The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories

by James D. Jenkins

  When all was darkness, I turned, to find my position worse. The spirit was still there, but the life-glow of the blazing coals gone; it was now of a cold, grayish transparency. The look it turned upon me showed the fruitlessless of my efforts. With his dying breath he had sworn to haunt me like my shadow, and he was keeping his word.

  I stole to bed, and turning my back, covered my eyes with the clothes. It was no good—it was unbearable. The knowing it was there was worse than seeing it.

  How the next hour passed it would be difficult to describe. A hundred deaths were preferable to the agony I endured. It seemed a lifetime. I knew by the clock that it was but an hour.

  As the last beat reverberated through the silent house—twelve—my ghostly visitant rose. My eyes were fixed on him. Anxiously I watched his movements. Gliding to the window, for the first time, he turned and gazed at me; the cruel, vindictive smile still distorted its features. Then, floating through the window, he was gone. Thank heaven! But where?

  Leaping to the floor, darting across the room, I drew aside the curtain, and looked forth; then, with a cry, recoiled. The night was twilight. Despite the rain, the moon at its greatest power gave to the darkness a dim twilight. Thus I could see the mine-land, which was visible from the Hall, and Fellbrig Pit. It was the latter which caused my terror; for over it, illumined by a halo of bright floating vapour, was Squire Orton’s ghost.

  I had believed the place where his body had been hid could not be found. He had resolved otherwise.

  “My crime must come to light,” I thought. “He wills it so. His retribution has risen from the grave.”

  Already I felt the hangman’s hands upon me, and worn out by terror and weariness, I fell insensible on the bed.

  With morning, rest and daylight brought renewed strength and courage. The vindictiveness of the spirit began to create an antagonistic feeling in myself, while came the assurance that even if the body were found, it would be utterly impossible to bring the crime home to me. Consoled by that, I resolved to play my part in the world as usual, and by a superhuman effort, keep my torturing misery to myself.

  The non-return of the Squire next day caused first surprise, then alarm, and it was my suggestion—mine—that a groom should ride over to Otterlee, and make inquiries. I knew before he started the message he would bring back—that the Squire had set out to return home at about eight the previous evening. But he brought this additional information, which filled my guilty soul with an exquisite joy. Squire Orton had drank rather too freely, and his friends had tried to persuade him to remain at Otterlee all night, fearing any accident happening him.

  This news necessitated a careful search, which gave me an excuse for not visiting Florence Brad­law. My whole being shrunk from doing so. Not only was she fearfully blended with the crime I had committed, but the murdered man had declared another—a woman—also should see his spirit as I. I believed he meant Florence, and thus avoided her; for my punishment was ever beside me—sitting, walking, sleeping, regulating each silent step and movement by mine, save at midnight, when, for a certain period, it hovered over the gloomy mouth of Fellbrig Pit.

  The roads—the fields—the mine-land—were traversed; rewards for any intelligence offered. Need I say in vain? The rain had removed every mark of the dead man’s footsteps, by which otherwise he might have been traced; and the whole affair was enveloped in mystery—save to me. The hope of finding him was given up, the surmise being that he had fallen into one of the disused shafts. He did not appear, and I was master of Orton Hall.

  Even yet I had not seen Florence Brad­law—I had not the courage. The fact that she was the real cause of the murder clung about my soul; while the constant, horrible presence of the murdered man at my elbow dominated over all other sensations, even my love. It needed the fatal witchery of her eyes to again set it aflame.

  I remained much within doors, consoling Susie Mayfield, whose grief for the loss of a protector who had ever been kind to her was great. How my heart sickened and rebelled against the false words I forced myself to utter! How I would, if possible, have shunned her pure presence; but in her sorrow she seemed to lean more upon me, and I feared by any change of manner to arouse suspicion. Crime truly makes cowards of the bravest.

  It was some short while after the murder, that, as I was strolling moodily through the lanes, a light step sounded on the frozen ground, and a hand was laid on my arm, as a musical voice, in low accents, said, “Good morning, Sydney; why have I not seen you before? Did you think that I had no sympathy to give in your trouble? It is scarcely kind to treat me thus!”

