The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories

by Simon Stern

  The spectre led the way into the forest, and our terrified friend followed, feeling that it was no time to oppose, or make excuses. Coming to a low, over-shadowed hollow, he affirmed, “Here is the place!” and instantly vanished. The young man, finding himself unharmed physically, and still alive—though the last dread summons could not have caused a greater mental anguish—made his way back to his horse, which, totally undisturbed, had not started from the place where he left him. He rode slowly home, deeply affected by what he had seen and heard. Upon reaching home, his sad and woful countenance betrayed him.

  “What is the matter?” was the first inquiry of his wife.

  He tried to evade a disclosure, but could not. Unbosoming himself freely, confidentially to her, it was too momentous, too sacred to be kept secret. Once let loose, it travelled with lightning’s speed and power through the community.

  The place pointed out as that where the corpse had been buried, was dug open; and there, sure enough, human bones were found!

  But did any other circumstances corroborate the young man’s statement? The recollections of the aged were sounded; and some of them remembered that a man bearing the name of him who professed to be the victim, occasionally visited that place as an itinerant preacher about the time referred to in that disclosure; that his visits suddenly ceased, and he was not afterwards heard from. But as he came from a distant place in New Hampshire, and was somewhat eccentric, his non-appearance excited no surprise. His profession as a preacher may explain the peculiarity of his sending his auditor to an imprecatory psalm to find the supplement of his awful disclosure.

  Another fact is well verified. About the same date of this alleged crime, a stray horse, with his saddle turned and bridle on, was found in the highway, about two miles from this noted tree; it was advertised; a green withe was kept upon his neck for several months, as the law required; but no owner ever claimed it; it remained with the person who picked it up.

  The names given as the perpetrators of this revolting deed were not unknown—were not fictitious. They had lived and left families there, and these were sensitive and disturbed by these grave charges. They had died, too; and it was now remembered that the last trying scene with them was marked with long and intensified agonies. Beyond all precedent they rolled and struggled in the grasp of the grim monster, but seemed “forbid to die,” till conscience was relieved by some death-bed confession.

  With one of them it did come, but came to be locked up in the bosom of its recipient. After long and severe throes and awful moaning, he requested all present to leave the room save one aged, intimate neighbour. With a charge of perfect secrecy he entrusted to him the agonizing burden which no other ear must hear. This done, death completed his work. The waiting and anxious friends came in, but could learn only what they could read upon the troubled visage of him who possessed the dying secret of the departed. Evidently an awful disclosure had been made; but none could draw it from its appointed hiding-place.

  Such were the firm impressions left upon the minds of the staid, honest-hearted, and more intelligent of that people. No one could convince them that these things were mystical or empty phantoms. They retained the recollection of these mysterious adventures, without attempting any other explanation than that which we have given.

  A DEAD MAN’S FACE by Hugh Conway

  Imaginative beings who invent marvelous tales may take what license they please, but a simple narrator is nothing if not accurate; so, before beginning this, I looked up old correspondences and various memoranda made at the time when the following things occurred. The first paper upon which I put my hand was a letter. I may as well open with a copy of it:

  “Dear Old Boy.—I have met her at last—my fate—the one woman in the world for me. Nothing is settled as yet; but I should not write this unless hope were a certainty. You must wish me joy, although she is a widow and an American—two qualifications which I know you will find fault with. No matter; when you see her you will recant and be envious. Yours ever,

  “Claud Morton.”

  The writer was my brother—I was going to say my only brother, but I had another once, although the less said about him the better. Nearly every family has its black sheep. Ours had been a peculiarly sable one. When he died, some years ago, I passed a sponge over his long list of delinquencies, and tried to think of him as kindly as possible. He died a disgraced man, far away from home.

  I call this black sheep, Stephen, my brother, not Claud’s, the fact being that Claud can scarcely be said to have known him. I stood in age midway between the two. Claud was sixteen years younger than Stephen, so that when the latter was shipped off as irreclaimable, the former was a little golden-haired fellow of seven.

  The above letter made me feel both glad and sorry. I was glad that the boy—he was still the boy to me, although his age was seven-­and-twenty—was going to be married; but I was sorry that his choice had not fallen on one of his own countrywomen, and one who could have given him her first love. Still, all this was his own peculiar business. No doubt he had made a suitable choice, and the only thing left for me to do was to write him a cheerful letter of congratulation, and hope that his love affairs would soon be happily settled.

  A week went by; then came a long letter from him. He had proposed in orthodox form, and had been duly accepted. His letter lies before me at this moment, and I feel sad as I read again the two pages covered with the lover’s usual raptures.

  I am not a mercenary man, but I own I felt somewhat disappointed on learning that she was poor. Somehow one associates wealth with an American widow who is sojourning in England. But, so far as I could gather from Claud’s letter, Mrs. Despard, or Judith, as he called her, was not well off. He spoke of her as being all alone in London, which fact, he added, would necessarily hasten his marriage. It would take place, he hoped, in a week or two. In conclusion he pressed me to run up to town in order to make the acquaintance of my future sister-in-law.

