The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories

by James D. Jenkins

  Old Baldwin came hobbling in; he was getting rather infirm now; and then Dick began to ask him questions, and so the whole story had to be told over again.

  And still, when the servants were gone, and when the soft summer twilight had deepened in the room, so that the lady on the wall only looked out a faint grey shadow from her background, those four remained in her presence, till their talk dropped into a word now and then, and presently into silence. Little Harry had fallen asleep sitting on the ground by his mother’s side, his head resting safely and peacefully on the white satin petticoat.

  They are all gone now; and presently they will be forgotten, with the ruin of the old house that was so dear to them. Only the picture remains. The lady looks down still with a sweet solemnity, meeting our eyes as she did those of Kate, Lady Lisle, in her great trouble a hundred and fifty years ago. So it is: “the generations pass away;” and a picture here and there tells some story of the past. So it will be also with these lives of ours that are going on now.

  Sir Henry talks of sending his Vandyck, one of these years, to the Exhibition of Old Masters at Burlington House. I hope he will carry out his intention, and I hope that any one who sees it there will recognise it, and remember my story of Lady Lisle.

  Alfred Crowquill

  NICODEMUS

  Victorian Christmas ghost stories were often meant to frighten, but they were also sometimes meant simply to entertain, deliver a moral lesson, or, as in this case, to elicit a laugh. This story by “Alfred Crowquill”, pseudonym of Alfred Henry Forrester (1804-1872), first appeared in Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s popular illustrated monthly magazine Belgravia’s Christmas annual in 1867. The story of a bibulous, reprobate monk who runs afoul of the spirit world, it ends in a punchline which that greatest of Victorian Christmas ghost story writers, Charles Dickens, would surely have appreciated.

  My uncle the vicar was a facetious man, with a good heart and a good cellar, who, when I first made his acquaintance, had two chins, which in course of time developed into three; but I must say, in justice to him, that he did not forget to fatten his parishioners at the same time, for no deserving person asked of him in vain, and his cook made the poor people soup of a charming consistency; so that, take him for all in all, my uncle was a very good vicar, and never bothered his simple flock with his college metaphysics. As I have written, my uncle was a facetious man, and loved to have a sly thrust at his predecessors the monks, whose fish-preserves were at the bottom of his garden—though not tenanted as formerly, but in the quiet possession of his choice brood of ducks; and the once noble abbey had resolved itself into a few cart-loads of rubble and limestone, glimmering through the trees like a ghost that cannot leave the spot of its ancient glories or troubles. Beneath this ruin my uncle, with a few old chums and us youngsters, would calmly smoke his pipe, and sound the depths of a magnum of his double-diamond port, in the cool of the evening. The spot always seemed to inspire him with a story-telling faculty, and the legends, more or less connected with late inhabitants of the locality, tinged with the mild sarcasm of his character, would run on, much to the delight of his audience. Upon one of these occasions he told us the following veracious legend of Father Nicodemus, not remembered by the oldest inhabitant.

  THE LEGACY.

  Father Nicodemus—an unpromising name for such a saint-like character—was celebrated for the strength of his lungs: the choir, in fact, would have been weak without his basso profundo. He was equally effective in the refectory, where his stomach evinced a profound depth that was quite as astonishing. His power of drinking was never correctly ascertained, as such indulgence was not permitted within the sacred walls; but, if you might judge by his nose, his out-door amusements could not have been quite so innocent. But this, perhaps, was only scandal, as anyone great in any way is sure to be pelted with the mud of the envious and grovelling; so I feel inclined not to dilate upon the colour of his nose, of which there was not the slightest sign in the statue erected to his memory.

  Father Nicodemus did a great deal of out-door work. He was a kind of ecclesiastical whipper-in, and kept the idle and shirking up to their duties. He was particularly attentive to the old and the feeble who were without heirs. He always found excuses for their not attending chapel, when they paid someone else qualified to do all that was necessary for them; and even went so far as to see after the final disposition of their property, he always appointing himself the executor and curator; so that he was the cause of many beautiful decorations in the chapel of his abbey, much to the admiration of the abbot and the fraternity, and also to the future benefit of the departed—whose heirs were never found.

