On arriving at Meerut, however, she found herself ill—faint and feverish, so that for days she was confined to her bed, where she lay wakeful by night, watching the red fire-flies flashing about the green jalousies, and full of strange, wild dreams by day. She had but one keen and burning desire—to see Major Milton, and to learn from his lips the fate of her husband. On the evening of the fifth day—the evening of the 10th of May—she was lying on her pillow, watching the red sunshine fading on the ruined mosques, and Abu’s stately tomb, when just as the sunset gun pealed over the cantonments, the ayah brought her a card, inscribed, “Major Milton—Staff Corps.”
“Desire the Major to come to me!” said Constance in a broken voice, and terribly convulsed by emotion; for now she was on the eve of knowing all.
“Here to the mehm sahib’s bedside?” asked the astonished ayah.
“Here instantly—go—go!”
Endued with new strength, as the woman withdrew, she sprang from her bed, put on her slippers, threw round her an ample cashmere dressing robe, and seated herself in a bamboo chair, trembling in every fibre. In a mirror opposite she could see that her face was as white as snow. The door was opened.
“Major Milton,” said a voice that made her tremble, and attired in undress uniform, pith-helmet in hand, her husband, looking scarcely a day older, stood gazing at her in utter bewilderment. He gave one convulsive start, and then stood rooted to the spot; but no expression or glance of tenderness escaped him. His whole aspect bore the impress of terror.
Years had elapsed as a dream, and they were again face to face, those two, whom no man might put asunder. Softness, sorrow, and reproach faded from the face of Constance. Her broad, low forehead became stern; her deep-set, dark eyes sparkled perilously, her full lips became set, and her chin seemed to express more than ever, resolution.
“Oh, Constance—Constance,” he faltered, “I know not what to say!”
“It may well be so, Sidney” (and at the utterance of his name her lips quivered). “So you are Major Milton, and the supposed husband of Miss Dashwood?”
There was a long pause, after which she said:
“I ask not the cause of your most cruel desertion; but whence this name of Milton?”
“A property was left me—and—but of course, you have long since ceased to love me, Constance?”
“You actually dare to take an upbraiding tone to me!” she exclaimed, her dark eyes flashing fire. Then looking upward appealingly, she wailed, “Oh, my God! my God! and this is the man for whom, during these bitter years, I have been eating my own heart!”
“Pardon me, Constance; you may now learn that there is no gauge to measure the treachery of which the human heart in its weakness is capable. Yet there has been a worm in mine that has never died.”
She wrung her hands, and then said, with something of her old softness of manner:
“You surely loved me once, Sidney?”
“I did.” He drew nearer, but she recoiled from him.
“Then whence this cruel change?”
“Does not some one write, that we love, and think we love truly, and yet find another to whom one will cling as if it required these two hearts to make a perfect whole?”
“Most accursed sophistry! But if you have no pity, have you not fear?”
“I have great fear,” said he in a broken voice; “thus, Constance, by the love you once bore me, I beseech you to have pity, not on me, but on my little boy, and his poor mother—preserve their happiness——”
“And sacrifice my own?” said she in a hollow voice.
“Spare, and do not expose me—my commission—my position here——”
“Neither shall be lost through me,” she replied, in a voice that grew more and more weak; “but leave me—leave me—the air is suffocating—the light has left my eyes. Farewell, Sidney—kiss your child, for my sake.”
He drew near to take her hand, but she repulsed him with a wild gesture of despair, and throwing up her arms, fell back in her seat, with a gurgle in her throat, her head on one side and her jaw fallen.
“Dead—quite dead!” was his first exclamation, and with his terror was blended a certain selfish emotion of satisfaction and relief at his escape. The blood again flowed freely in his veins, and he was roused by the cantonment ghurries clanging the hour of nine.
“Help—help!” cried he; but no help came, and as he hurried away, the sudden din of musket-shots, of shrieks and yells, announced that the great revolt had begun at Meerut, and that the expected massacre of the Europeans had commenced. In that butchery, those he loved most on earth perished, and midnight saw him, wifeless and childless, lurking in misery and alone in a mango tope, on the road to Kurnaul.
