Shivers for Christmas

by Richard Dalby

  ‘What is that bell tolling for?’ asked the nobleman.

  ‘For what I came to tell you of, your Grace.’

  ‘You torment me—it is your way?’ said the Duke querulously. ‘Who’s dead in the village?’

  ‘The oldest man—the old shepherd.’

  ‘Dead at last—how old is he?’

  ‘Ninety-four.’

  ‘And I am only seventy. I have four-and-twenty years to the good!’

  ‘I served under that old man when I kept sheep on Marlbury Downs. And he was on the hill that second night, when I first exchanged words with your Grace. He was on the hill all the time; but I did not know he was there—nor did you.’

  ‘Ah!’ said the Duke, starting up. ‘Go on—I yield the point—you may tell!’

  ‘I heard this afternoon that he was at the point of death. It was that which set me thinking of that past time—and induced me to search on the hill for what I have told you. Coming back I heard that he wished to see the Vicar to confess to him a secret he had kept for more than twenty years—“out of respect to my Lord the Duke”—something that he had seen committed on Marlbury Downs when returning to the flock on a December night twenty-two years ago. I have thought it over. He had left me in charge that evening; but he was in the habit of coming back suddenly, lest I should have fallen asleep. That night I saw nothing of him, though he had promised to return. He must have returned, and—found reason to keep in hiding. It is all plain. The next thing is that the Vicar went to him two hours ago. Further than that I have not heard.’

  ‘It is quite enough. I will see the Vicar at daybreak tomorrow.’

  ‘What to do?’

  ‘Stop his tongue for four-and-twenty years—till I am dead at ninety-four, like the shepherd.’

  ‘Your Grace—while you impose silence on me, I will not speak, even though my neck should pay the penalty. I promised to be yours, and I am yours. But is this persistence of any avail?’

  ‘I’ll stop his tongue, I say!’ cried the Duke with some of his old rugged force. ‘Now, you go home to bed, Mills, and leave me to manage him.’

  The interview ended, and the steward withdrew. The night, as he had said, was just such an one as the night of twenty-two years before, and the events of the evening destroyed in him all regard for the season as one of cheerfulness and goodwill. He went off to his own house on the further verge of the park, where he led a lonely life, scarcely calling any man friend. At eleven he prepared to retire to bed—but did not retire. He sat down and reflected. Twelve o’clock struck; he looked out at the colourless moon, and, prompted by he knew not what, put on his hat and emerged into the air. Here William Mills strolled on and on, till he reached the top of Marlbury Downs, a spot he had not visited at this hour of the night during the whole score-and-odd years.

  He placed himself, as nearly as he could guess, on the spot where the shepherd’s hut had stood. No lambing was in progress there now, and the old shepherd who had used him so roughly had ceased from his labours that very day. But the trilithon stood up white as ever; and, crossing the intervening sward, the steward fancifully placed his mouth against the stone. Restless and self-reproachful as he was, he could not resist a smile as he thought of the terrifying oath of compact, sealed by a kiss upon the stones of a Pagan temple. But he had kept his word, rather as a promise than as a formal vow, with much worldly advantage to himself, though not much happiness; till increase of years had bred reactionary feelings which led him to receive the news of tonight with emotions akin to relief.

  While leaning against the Devil’s Door and thinking on these things, he became conscious that he was not the only inhabitant of the down. A figure in white was moving across his front with long, noiseless strides. Mills stood motionless, and when the form drew quite near he perceived it to be that of the Duke himself in his nightshirt—apparently walking in his sleep. Not to alarm the old man, Mills clung close to the shadow of the stone. The Duke went straight on into the hollow. There he knelt down, and began scratching the earth with his hands like a badger. After a few minutes he arose, sighed heavily, and retraced his steps as he had come.

  Fearing that he might harm himself, yet unwilling to arouse him, the steward followed noiselessly. The Duke kept on his path unerringly, entered the park, and made for the house, where he let himself in by a window that stood open—the one probably by which he had come out. Mills softly closed the window behind his patron, and then retired homeward to await the revelations of the morning, deeming it unnecessary to alarm the house.

