! What has troubled you? Why do you look so angry?”
“Ill! angry!” I repeated, sharply; “I am neither. What prying eyes girls have! Pray attend to your music and sewing, and not to me. Where is the Squire?”
She shrunk away as if struck, then answered, “I did not mean to offend, Sydney. The Squire has gone to Otterlee, and will not return till evening.”
The slight tremor in her voice, as she concluded, recalled me to a sense of my brutality. Quickly I swung round on my heel, to apologize. She was moving rapidly down the corridor, and I fancied her handkerchief was at her eyes.
“What a savage I am!” I muttered. “What harm has she ever done, that I should be such a bearish cub to her? Susie!” I called, following.
She seemed, at first, to think of avoiding me; but without she had absolutely run, I must have overtaken her, so she turned and met me. I could have sworn tears were in her eyes, they were so bright; yet her quiet smile made me doubt.
“Susie, dear,” I said, taking her small hands in mine, “I was an unmanly brute to speak to you as I did just now; you are the kindest of kind little women. Susie, I believe you are the truest—the best friend I have.”
“I should like to be so, Sydney,” she rejoined in low tones. “It is but right I should, for are not you so to me?”
“I!” I ejaculated. “Why, Susie, I am an ungrateful wretch! But, Susie, I am in trouble—great trouble. Let that, dear, be my excuse. Don’t ask what it is; you shall hear soon, only I must see my uncle first.” Stooping, I kissed her. It brought a colour to her cheek, although the salutation was ordinary enough; for, raised together from childhood, we naturally acted as brother and sister. Indeed, I noticed that any endearment of the kind apparently gave singular satisfaction to Squire Orton.
Had not my brain been so full of Florence Bradlaw, it might have occurred to me that he hoped Susie would be the wife of my selection. As it was, I looked upon her so much as a sister, that Susie and marriage never presented themselves together before me.
Content in having apologized for my rudeness, and seen her smile, I proceeded to my own room, to await my uncle’s
return. It would be some while yet, but my brain was fevered, and I was too restless to support companionship. My mind was made up to ask him to grant me a regular income, and obtain for me the means of entering some profession.
Sitting and pondering, the fascination Florence exerted over me increased in intensity, and I felt it was utterly impossible for me to renounce her. She had confessed she cared for me; her own lips had said “Wait!” and full of the energy of youth, I thought if she only would, she yet should be mine. One sentence of hers rang ever in my ears, while my brain reeled under the recollection of the syren glance of her brilliant eyes.
“If you were master of Orton, Sydney, this hand should be yours at once.”
I was too madly in love to dwell on the selfishness of this remark, as also the poor compliment it was to myself; though it struck me, I accepted it passively, as I did her excuse, that “her affection was truest, because free from the folly of romance.” I knew, as well as she, that Florence Bradlaw and poverty could never go happily together. So I sat, these words haunting me, till the early winter sunlight changed into night, and the moon rose up, bringing in her train piles of threatening cloud.
The wind, too, began to rise; a drear chill was in the atmosphere or in myself; and stirring the fire to a scorching blaze, I leaned back in my chair, my eyes creating pictures in the glowing coals. “It is eight o’clock,” I exclaimed at last, starting from my reverie; “and the squire not returned. He always walks from Otterlee; it is late for that.”
Leaving my chair, and approaching the window, I looked out. The land was white with snow, but the clouds were of a dull, leaden hue.
“Suppose I go and meet him?” I thought. “He cannot prevent the interview then, as he might here.”
While getting my hat, a hesitation seized me. Should I go? My will seemed divided into two: one said “Yes;” the other appeared to utter a warning “No.” I decided for the former, and left the house unseen, by a side-door.
“I will walk to the cross-roads,” I reflected, “and wait his coming; he would never take the short cut over the mine-land to-night.”
What was it that yet made me long to turn back every step I took forward? What was it that made me not turn back, but go on? I have since given those two sensations names—those of Susie and Florence. Florence, here as everywhere then, was the strongest, and I proceeded.
On reaching the cross-roads, I halted. It was a rather elevated spot, and on one side I could see the road that led dipping down to Ivy Lodge. My eyes naturally fixed themselves in that direction, and, consequently, could not fail to perceive a horseman who, at a smart pace, proceeded along it. I recognised him as Colonel Harrison, a devoted admirer of Florence Bradlaw, to whose presence I knew he was bound.
He was handsome in appearance, and the rival from whom I felt I had most to fear. Clenching my teeth, I struck my foot fiercely in the snow, as I cursed my dependence on another. I cursed, and mentally vowed to free myself from the bondage.
“And be a beggar,” whispered an inner voice; “destroying all chance of the future!”
“But, Florence Bradlaw!” added the other. “Ah! if only you were the master of Orton, these troubles would cease; the happiness you crave would be yours for the asking. You might laugh at rivals—even at handsome Colonel Harrison.”
Similar ideas were yet haunting me, when a sharp, loud, sudden cry of pain caught my ear. It came from the direction of the mine-land.
Starting, I looked towards it; the cry was distant, and a clump of trees between me and the mines hid my view. Should I go? Yes.
The power which had previously dominated over my actions, urged me now: and, leaping the hedge, noiselessly across the snow, and in the shadow through the trees, I advanced.
Emerging from the latter on to a clear, open space, I beheld before me a man resting on the ground, his back towards me. It was Squire Orton. He had taken the short cut, and, slipping, had evidently come violently down, for he held his knee, and groaned, in pain.