While listening to the narrative of my friend Sidney, whom I had always known as Warren, rather than Milton, the clock on the mantelpiece struck nine, and he said in a broken voice:
“It was at this very hour, twelve months ago, that my boy and his mother were murdered by the 3rd Cavalry, at the moment that Constance was dying!”
As he spoke, a strange white light suddenly filled one end of the smoking-room, and amid it there came gradually, but distinctly to view, two figures, one was a little boy with golden hair, the other a woman whose left arm was around him—a beautiful woman, with clearly-cut features, masses of dark hair curling over a low, broad forehead, lips full and handsome, with a massive chin and classic throat—the woman of the veiled picture, line for line, but to all appearance living and breathing, with a beautiful smile in her eyes, and wearing, not the riding-habit, but a floating crapelike white garment, impossible to describe. There was a strange weird brightness in her face—the transfigured brightness of great joy and greater love.
“Constance—Constance and my child!” cried Sidney, in a voice that rose to a shriek; and like a dissolving view, the light, and all we looked on with eyes transfixed, faded away!
I was aware of an excess of sensitiveness, and that my heart was beating with painful rapidity. I did not become insensible, but some time elapsed before I became aware that lights were in the room, and that several servants, whom my friend’s cry had summoned in haste and alarm, were endeavouring to rouse him to consciousness from a fit that had seized him; but from that fit he never recovered. His heavy stertorous breathing gradually grew less and less, and ere a doctor came, he had ceased to respire.
His death—sudden as hers on that eventful night, but a retributive one—was declared to be apoplexy; but I knew otherwise. Since then, though the effect of the grape-shot wound on my nervous system has quite passed away, I feel myself compelled to agree with the hackneyed remark of Hamlet, that “there are more things in heaven and earth, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.”
Anonymous
THE GHOST CHAMBER
This atmospheric short tale, a somewhat different kind of “ghost story,” first appeared anonymously in Ainsworth’s Magazine in January 1853.
There! it rises before me as I write. A long, low room, wainscoted and tapestried, the windows hung with yellow curtains, through which the daylight enters gorgeously; and the floor shining and black with its polished oak boardings. What strange gleams of light fall across the counterpane from the coloured glass, and outside there is an old rookery, the perpetual cawing of whose inhabitants would fain persuade us that already a whisper of Spring has got abroad upon the air. It has been the state-room of the family, but I see it now as when I sat in it during the long, lonely evening, when the firelight leapt and sparkled on the hearth, and strange smiles flitting over the pictured faces looked down upon me from the walls, when sounding but invisible footsteps ran creaking along the boards, and knowledge-like, a guest visited me, whispering “the chamber is haunted!” Yes, haunted, truly! but only by old spirit memories.
The old people who inhabited this room have long since been gathered to their fathers, and it is now their second son who inherits the property. Their portraits hang upon the walls, and look down upon us with s
omething of a life presence still upon them. With stately carriage, and hand placed within his vest, eagle eye, and stern brow, the old man still seems keeping watch over his household. Opposite to him, in hat and feathers, white satin gown, low neck and arms, and all the acknowledged beauty of a past century, sits smiling his wife.
There is a history connected with these portraits. I think of them in the ghost chamber, where I have been placed by my own desire, and wonder if they ever descended from their grand stateliness to the little familiarities—the sweet social endearments—that twine so lovingly around the intercourse of life. There is an old Judge, with powdered wig, white cravat, and long waistcoat, who frowns down at me from over the mantel-piece; as this question suggests itself mentally, and as I glance across at the family heiress, in all the dignity of shepherdess attire, her crook seems to tremble in her hands, and the very folds of her dress to stand upright with horror.