  I was very busy at the time—I may say, in passing, that my business is to cure people’s ailments, not to tell stories—nevertheless I managed to pay a flying visit to town, and was duly presented to Claud’s betrothed.

  Yes, she was handsome—strikingly handsome. Her whole appearance was much out of the common. She was tall, superbly built, on a large scale, perhaps, yet graceful as a panther in every movement. Her face gave evidence of much character, power, and determination, and of passion also, I decided. Her rich dark beauty was at that time in full bloom, and although I saw at a glance that she was some years older than my brother, I was not at all inclined to blame Claud for his rapturous expressions. So far as personal charms went, I could find no fault with Judith Despard. For the rest it was easy to see that she was passionately in love with Claud, and for the sake of this I gladly overlooked all my fanciful objections to his choice, and congratulated him heartily on having won so beautiful a creature.

  Yet, strange to say, in the midst of his newfound happiness my brother seemed any thing but his usual cheerful self. He, the merriest and most talkative of men, seemed taciturn, moody and preoccupied. The curious thing was that his changed manner struck me particularly while we were in Mrs. Despard’s company. He spoke and behaved in the most affectionate and lover-like way, but there was in his general bearing something which puzzled me altogether. It seemed to me that he might perhaps be nervous as to what impression his fair friend might make upon the elder brother whom he so reverenced and respected.

  This theory of mine was strengthened by the fact that when, at night, we found ourselves alone and I was able to freely express my admiration of Mrs. Despard’s good looks, he brightened up considerably, and we sat until a very late hour, and talked over the past, the present and the future.

  “When do you mean to be married?” I asked.

  “In a fortnight or three weeks. There is nothing to wait for. Judith is living alone in lodgings. She has no friends to consult, so we shall just walk to church some morning and get it over.
”

  “Well, let me walk with you. I should like to see the last of you.”

  “All right, old fellow. But you’ll be the only one—unless Mary likes to honor us.”

  Mary was my wife; but as her time was just then fully occupied by a very young baby, I did not think it at all likely she would be able to make the long journey to town.

  “I shall fix the earliest day I can,” added Claud. “The fact is, I have been feeling rather queer lately. I want a change.”

  Thereupon I questioned him as to what ailed him. So far as I could ascertain, all that was the matter was his having worked too hard, and being a little below par. I prescribed a tonic, and quite agreed with him as to the benefit which he would derive from change of air.

  When I reached home my wife scolded me for my stupidity. It seems that it was my duty to have found out all about Mrs. Despard’s antecedents, relations, connections, circumstances, habits and disposition, whereas all I could say was that she was a beautiful widow with a small income and that she and Claud were devoted to each other.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Morton, scornfully, “like all other men, the moment you see a pretty face you inquire no further. I quite tremble for Claud.”

  When I reflected how little I really knew about Mrs. Despard, I felt abashed and guilty. However, Claud was a full-grown man, and no fraternal counsel was likely to turn him aside from his desire.

  In the course of a few days he wrote me that he was to be married on the 5th of the next month. I made arrangements which would enable me to go to the wedding; but three days before the date named I heard again from him. The wedding was postponed for a fortnight. He gave no reason for the delay; but he said he was anxious to see me, and to-morrow he should run down to my home.

  He came as promised. I was aghast when I saw him. He looked worn, haggard, wretched. My first thought was that business had gone wrong with him. His looks might well be those of a man on the brink of ruin. After the first greeting I at once took him to my study in order to be put out of suspense. Just as I was about to begin my anxious questions he turned to me.

  “Frank, old fellow,” he said, imploringly, and with a faint attempt at a smile, “don’t laugh at me.”

  Laugh! That was the last thing I was likely to do. I pressed his hand in silence.

  “You won’t believe me, I know,” he continued. “I can’t believe it myself. Frank, I am haunted.”

  “Haunted!” I was bound to smile, not from any disposition toward merriment, but in order to show the poor boy the absurdity of his idea.

  “Yes, haunted. The word sounds ridiculous, but I can use no other. Haunted.”

  “What haunts you?”

  He came close to me and grasped my arm. His voice sank to a hoarse whisper.

  “A horrible, ghastly, grewsome thing. It is killing me. It comes between me and my happiness. I have fought and struggled against this phantom terror. I have reasoned calmly with myself. I have laughed my own folly to scorn. In vain—in vain. It goes, but it comes again.”

  “Overwork,” I said, “insomnia, too many cigars, late hours; and had you been a drinking man I should add, too much stimulant, too little food, anxiety, perhaps. Have you any thing on your mind—any special worry?”

  “Of course I have,” he said, pettishly. “Did I not tell you it is killing me?”

  “What is killing you?”

  He rose and paced the room excitedly; then suddenly he stopped short, and once more clutched my arm.

  “A face,” he said, wildly—“a man’s face; a fearful white face that comes to me; a horrible mask, with features drawn as in agony—ghastly, pale, hideous! Death or approaching death, violent death, written in every line. Every feature distorted. Eyes starting from the head. Every cord in the throat standing out, strained as by mortal struggle. Long dark hair lying flat and wet. Thin lips moving and working—lips that are cursing, although I hear no sound. Why should this come to me—why to me? Who is this dead man whose face wrecks my life? Frank, my brother, if this is disease or madness, cure me; if not, let me die.”

