The Valancourt Book of Victorian Christmas Ghost Stories

by James D. Jenkins

  As he ended, he left the apartment.

  Left it, and my side also. What! was he not a spirit, after all? Doctor Gruge, and bleeding! Had I been ill? I directed my eyes to my arm; it was bandaged. Had all which had passed been a dream—the visions of delirium? It must be so; in which case, Squire Orton was alive, I was not a murderer, neither was I married to Florence Brad­law.

  The inexpressible delight I experienced at these facts was too much for me, and I fainted. When I came to, the lamp had been lowered. Through the withdrawn window curtains, I saw the moonbeams without glittered on vast tracks of snow, while the rich fire-light illumined the apartment within, its red mellow tint throwing out in clear relief Susie’s graceful figure as she sat pondering over it. Her face was sad, and I was sure she was weeping. How beautiful, how good she looked! Uncle Orton had said correctly. If with my own eyes I could not discover the priceless gem which might be mine, I deserved none to point it out to my dull brain.

  Yes, the delirium had passed, leaving me a wiser man. Of all that had occurred, two events alone were real. First, that Florence Brad­law had refused me, because I was not master of the Hall. Secondly, that Susie Mayfield loved me with her entire heart.

  “Dear Susie!” I murmured.

  In an instant, a bright smile on her lip, thinking I needed aid, she was by my side. Somehow, I got her hand in mine, and would not let it go. Her bent, averted face showed my touch had at once told my meaning; nevertheless, my lips speedily removed all doubt.

  Half an hour after, the entrance of Squire Orton startled Susie away from the sofa. The expression of his features was singular; they displayed satisfaction, blended with a dash of pity. Heightening the lamp, after congratulating me on my recovery, he said, not looking at me, “I have some startling news; I wonder if you can bear it, Syd?”

  “Indeed! What is it, uncle?” I asked.

  He glanced keenly at me, then added, “Miss Florence Brad­law eloped this evening with Colonel Harrison.”

  “Really!” I rejoined, so quietly that it was he who started, not I. “May she be happy.”

  My wish was not realized, as a case two years later, in the Divorce Court, proved.

  Squire Orton regarded me in amaze, which yet further increased, as I added, “Uncle, I am resolved to get married; I trust you will approve of the wife I have selected. Susie, my darling, come to me.”

  The Squire looked from my extended palm to Susie’s blushing cheeks; then striding forward, and clasping my hand as he never yet had clasped it, he exclaimed, “Heaven bless the boy, he has come to his senses at last! Syd, that fit we found you in, lying before a perfectly roasting fire, has saved your life. This shall be a happy Christmas to all of us, my dear, dear lad!”

  Need I say it was so? We three saw it in, seated about the glowing logs, my arm around Susie’s waist, and listening to the merrily clashing bells, bearing tidings of joy to all hearts, as I told my listeners the story of Squire Orton’s Ghost.