But in the ghost chamber I still linger, haunted ever by these memories of the dead. I cannot sleep, so from between the tapestried folds of the bed hanging I still look forth, and behold the heavy chairs cast shadows on the shining boards, and something glides in between them and the firelight, and the seats are occupied. What do I see? Nothing! I only heard the creaking of boards and rustling of garments, but is not that all-sufficient? Do I not know, as plainly as my imagination tells me that it is so, that the figure with the powdered hair, stern brow, and benevolent smile, even now loosening the cravat from his throat, is, in fact, the very owner of the ghost chamber? Does not the lady of the hat and feathers again sit before me? only now she has her hair rolled back off her brow in pyramids of curls, and her stiff silk dress seems to quiver with importance.
You tell me it is the wind that I hear in the chimneys, shadows from the moonlight, creakings from the old boards. Very good, we can both hold our own opinions. But I sleep—yes, even in the ghost chamber! and now the old family histories come sweeping like a strong tide in upon me. I see the household growing up around the old parent stock, and their eldest born, the prodigal, with his dear, warm heart, and ill-advised judgment. There is an old grandmother who is always supplying him with money, ever against the consent, often without the knowledge, of his parents. A stern-looking old lady she seems, with an upright carriage, and a gold-headed cane. The villagers call her “Madam Talbot,” and bring all grievances and party quarrels before her. She holds a small court of justice, against which there is no appeal. The village urchins tremble at her anger. Her justice is summary, and she has been known to chain the offender caught stealing apples in the orchard to the bars of the gate—a kind of human scarecrow to trembling brethren! But the one weak spot in her heart is for this grandson. No one may blame him; she sees all the noble, generous points in his character; she is quite deaf and blind to his defects. So they grow up. Here is the second brother, the supplanter, wise, correct, calculating, too weak for virtue, and too cold for vice; ever stepping in between his eldest brother and his father. How the breach widens! I seem to see the crust thicken round the hearts of these his kindred; they are, as it were, poisoned, alienated from him, and he is too proud to sue for that pardon he thinks should be his of right. Reckless in his expenditure, careless in his profession, yet so kind, generous, and loving—not even understanding coldness in others. Now the shadow of that second brother falls again across me. I see him taking, as it were, the servant’s place in the house, being all things to please all men; such an old-hearted head on such young shoulders. He gives false meanings to the faults of his eldest brother, so that they stand forward in unfavourable light; he implies, suggests—wounded feelings are made rankling sores by the force of his covert insinuations; and so the breach widens.
Now the eldest son has taken to himself a wife—fair, gentle, loving; but, alas! he has consulted but his own pleasure, and has looked for no dowry beyond the single one of virtue. How should he be forgiven? How can he who errs against his own interest ever expect the compassion of others? and, in a world where Mammon is worshipped, how think to live independent? And this, too, must be placed against him. He must not bring his wife to his father’s hearth; his hasty choice is to be visited on her, as having entered the family on false pretensions; and the jealous pride of his wounded heart shall be accounted to him as an evil thing. No wonder that the breach widens! We see the second brother becoming everything to his father; he has all the guile of another Esau, so plausible is he with his regrets under the surface of fraternal sorrow; so fair an aspect bears he with so foul a soul! Now he sighs in his superior righteousness over the faults of the prodigal; now he winds himself with unseen coils into the old man’s confidence; he has become, as it were, his right hand; he, the stern, proud father, is a slave to his child, and so unconscious a one, that though he cannot do without him, yet he still deludes himself that he possesses ever the same dominant power of old.
There comes a day, however, when the old man is struck with death. It is an awful time. The family crowd round him weeping, wailing, and lamenting; and there he lies, helpless like a little child, unnerved, palsied, trembling in the grasp of the great destroyer. Then better thoughts, old, long crushed affections return to him; standing, as it were, on the verge of the grave, he sees, as with different eyes, old things are fallen off from him, all things are become new. His hand wanders towards his prodigal son, kneeling at the foot of his bed, weeping hot, burning, passionate tears; he hears the prayer of his spirit poured out for forgiveness, and resting there he bows himself towards him, and with faultering voice blesses him aloud; he tells him that he has disinherited him, that he has bestowed all upon his brother; with feeble motion he points towards his will. But his son, heart-broken, agonised, still kneels before him; he offers no complaint, utters no murmur; only with choked voice he sobs forth, “Oh! let his brother keep all so that he may have his father’s forgiveness.” And the old man gives it to him. Solemn and slow on the shadowy twilight come forth those words of peace, and in the falling darkness of the ghost chamber there is only heard the strong man’s sobs, and that death-bed blessing.