  His words, his gestures, sent a cold thrill through me. He was worse, far worse, than I had feared.

  “Claud,” I said, “you are talking nonsense. Cure you! of course I mean to cure you. Now sit down, collect yourself, and tell me how this hallucination comes.”

  “Comes! How does it come? It gathers in corners of the room; it forms and takes shape; it glares at me out of the wall; it looks up at me from the floor. Ever the same fearful white dying face, threatening, cursing, sometimes mocking. Why does it come?”

  I had already told the poor fellow why it came, but it was no use repeating my words. “Tell me when you see it,” I asked; “at night—in darkness?”

  He hesitated, and seemed troubled. “No, never at night. In broad daylight only. That to me is the crowning terror, the ghastliness of it. At night I could call it a dream. Frank, believe me, I am no weak fool. For weeks I have borne with this. At last it has conquered me. Send it away, or I shall go mad!”

  “I’ll send it away, old boy, never fear. Tell me: can you see it now?”

  “No; thank God, not now.”

  “Have you seen it to-day?”

  “No; to-day I have been free from it.”

  “Well, you’ll be free from it to-morrow, and the next day, and the next. It will be gone forever before you leave me. Now come and see Mary and the babies. I haven’t even asked you how Mrs. Despard is.”

  A curious look crossed his face. “I think she grows more beautiful every day,” he said. Then he seized my hand. “Oh, Frank,” he exclaimed, “rid me of this horror, and I shall be the happiest man in the world.”

  “All right,” I answered, perhaps with more confidence than I felt.

  Although I made light of it to my patient, his state greatly alarmed me. I hastened to put him under the strictest and most approved treatment. I enforced the most rigid sumptuary laws, made him live on plain food, and docked his consumption of tobacco unmercifully. In a few days I was delighted to find that my diagnosis of the case was correct. Claud was rapidly recovering tone. In a week’s time he seemed restored to health.

  The days went by. As yet Claud had said nothing about leaving me; yet, unless the date was once more adjourned, he was to be married on the 19th. I did not counsel him to postpone the happy day. He was by now so well that I thought he could not do better than adhere to his arrangement. A month’s holiday, spent in the society of the woman he loved, would, I felt certain, complete his cure, and banish forever that grisly intruder begotten of disorganized nerves.

  From the monotonous regularity and voluminous nature of their correspondence it was evident, delay and separation not­withstanding, that matters were going on quite smoothly between Claud and Judith Despard. Every day he received and wrote a long letter. Nevertheless, it was not until the 16th of the month that I knew exactly what he meant to do about his marriage.

  “Frank,” he said, “you have been wonderfully kind to me. I believe you have saved my life, or at least my reason. Will you do something more for me?”

  “Even unto half my kingdom,” I answered.

  “Look here: I am ashamed of the feeling, but I absolutely dread returning to town. At any rate I wish to stay there no longer than is needful. Thursday morning I must, of course, be there, to be married. You think me cured, Frank?” he added, abruptly.

  “Honestly, yes. If you take care of yourself you will be troubled no more.”

  “Yet why do I dread London so? Well, never mind. I will go up by the night mail on Wednesday—then I need only be there for a few hours. Will you do this for me—go up on Wednesday morning, see Judith, and explain how it is that I shall not see her until we meet in the church?”

  “Certainly, if you wish it. But you had better write as well.”

  “Yes, I shall do that. There are several other little things you must see to for me. The license I have, but you must let the clergy­man know. You had bette
r go and see my partners. They may think it strange if I marry and go away without a word.”

  Thinking it better that he should have his own way, I promised to do as he wished. Upon my arrival in town on Wednesday afternoon I went straight to Mrs. Despard’s. I was not sorry to have this opportunity of seeing her alone. I wished to urge upon her the necessity of being careful that Claud did not again get into that highly wrought nervous state, from which my treatment had so happily extricated him.

  She was not looking so well as when last I saw her. At times her manner was restless, and she seemed striving to suppress agitation. She made no adverse comments on her lover’s strange whim of reaching town to-morrow only in time for the ceremony. Her inquiries as to his health were most solicitous, and when I told her that I no longer feared any thing on his account, her heartfelt sigh of relief told me how deeply she loved him.

  Presently she looked me full in the face. Her eyes were half closed, but I could see an anxious, eager look in them. “He saw a face,” she said. “Has it left him?”

  “He told you of his queer hallucination, then?’’

  “No; but once or twice when sitting with me he sprang to his feet and muttered: ‘Oh, that face! that ghastly, horrible face! I can bear it no longer!’ Then he rushed wildly from the room. What face did he see, Dr. Morton?”

  To set her mind at rest, I gave her a little scientific discourse, which explained to her how such mental phenomena were brought about. She listened attentively, and seemed satisfied. Then I bade her adieu until to-morrow.

  The marriage was to be of the quiet kind. I found that Mrs. Despard had made no arrangement for any friend to accompany her; so, setting all rules of etiquette at defiance, I suggested that, although the bridegroom’s brother, I should call for her in the morning and conduct her to the church. To this she readily consented.