  Instinctively I shrunk away from the speaker, I had begun so to fear her. It was Florence Brad­law. Recovering myself, however, I raised my eyes, and, like one under the influence of the basilisk, fell again her victim. Those beautiful features had always a singular power over me; now, as they smiled as they had never smiled before, I—thrilled with a sudden ecstacy—yielded once more a willing slave. I asked to join her in her walk—I saw her home. I then returned to the Hall, its master, and Florence Brad­law’s future husband.

  As I entered, a footman met me. His face was white and scared.

  “Oh, Mr. Orton, have you heard the news?” he exclaimed.

  “News! What news?” I demanded, irritably.

  “That every night the poor Squire’s ghost is to be seen floatin’ over the mouth of Fellbrig Pit.”

  The start I gave—the sudden lots of colour—the man conceived but natural to one hearing such intelligence. Also, in his eyes, it accounted for my husky voice, when I asked who had said so.

  It appeared that a miner, by chance late abroad, had seen the figure; and flying in mortal terror, spread the news. The next night, several agreed to watch. They, too, saw it; and the rumour getting over the country—the many giving courage to the few—every night the vicinity of the pit’s mouth was thronged.

  “Pshaw!” I managed to exclaim, contemptuously, though my eyes turned timidly to the figure ever by my side. “What country clods, to believe such absurdities!”

  In the dining-room I found Susie. She was seated, sewing busily; but looked up on hearing my step. I expected, as usual, to meet her ever welcome smile; but this time, in its place, an expression of unspeakable horror and alarm spread over her features. Trembling violently, she arose and retreated from me; her lips pallid, her soft eyes dilated, her finger extended, as she exclaimed, “Merciful heaven, Sydney, look there!—there, beside you! Who is he? What—what does he want?”

  “He! What, Susie?” I articulated, hoarsely. “Girl, are you mad? What do you mean?”

  “He standing by you, Sydney, his hand on your shoulder, is Squire Orton, risen from the dead!”

  I opened my lips to deny it; I could not—my tongue was paralyzed. She, Susie, then, was the other to whom my uncle was to make himself visible. I felt the guilty, accusing blood rush to my face. My eyes dropped before the clear, inquiring ones of my gentle companion. I stood a criminal confessed. My crime was discovered, and to her. I had no power to refute it.

  Swiftly Susie moved forward, caught my hand, and gasped, “Sydney!”

  It was a simple word, but the tone in which it was uttered was all eloquent of horror, of interrogation. I made an effort; I lifted my eyes; but rapidly averting them, covered my quivering face from sight.

  “Oh, my God!” I heard her ejaculate, as she fell prostrate on the floor.

  In an instant I was kneeling by her.

  “This—this,” I cried, enraged, addressing the spirit, “is your work, and you said you loved her!”

  It smiled, and fixed its eyes tauntingly upon me. I turned away, and, summoning aid, had Susie conveyed to her room. No sooner had I done so, than an awful fear took possession of me. Supposing, in the moment of recovery, words should escape her lips which would proclaim my guilt to others? The idea had come too late. I could not prevent it now. What did it matter? I began to feel the end must come; what difference, then, if soon or late?
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  In a dull, lethargic stupor, I waited news of Susie. Each step approaching shook me like a reed.

  At last, the door opened, and Susie’s own maid entered. As indifferently as I could, I took the note the girl brought, and, dismissing her, eagerly tore off the envelope. The contents ran:—

  “Sydney Orton, your secret is safe with me. Heaven forgive you! I hope—I believe you must have had some great cause for what you have done; or, rather, that it was occasioned by maddened anger, or accident, for which repentance may atone; but we two must never meet again. By his desire, expressed in his will, the Hall is to be my home till I marry. I would fulfil this desire. Heaven knows, I would not fail to do so now for worlds! Hence, as no longer I can mix with the household, may I ask permission to keep my present suite of rooms? Illness will be a real excuse, for the blow I have received I shall never recover. Farewell!”