Now the room is again in stillness, the old man sleeps; and through the long night watches there only remains his daughter, seated patiently by his side; she stoops to screen the lamp-light from his eyes, and suddenly he calls upon her. She starts, for in his face there is an expression all unknown before; his voice is low and faint, but each word, as she catches it, seems to fall upon her ear with solemn meaning. He tells her how, laying there in the long night hours, a voice spoke to him; how men’s eyes are opened at the portals of death; and how it was given him to see that far beyond the gains and honours of life, far beyond all its wealth and pleasure, there rests still Heaven’s blessing on the large loving heart and liberal spirit; how all things fall off from men in death, but love still lingers. Then he spoke of how he had wronged her brother, passing through life without understanding him—putting forth the angel spirit that had been given him as a blessing. “But mark me, child,” he said, and now his voice, before broken, became loud and clear; “I will yet, if God spares me, make restitution. I take you to witness of my purpose, and I lay it on you as my command to bring your brother to me with the daylight that justice may be restored,” and with this he moved upon his pillow, turning his face towards the wall, and, as she thought, slept quietly.
But when the morning light came in, flooding the room, the sunbeams fell full on the face of the calm dead; and the daughter’s cry of horror gathered in to her all the household. There were voices of lamentation—low dirges—weeping of women—and, with the sound of hushed feet, the dead passed onwards to his long home. The second son inherited the property, for there was none to dispute the will; but the returned prodigal, kneeling in the ghost chamber, offered thanks to God for that his father’s heart had been restored to him, and then with a softened heart and a mind at peace, returned again to share the poverty of her who had chosen him for himself.
Am I dreaming in the ghost chamber? I see
m to see still the son reconciled, visiting, as he does yet, sometimes at the house of his brother, the usurper. The ghost chamber is given up to him; he sleeps better in it, he says, than elsewhere; he has always pleasant dreams here. I do not wonder at it; for I know how, when he sleeps, the spirits of the old people still watch over him. I see them in my imagination (you will not allow me sight) putting aside the tapestried curtains, looking down upon him tenderly. The father has still his smile of benevolence, but his brow has lost all its sternness; he lays his hand upon him and blesses him, and the mother’s face is irradiated with gladness! So, even in my dreams, these forms fall off from me, and I wake once more in the ghost chamber to the young day’s sunshine, to the cheerful cawing of the rooks at work outside my window; and musing, as I lay, let the sounds of life flood in upon me till my heart is filled with their music, and the spirits of the ghost chamber pass from me to return again with the firelight, on the black boards, and the moonbeams stealing in fantastically through the stained windows.
“A. S.”
A TERRIBLE RETRIBUTION; or, SQUIRE ORTON’S GHOST
Rounding out our volume of Christmas ghost stories is this fine tale of a violent murder and retribution from beyond the grave with an ending that we think closes out the book on the right note. Anonymously published in the weekly periodical Bow Bells in December 1871, this rare tale does not appear ever to have been previously reprinted.
The aspect of the drawing-room of Ivy Lodge was ever bright and cheerful, but on this particular day, Christmas Eve, with the snow without, and the crackling logs within, it was more than usually so. It seemed scarcely the right place for a man to have all his best hopes crushed—to hear his doom of endless misery pronounced. Yet thus it was with me, rich Squire Orton’s nephew—Parsimonious Squire Orton, as he was frequently termed.
For long I had loved Florence Bradlaw, adoring her with the blind affection of a man—the devotion of a dog—bearing her wilful caprices—content, rather than risk losing her, to be in favour one moment, only to be slighted the next; never, however, wholly despairing, for I was possessed by a secret consciousness, skilfully created by Florence herself, that, notwithstanding all her coquetries—charming enough in my eyes—in heart, I was her chosen lover.
The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories Page 23