  One old lady, who was the relict of a long-ago-departed miller of the Abbey Mills, knowing her husband’s miller-like faculty of taking toll, most piously returned it tenfold through Father Nico­demus, who, good man, never mentioned it to anyone; and thereby the miller escaped much scandal.

  With this old lady, then, Father Nicodemus was an especial favourite, and the best of everything was saved for the happy occasions of his visits, which could not be too often; for if he received comfort, he brought comfort with him, and never departed empty-handed, for he always had a saint or two under expensive repair, and drew the old lady’s purse-strings accordingly. Now this old lady, although she pooh-poohed the little peccadilloes of her late husband in the matter of toll, enjoyed without a twinge of remorse the ample proceeds thereof; and the mill being let to another, the temptation had departed with the tenancy, and she walked as uprightly as her age would allow her.

  Father Nicodemus knew that she had what was facetiously called “a stocking” put by in some safe corner. Why a stocking, I have never been able to discover by the most unremitting antiquarian research; at all events the old lady was her own banker, and Father Nicodemus was her principal accountant and dispenser.

  Gently and delicately did he handle the stocking, looking upon its contents as really his own, the possession being only delayed by the old woman’s obstinate tenacity to life. At last she became so feeble that he looked upon her flickering lamp as at the last flash; and one eventful evening it flashed up indeed, to his astonishment, for the old lady, with a bright light in her eyes and power in her voice, gave him her last instructions clearly and distinctly, without hesitation or reservation, thus:

  That all her property in money and otherwise should be given, after her decease and decent burial, to her husband’s poor relations and a far-away niece of her own, equally divided, as he would find it written on the fly-leaf of an old account-book; reserving, as in duty bound, a certain sum, also therein specified, for the benefit of the prayers of the whole fraternity of the abbey, with all their power ecclesiastical.

  Father Nicodemus, with a mental reservation, swore to perform all this; and the next morning at daybreak found him rummaging the old woman’s eccentric hiding-places, and filling the pouch which hung under his cassock. He smiled as he patted the treasure, which materially interfered with his outline, and eventually interfered with his peace of mind and comfort. Thus it fell out:

  The old lady being quietly disposed of, it struck Father Nico­demus that he might get permission to make a pilgrimage to some saint whose name has long been forgotten; thereby giving himself a better opportunity of enjoying the ill-gotten treasure, and escaping the whispers of the foolish and profane that were rife about the supposed rich old woman dying so poor, not even leaving a legacy to the church of her adoption to pass through the hands of her old chum Nicodemus. But as he never complained, what right had they? He shook his head, and said nothing; but being granted leave, the basso profundo departed on his way rejoicing.

  But the old woman’s spirit did not rest. She resisted the unfair advantage taken of her by her old ecclesiastical crony, and as they said in those days of superstition, “could not rest in her grave;” and she didn’t.

  Father Nicodemus had proceeded some miles on his way, strengthened by the good wine that hung at his girdle, once the private pro
perty of his dear old departed friend, when he found himself towards evening in the depths of a thick wood. Sombre and melancholy as such places are in the twilight, a slight moaning wind tended very much to increase the dreariness of this. He hurried on, but the night overtook him in the very midst; so that, like a blind man, he had to feel his way with his staff. The thick undergrowth twined round his legs, and precipitated him amidst the briars, and knocked his naked shins against the gnarled roots. He did not swear, but his deep bass voice growled forth his discontent in no very amiable manner—which, perhaps, after all, was his way of blessing himself.

  In the midst of his misery, just as he had picked himself up after an unpleasant fall, a light, intensely bright, suddenly burst through the darkness. “The moon,” said he, congratulating himself a little too soon. It was—what was it?