  However, he felt uneasy during the remainder of the night, no less on account of the Duke’s personal condition than because of that which was imminent next day. Early in the morning he called at Shakeforest Towers. The blinds were down, and there was something singular upon the porter’s face when he opened the door. The steward inquired for the Duke.

  The man’s voice was subdued as he replied: ‘Sir, I am sorry to say that his Grace is dead! He left his room sometime in the night, and wandered about nobody knows where. On returning to the upper floor he lost his balance and fell downstairs.’

  The steward told the tale of the Down before the Vicar had spoken. Mills had always intended to do so after the death of the Duke. The consequences to himself he underwent cheerfully; but his life was not prolonged. He died, a farmer at the Cape, when still somewhat under forty-nine years of age.

  The splendid Marlbury breeding flock is as renowned as ever, and, to the eye, seems the same in every particular that it was in earlier times; but the animals which composed it on the occasion of the events gathered from the Justice are divided by many ovine generations from its members now. Lambing Corner has long since ceased to be used for lambing purposes, though the name still lingers on as the appellation of the spot. This abandonment of site may be partly owing to the removal of the high furze bushes which lent such convenient shelter at that date. Partly, too, it may be due to another circumstance. For it is said by present shepherds in that district that during the nights of Christmas week flitting shapes are seen in the open space around the trilithon, together with the gleam of a weapon, and the shadow of a man dragging a burden into the hollow. But of these things there is no certain testimony.

  __________________________________________

  THE PICTURE

  PUZZLE

  by Edward Lucas White

  __________________________________________

  Edward Lucas White (1866–1934) was an American writer who achieved his greatest success with novels set in ancient Greece; but he is now chiefly remembered for his short fantasy tales (often based on vivid dreams) especially ‘The House of the Nightmare’ (1905), ‘Lukundoo’ (1907), and ‘The Picture Puzzle’ (1909).

  I

  Of course the instinct of the police and detectives was to run down their game. That was natural. They seemed astonished and contemptuous when I urged that all I wanted was my baby; whether the kidnappers were ever caught or not made no difference to me. They kept arguing that unless precautions were taken the criminals would escape and I kept arguing that if they became suspicious of a trap they would keep away and my only chance to recover our little girl would be gone forever. They finally agreed and I believe they kept their promise to me. Helen always felt the other way and maintained that their watchers frightened off whoever was to meet me. Anyhow, I waited in vain, waited for hours, waited again the next day and the next and the next. We put advertisements in countless papers, offering rewards and immunity, but never heard anything more.

  I pulled myself together in a sort of a way and tried to do my work. My partner and clerks were very kind. I don’t believe I ever did anything properly in those days, but no one ever brought any blunder to my attention. If they came across any they set it right for me. And at the office it was not so bad. Trying to work was good for me. It was worse at home and worse at night. I slept hardly at all.

  Helen, if possible, slept less than I. And she had terrible spasms of sobs that
shook the bed. She would try to choke them down, thinking I was asleep and she might wake me. But she never went through a night without at least one frightful paroxysm of tears.

  In the daylight she controlled herself better, made a heart-breaking and yet heart-warming effort at her normal cheeriness over the breakfast things, and greeted me beautifully when I came home. But the moment we were alone for the evening she would break down.

  I don’t know how many days that sort of thing kept up. I sympathized in silence. It was Helen herself who suggested that we must force ourselves to be diverted, somehow. The theatre was out of the question. Not merely the sight of a four-year-old girl with yellow locks threw Helen into a passion of uncontrollable sobbing, but all sorts of unexpected trifles reminded her of Amy and affected her almost as much. Confined to our home we tried cards, chess and everything else we could think of. They helped her as little as they helped me.

  Then one afternoon Helen did not come to greet me. Instead I came in I heard her call, quite in her natural voice.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad that is you. Come and help me.’