  I seized a pen, and, with dim eyes and grateful heart, wrote:—

  “Heaven bless you, Susie Mayfield! Each wish of yours shall be complied with. Bless you a thousand times for not quitting this ill-fated house, which your sweet presence alone can purify. Pray for me—save me! One day you shall know all.”

  After this, I was conscious of a great relief, but also an equally great misery. The Hall was no longer the Hall with Susie away. The report of my possible marriage had got whispered about, and many attributed her seclusion to the fact that she loved me, and her indisposition and retirement were occasioned by the thought of my union with another.

  As to that union, I no longer desired it. It tortured me; I seemed to recoil from Florence’s brilliant talk and careless laughter. The selfishness of her disposition, which could not sympathize with mine, I began at last to comprehend; and instead, I craved, like a starving man, for Susie’s sweet, consoling presence.

  But I had gone too far to draw back. I was Squire Orton now; and Florence, as her father, urged on the wedding; so, after a quiet marriage and brief honeymoon, I brought home my bride to the Hall.

  Susie, to avoid remarks, occasionally consented to join us in the drawing-room; but the exceeding pallor of her complexion, her wasted features, and depressed manner, were fitting causes for her seclusion. I felt I had murdered her also.

  Never once had we two met alone. One day I had encountered her in the corridor, but, with a low, affrighted cry, she had fled from me.

  Her aversion, coupled with the ever constant presence of my dead victim, could not fail soon to break down my constitution, and affect my disposition. I grow gloomy—morose.

  I had first tried what constant change of society and excitement would do, thereby delighting Florence; but it would not answer—it only made the nights worse, and I adopted seclusion. My wife complained, persuaded, was angry. Each was equally futile. That haunting figure, the remembrance of Susie, and the eager longing for her presence, had made my wife’s influence naught. “The longing for her presence?” Yes, too late, I found I loved Susie, with that deep, calm love which never dies.

  Florence did not guess my secret, but she knew my affection had gone from her; hers I had never possessed. She had wished to be mistress of Orton Hall, and she was finding the fruit so coveted, bitter—bitter at the core.

  Suddenly a change took place in her—she no longer pleaded nor complained. The expression of her handsome face was stony impassibility. She regarded me curiously, sometimes timidly, and rather avoided my company. I readily fell into her humour, for it suited me.

  One morning, on awakening, I found her absent from my side. I looked round, no one was there except my awful attendant.

  Since my crime, when sleep, long courted, once quitted me, it never again returned till night; so, rising, I dressed quietly. My wife did not appear, and, gently, I opened the door of her dressing-room. She was there, attired in her customary morning toilette, and writing hurriedly. On becoming aware of my presence, hurriedly she slipped the paper beneath some others, and coldly asked what I wanted.

  “Merely to see where you were,” I rejoined, turning away.

  Shortly after, I heard her bell ring for her maid. Then, in a few moments, the quick beat of a horse’s hoofs on the gravel drive attracted me to the window. It was a groom riding from the hall at full speed.

  The indifference between Florence and me had reached such a height, that one never interfered in the other’s concerns; so I went back to my reading till the hour for breakfast, during which Florence was unusually silent, and I could not fail to perceive was nervously anxious about something; but, occupied with the morning papers, I paid little heed to her.

  The meal had nearly concluded, when the footman brought in a card. At the same moment the footman ushered in a Mr. Midhurst—a county magistrate—and two men. Before we could exchange the ordinary salutations, Florence approaching between us, said, in a quick, hurried tone,“Mr. Midhurst, I wrote you this morning that it was in my power to surrender to justice a criminal now at large. I do so. I order—I command the arrest of that man, my husband, for the murder of Squire Orton, whose body you will find in Fellbrig Pit.”

  I had leaped to my feet, and now stood confounded—aghast.

  “Madam!” I cried; “are you aware of what you state?”

  “Perfectly, sir!” she answered, frigidly. “What, waking, you deny; sleeping, you have confessed. Night after night,” she proceeded, in a kind of triumph, “I have listened, trembling, to the wild sentences uttered in slumber. I have watched the nightmares which have tortured you, till the whole occurrence has been confided to my ear. Yes, the meeting—the cruel blow—the concealment of the body—the ever-haunting presence—everything. Murderers, sir, should not marry! Mr. Midhurst, I swear to you, yonder is Squire Orton’s assassin! You know whether to arrest him or not.”