  It was an unmistakable apparition of a suit of clothes, long worn by the deceased miller’s wife. There stood her crutch-stick, but no hand leant upon it for support; there was her shoe, but no foot in it; there was her well-worn old velvet hood, but not—hold! was it her face? No, it was not that, but a refulgent light with a frightful — but I do not think it was ever clearly ascertained what he saw. Suffice it to say, that it was something very unpleasant, which made him tremble like a large blanc-mange. “His flesh crawled,” and his marrow became like ice, when a voice sepulchrally solemn addressed him in the following unlady-like manner:

  “You foresworn rascal! return the money that you have in your scrip, or I will never leave you, but throw a light phosphoric upon your path wherever you go; and I know now that your actions will not always bear the light. So refund, robber, before I strip you of your sanctimonious character, and leave you exposed to the sneers of the world, and expelled from the community you disgrace!”

  As the—whatever it was—finished speaking, it faded from the old sinner’s horror-stricken sight.

  Father Nicodemus wouldn’t believe it, yet his heart beat and the trembling had not left him. He sang no more, but hurried on until he tore his cassock and scratched his face most wofully. At last he gained a clearer path, and came in sight of a hostelry. He made towards it without the slightest hesitation, although it might be thought by straitlaced people that it was not exactly the place for a holy father; but his fear made him oblivious of trifles. But just as he sneaked into the porch a bright light was shed upon him, that made him as distinctly seen as at noonday. He turned and saw the horrid hood and phantom-beams. He uttered a groan and rushed in for companionship; and the ribald riot of the motley crew in possession was not hushed at his appearance, which was none of the most favourable.

  When he issued from the hostelry again—it was deep in the night—there was an uncertainty in his gait that spoke of pottles deep. He felt his condition, and congratulated himself upon the favourable cover of the darkness; but whenever he approached a village the persevering hood appeared and lighted his path, much to his annoyance and the amusement of the villagers, who jumped out of their beds to see the cause of it, and beheld the worthy Father Nicodemus taking both sides of the way, for the simple reason that one of his legs would not stand by the other, the melancholy consequence of which was that he was brought to a standstill in the midst of a slough just deep enough to engulf him to his armpits. Here he lustily roared, whilst the hood shed its illumination round the spot, that the people, hurrying to the rescue, might see the convivial priest like a toad in a hole.

  At the first blush of morning—which blushed more than usual as the dirty and draggled priest left the roof that had sheltered him for the night—poor Nicodemus turned his steps homeward, in hopes that the sanctity of its roof would defend him against the visitations of the horrid spectre, and that, with all his tools about him, he might be able to exorcise the troublesome spirit into the very depths of the Red Sea.

  So, cheering up his drooping spirits, he proceeded homeward with the intention of reaching the abbey about nightfall, when he might gain his cell and a clean dress without being observed by the brotherhood, as he knew a very convenient corner whereby he might scale the wall, and which he had often used to elude the vigilance of watchers when he had been out beyond canonical hours.

  Footsore, chagrined, and terrified, he dragged his body along, which had never undergone such a penance before; for truly his flesh had been mortified in all his mishaps and misadventures.

  He smiled to himself as he thought how he should circumvent his ghostly tormentor when he got within the protection of the holy walls. This thought caused him to step out boldly, and reach the outward boundary of the abbey-grounds as the twilight darkened into night. He soon found the dilapidated buttress, the inequalities of which gave him a sure foothold, and had often answered his purpose on a less pressing occasion.

  Unfortunately for him, the abbot that night was rather dyspeptic, therefore was indulging himself with a cool walk in the grounds, and heard the sound of some falling stones caused by the ascent of Nicodemus. He stood still and listened; during which pause the unfortunate climber had reached the summit of the wall, and was just preparing to descend when the spectre appeared upon the ground, and threw the full power of its light upon the descending figure. The abbot, startled by the sight of Nicodemus, whom he recognised, as well as by the supernatural light, rang the alarm-bell, which soon brought to his aid a pious, brawny throng, who quickly laid hands on the suspected culprit.