  I found her seated at the library table, her back to the door. She had on a pink wrapper and her shoulders had no despondent droop, but a girlish alertness. She barely turned her head as I entered, but her profile showed no signs of recent weeping. Her face was its natural colour.

  ‘Come and help me,’ she repeated. ‘I can’t find the other piece of the boat.’

  She was absorbed, positively absorbed in a picture puzzle.

  In forty seconds I was absorbed too. It must have been six minutes before we identified the last piece of the boat. And then we went on with the sky and were still at it when the butler announced dinner.

  ‘Where did you get it?’ I asked, over the soup, which Helen really ate.

  ‘Mrs Allstone brought it,’ Helen replied, ‘just before lunch.’

  I blessed Mrs Allstone.

  Really it seems absurd, but those idiotic jig-saw puzzles were our salvation. They actually took our minds off everything else. At first I dreaded finishing one. No sooner was the last piece in place than I felt a sudden revulsion, a booming of blood in my ears, and the sense of loss and misery rushed over me like a wave of scalding water. And I knew it was worse for Helen.

  But after some days each seemed not merely a respite from pain, but a sedative as well. After a two hours’ struggle with a fascinating tangle of shapes and colours, we seemed numb to our bereavement and the bitterness of the smart seemed blunted.

  We grew fastidious as to manufacture and finish; learned to avoid crude and clumsy products as bores; developed a pronounced taste for pictures neither too soft nor too plain in colour masses; and became connoisseurs as to cutting, utterly above the obvious and entirely disenchanted with the painfully difficult. We evolved into adepts, quick to recoil from fragments barren of any clue of shape or markings and equally prompt to reject those whose meaning was too definite and insistent. We trod delicately the middle way among segments not one of which was without some clue of outline or tint, and not one of which imparted its message without interrogation, inference and reflection.

  Helen used to time herself and try the same puzzle over and over on successive days until she could do it in less than half an hour. She declared that a really good puzzle was interesting the fourth or fifth time and that an especially fine puzzle was diverting if turned face down and put together from the shapes merely, after it had been well learned the other way. I did not enter into the craze to that extent, but sometimes tried her methods for variety.

  We really slept, and Helen, though worn and thin, was not abject, not agonized. Her nights passed, if not wholly without tears, yet with only those soft and silent tears, which are more a relief than suffering. With me she was nearly her old self and very brave and patient. She greeted me naturally and we seemed able to go on living.

  Then one day she was not at the door to welcome me. I had hardly shut it before I heard her sobbing. I found her again at the library table and over a puzzle. But this time she had just finished it and was bowed over it on the table, shaken all over by her grief.

  She lifted her head from her crossed arms, pointed and buried her face in her hands. I understood. The picture I remembered from a magazine of the year before: a Christmas tree with a bevy of children about it and one (we had remarked it at the time) a perfect likeness of our Amy.

  As she rocked back and forth, her hands over her eyes, I swept the pieces into their box and put on the lid.

  Presently Helen dried her eyes and looked at the table.

  ‘Oh! why did you touch it,’ she wailed. ‘It was such a comfort to me.’

  ‘You did not seem comforted,’ I retorted. ‘I thought the contrast …’ I stopped.

  ‘You mean the contrast between the Christmas we expected and the Christmas we are going to have?’ she queried. ‘You mean you thought that was too much for me?’

  I nodded.

  ‘It wasn’t that at all,’ she averred. ‘I was crying for joy. That picture was a sign.’

  ‘A sign?’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ she declared, ‘a sign that we shall get her back in time for Christmas. I’m going to start and get ready right away.’

  At first I was glad of the diversion. Helen had the nursery put in order as if she expected Amy the next day, hauled over all the child’s clothes and was in a bustling state of happy expectancy. She went vigorously about her preparation for a Christmas celebration, planned a Christmas Eve dinner for our brothers and sisters and their husbands and wives, and a children’s party afterwards with a big tree and a profusion of goodies and gifts.