  There must have been that in my quivering face which confirmed her words, for the magistrate, making a sign to the constables, they approached me. I retreated, casting my eyes round for a means of escape. None offered; the windows were locked. So, seizing a chair, I resolved they should not take me easily.

  The men had recoiled a step before my threatening attitude, when, abruptly, the door was thrown open, and, as white as death—her lips hueless, her large eyes bright and glistening—Susie Mayfield glided in. Passing by them all, advancing, she threw her arms about me.

  “Back!” she then exclaimed, authoritatively, addressing the men. “That woman lies! Sydney Orton is innocent of this deed, and you shall not harm him. If yonder faithless wife denounces him, I say he is guiltless. My word is equal to hers. You have no proofs—none. You shall not take him.”

  Florence laughed mockingly.

  “Certainly it is right that you should be his shield and champion, Miss Mayfield,” she said—“the assassin of your best friend. Mr. Midhurst, I have done my duty; do yours, as you please or not.”

  “Mr. Orton,” remarked the magistrate, gravely, “I am deeply sorry for this; but after the accusation has been made in such a manner, I cannot pass it over. Men, arrest Mr. Sydney Orton.”

  As they drew near, Susie’s arms tightened about me. Her sweet, scared face was raised to mine; her eyes beamed affection as alarm; while her trembling lips sought vainly to be firm, as she whispered, assuringly, “Do not fear, Sydney; they dare not hurt you. I alone know the truth, and they shall kill me before I confess it—they shall, they shall!”

  But at the touch of the constables’ hands, her courage gave way, and, shrieking, she resisted their efforts to remove her. I imagined they were handling her roughly, and my love took fire, to the forgetting of my own safety; and, like a tiger, I flew upon them. A scuffle ensued; but I was weak in their grasp. They flung me down. My chest heaved with painful gasps. A moment, I lost consciousness. Then the scene had changed. Feeble, languid, I was lying on a sofa, my coat off, a tight bandage about my arm, the lassitude of illness upon me; and, wearily, I raised my heavy lids.

  I was yet at the Hall; and on the hearth-rug, by the fire, stood Susie, talking earnestly with my gh
ostly companion, whose shape was far more solid and defined, while his expression was irritable rather than angry.

  “Dear guardian,” Susie was saying—she always called him thus—“I beseech you yield to his desire. The trouble, the disappointment may kill him. Oh, consent to his marrying her! She is handsome——”

  “Handsome, Susie!” interrupted the spirit, sharply. “Yes, so are you. But you are the good, the kindest, the best; while she is a heartless flirt, I tell you, whose brainless head is full of only her splendid self. She would but marry yonder foolish lad to be mistress of this old place; and I will not, by yielding, have him ruined and my money squandered. He is not the first this girl has wilfully driven to despair. She wouldn’t look at him if he were penniless; and I took care to let old Bradlaw know to-day that he will never be otherwise, unless I approve his selection of a wife.”

  “But, guardian, if he love her?” pleaded Susie.

  “He does not love her; he is only fascinated as a child might be with the brilliant hues of a snake.”

  “Oh, guardian! Yet, think; she may be all you say; yet the heart is powerful. Love may change her; she may be different to poor Sydney.”

  “Susie, you are a darling, brave, noble, generous girl, thus to plead this coquette’s cause,” said the spirit, taking his protégée’s face fondly between his hands, and gazing into the brown eyes. “Noble, indeed, when you are aware that you yourself have given your heart and warm affection to my worthless nephew!”

  Susie uttered a little cry, and quickly covered her crimson face with her fingers; then, pleadingly looking up, she said, “Dear guardian, who have been to me as a father, why should I conceal the truth from you? But, oh! please, never—never tell him.”

  “My child, if he has not the eyes to discover the rich gem he might call his, do not think I would debase you by informing the idiot of his blunder. No, let him take his course; I shall take mine. There, do not fret; all danger is passed now; he’ll soon be better, since Doctor Gruge has bled him. It was merely a fit.”