  He was dragged before the authorities of the convent; but his rapid ideality stood his friend, and he made up so pretty a drama of the miracle kind as established him ever after as a particularly favoured individual; all of which was emblazoned in missals in the artistic department, and Nicodemus became glorified.

  This was all very well, but the old woman was not to be cheated; for wherever he did not wish to be seen, the light would discover him, until his life became one scene of terror and apprehension. So at last he made an appointment with the ghost in his cell, where he took nothing but holy water, for he wouldn’t give a chance away.

  True to its appointment, the ghost, with its light a little turned down, made its appearance. Bowing politely to Nicodemus, it stood waiting patiently to hear his proposal. Refusing to take a chair, the clothes hung themselves on a peg usually appropriated to wet umbrellas, and, as he presumed, listened.

  “Now, my good old friend,” said Nicodemus, beginning with a friendly and confidential style, although, to tell the truth, his teeth chattered, “it pains me to see you in that uncomfortable position. I wish I could persuade you to take a chair, so that you might discuss this matter more at your ease.”

  “Nonsense,” said the spirit, “it’s only my clothes.”

  “Ah, well, as you like,” continued he; “but now to business. Could not we come to some amicable arrangement? Can you not allow me to pay a dividend, and be quit of you? Come, don’t be hard.”

  The hood slightly quivered, and said in a sharp decisive tone, “I’ll see you hanged first.”

  “Then I’ll drown you in holy water,” cried he, starting up, with his ruby gills much redder than usual.

  “Pooh!” said the hood; “water can’t put out spirits.”

  “You’re an obstinate old fool,” said he; “and pray tell me, if I hold tight, what power have you to get it?”

  “How, knave?—since you are not choice in your epithets, I’ll tell you how. In the next grave to me lies a chatty old lawyer. I have stated my case to him, and his advice is, throw it into Chancery, and then the fiend himself can’t get it.”

  Grant Allen

  WOLVERDEN TOWER

  Grant Allen (1848-1899) was a popular Victorian author and probably the best known of the writers in this volume. During his lifetime he was famous for his controversial novel The Woman Who Did (1895), the story of an independent woman who defies convention by living with her lover and having a child out of wedlock. He is also remembered today for his detective fiction, including Miss Cayley’s Adventures (1899), one of the earliest works to feature a fema
le detective and which has been reprinted by Valancourt. “Wolverden Tower” first appeared in the Illustrated London News Christmas Number in 1896.

  I

  Maisie Llewelyn had never been asked to Wolverden before; therefore, she was not a little elated at Mrs. West’s invitation. For Wolverden Hall, one of the loveliest Elizabethan manor-houses in the Weald of Kent, had been bought and fitted up in appropriate style (the phrase is the upholsterer’s) by Colonel West, the famous millionaire from South Australia. The Colonel had lavished upon it untold wealth, fleeced from the backs of ten thousand sheep and an equal number of his fellow-countrymen; and Wolverden was now, if not the most beautiful, at least the most opulent country-house within easy reach of London.

  Mrs. West was waiting at the station to meet Maisie. The house was full of Christmas guests already, it is true; but Mrs. West was a model of stately, old-fashioned courtesy: she would not have omitted meeting one among the number on any less excuse than a royal command to appear at Windsor. She kissed Maisie on both cheeks—she had always been fond of Maisie—and, leaving two haughty young aristocrats (in powdered hair and blue-and-gold livery) to hunt up her luggage by the light of nature, sailed forth with her through the door to the obsequious carriage.

  The drive up the avenue to Wolverden Hall Maisie found quite delicious. Even in their leafless winter condition the great limes looked so noble; and the ivy-covered hall at the end, with its mullioned windows, its Inigo Jones porch, and its creeper-clad gables, was as picturesque a building as the ideals one sees in Mr. Abbey’s sketches. If only Arthur Hume had been one of the party now, Maisie’s joy would have been complete. But what was the use of thinking so much about Arthur Hume, when she didn’t even know whether Arthur Hume cared for her?