My first impulse was to spring to his aid. The second made me hesitate; a strong hand appeared to draw me back, while the evil counsellor again whispered, “You master of the Hall, and this hand shall be yours.”
I stooped. How was it that that huge, jagged stone came so readily into my hand? Others must answer; I know not. It was there; and creeping forward, with all my force I hurled it down on the head of the writhing man, my uncle.
A frightful yell of agony, that froze my blood, escaped his lips. He first bowed his stricken head to the snow; then, by an effort, turned and faced me. Oh, mercy! the horror of that glance.
For a second we gazed at each other—the murdered man and I. In that instant, he had read my every thought. I stood convicted, trembling, helpless before him, till, with a strange, almost exultant cry, leaping up, he caught me round the throat with his long arms, and bent his aged, wrinkled face to mine.
For a moment, I was paralyzed; the thin features, full of fierce vindictiveness, chilled me. The lips moved, but ages seemed to roll over my brain before they spoke. At last the words came gasping forth, “Murderer! Your hands are red with my blood! I guess the reason. The Hall—the money—are yours, and Florence Bradlaw. But my retribution shall be terrible. I curse you; and my curse shall render every moment of your evil life a torture. Never will I be absent from you; as your shadow, shall you ever find me by your side. Sleeping, waking, day as night, the murderer and his victim shall be together. One—one other only shall see me besides yourself; and she—she——”
The voice failed; the jaw dropped; the dews of death stood on the forehead; the rigidly clasped arms weighed me down. It was no longer a man, but a corpse, that clung to me. Terror—abhorrence aroused me to exertion. Making a violent effort, I flung it off: with a heavy, sickening thud, it fell to a heap upon the ground, and I hastened to quit the fearful spot.
But not three steps had I gone, before that strong instinct, inherent in man, self-safety came over me, and I reflected. I must conceal the body.
I looked anxiously round. The locality was familiar to me; and I knew, within fifty paces, was the Fellbrig Pit—one that had been exhausted and disused years ago, its black interior being surrendered to fire-damp and other nauseous, poisonous gases.
What better hiding-place than that?
To approach the body now was necessity; my life, my hope to escape a disgraceful death, depended on it; and giddy, sick with fear, I advanced. The blow had produced blood, and the murdered man lying on his face, it had oozed forth, meandering down the white hair to the whiter snow. With a shivering fright, I glanced at my dress and hands. Had they any condemnatory marks of my crime upon them? No. How my heavily-beating heart rejoiced!
Raising the body, already stiffening, and avoiding any possible contact with the crimson stream, I stamped out its traces on the snow into the earth, then, with my burden, strode rapidly to the pit’s mouth. I had no fear of being seen; the place was deserted, and the night dark—so dark that as I drew near, I had to go cautiously, lest, by a false stop, I might find myself over the brink of the yawning chasm, that, laying unprotected, seemed waiting expressly to engulf the unwary traveller.
I found it at last, and kneeling by the edge, placed the body on the ground, then—rolled it over!
Oh, heaven! the horror of that moment—the maddening agony with which each dull reverberating thud beat upon my frenzied brain! I could have sworn, too, that a shriek arose from those awful depths.
After a space, when all was still, an impulse urged me to look over. Lying flat, clutching convulsively at the sides, I did so. All was black, impenetrable; till, from the darkness, hundreds of eyes appeared to rise and glare at me; while in the midst was Squire Orton’s white face, with a jeering smile upon it.
Shaking in every limb, I crept away; then falling on my knees, covered my face with my hands, and wept, as men in direst agony alone can weep.
Merciful heaven, what would I not have given to have recalled t
hat deed? Impossible! What was done, could never be undone; and finally, dreading to glance right or left, I fled.
Reaching the Hall, I found the entrance by which I had left it still unfastened, and, unseen, regained my own room, locking the door. I lighted the lamp, then replaced my wet clothes by dressing gown and slippers, for I feared showing anything peculiar in my appearance to create suspicion.
Scarcely had I done so, than a footman knocked to know if I would not descend to supper. I excused myself, saying I was busy, and would take supper in my own apartment.
Then I forced my shaking lips to ask if my uncle had returned.
“No,” was the reply. “Miss Mayfield thought it very singular, and felt uneasy, but supposed he must have stopped at Otterlee, divining the heavy rain which had come on.”
I acquiesced in this readily, for he had done so on past occasions. I even found courage—if that can be termed courage which is the creation of excessive fear—to see and comfort Susie, advising her not to sit up, but leaving the footman to do so, in case Squire Orton returned (how devotedly I wished he could!), retire to rest, saying I felt certain he had stayed at Otterlee.
When I went back to my own room, putting out the lamp, I flung myself on the bed, to bear my agony alone.
Scarcely had I done so, than I leaped up again—every separate root of hair thrilled with alarm—for there, seated in the arm-chair I had just left, was Squire Orton. His face was as it had been in life, only the ghastly wound was visible among the matted gray hair. I tried to think it a delusion of an over-taxed brain. I rubbed my eyes, shut them, opened them; there still the figure sat, placidly gazing at the fire. It was so very still, that it drove me to madness. If it had moved, I could have better borne it. At last, mustering sufficient nerve, I crept from the bed, the farthest side from the figure, and, not looking at it, but stealing round, quickly raked out the fire.
The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories Page 24