  ‘You see,’ she explained, ‘everyone will want their own Christmas at home. So shall we, for we’ll just want to gloat over Amy all day. We won’t want them on Christmas any more than they’ll want us. But this way we can all be together and celebrate and rejoice over our good luck.’

  She was as elated and convinced as if it was a certainty. For a while her occupation with preparations was good for her, but she was so forehanded that she was ready a week ahead of time and had not a detail left to arrange. I dreaded a reaction, but her artificial exaltation continued unabated. All the more I feared the inevitable disappointment and was genuinely concerned for her reason. The fixed idea that that accidental coincidence was a prophecy and a guarantee dominated her totally. I was really afraid that the shock of the reality might kill her. I did not want to dissipate her happy delusion, but I could not but try to prepare her for a certain blow. I talked cautiously in wide circles around what I wanted and I did not want to say.

  II

  On December 22nd, I came home early, just after lunch, in fact. Helen met me, at the door, with such a demeanour of suppressed high spirits, happy secrecy and tingling anticipation that for one moment I was certain Amy had been found and was then in the house.

  ‘I’ve something wonderful to show you,’ Helen declared, and led me to the library.

  There on the table was a picture-puzzle fitted together.

  She stood and pointed to it with the air of exhibiting a marvel.

  I looked at it but could not conjecture the cause of her excitement. The pieces seemed too large, too clumsy and too uniform in outline. It looked a crude and clumsy puzzle, beneath her notice.

  ‘Why did you buy it?’ I asked.

  ‘I met a peddler on the street,’ she answered, ‘and he was so wretched-looking, I was sorry for him. He was young and thin and looked haggard and consumptive. I looked at him and I suppose I showed my feelings. He said:

  “Lady, buy a puzzle. It will help you to your heart’s desire.”

  ‘His words were so odd I bought it, and now just look at what it is.’

  I was groping for some foothold upon which to rally my thoughts.

  ‘Let me see the box in which it came,’ I asked.

  She produced it and I read on the top:

  ‘GUGGENHEIM’S DOUBLE PICTURE

  PUZ
ZLE.

  TWO IN ONE.

  MOST FOR THE MONEY.

  ASK FOR GUGGENHEIM’S’

  And on the end—

  ‘ASTRAY.

  A BREATH OF AIR.

  50 CENTS.’

  ‘It’s queer,’ Helen remarked. ‘But it is not a double puzzle at all, though the pieces have the same paper on both sides. One side is blank. I suppose this is ASTRAY. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Astray?’ I queried, puzzled.

  ‘Oh,’ she cried, in a disappointed, disheartened, almost querulous tone. ‘I thought you would be so much struck with the resemblance. You don’t seem to notice it at all. Why even the dress is identical!’

  ‘The dress?’ I repeated. ‘how many times have you done this?’

  ‘Only this once,’ she said. ‘I had just finished it when I heard your key in the lock.’

  ‘I should have thought,’ I commented, ‘that it would have been more interesting to do it face up first.’

  ‘Face up!’ she cried. ‘It is face up.’

  Her air of scornful superiority completely shook me out of my sedulous consideration of a moment before.

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said, ‘that’s the back of the puzzle. There are no colours there. It’s all pink.’

  ‘Pink!’ she exclaimed pointing. ‘Do you call that pink!’

  ‘Certainly it’s pink,’ I asserted.

  ‘Don’t you see there the white of the old man’s beard?’ she queried, pointing again. ‘And there the black of his boots? And there the red of the little girl’s dress?’

  ‘No,’ I declared. ‘I don’t see anything of the kind. It’s all pink. There isn’t any picture there at all.’

  ‘No picture!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you see the old man leading the child by the hand?’

  ‘No,’ I said harshly, ‘I don’t see any picture and you know I don’t. There isn’t any picture there. I can’t make out what you are driving at. It seems a senseless joke.’