Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  I made no effort to hide my passion. It was as open as the natural timidity that a man truly in love experiences in the presence of her he adores, will permit; especially when indifferent persons are by. What my faltering tongue refused to utter, however, I left with full confidence to my eyes and fingers. The one was eloquent in ardent glances, the other in trembling touches.

  There was, though, a circumstance which gave me considerable uneasiness. I had a presentiment—nay, more than a presentiment—that Oswald and I were rivals—that he, too, loved Cicely Mostyn. His disposition was the reverse of mine. The more strongly he felt, the more grave and silent he became. This it was which aroused my suspicions. I knew that did he love, it would be with all the secret intensity of a studious, rather morbid, mind, which had the habit of brooding—brooding over joys as well as griefs. I was aware, also, that jealousy formed a strong portion of my brother’s character.

  All absorbed in my love for Cicely, it was not at once that I suspected our being rivals; then, as I pondered upon the probability, the idea flashed across my brain.

  Did Uncle Jaffery know of our cousin’s surpassing beauty? Had he, in his dislike to his brother’s children, planned this month’s compulsory residence together, in hopes that enmity might spring from it? Had he not hated women? Was it not said a woman had been the cause of that duel in the plantation—the wound received in which Uncle Jaffery had never forgiven?

  I have stated I loved Oswald dearly; therefore, there may be some persons who, believing in the generosity of strong affection, were they writing this story as a novel, might make me, out of my feeling for my brother, seek to overcome my passion for Cicely. But I don’t believe in love’s generosity. When analysed it is, on the contrary, one of the most selfish passions in creation. It absorbs us entirely within its influence; and I would sooner have died than yield Cicely—even to Oswald.

  Indeed, after the suspicion, I the more openly paid our cousin court, hoping, by being the first in the field, it would make the right mine to bid him withdraw. It may here be hinted that the lady herself was the fittest person to decide that matter. Well, I know it; and she had decided. Yes; though not a word had been spoken, though she mirthfully rather held me off when I sought to touch upon the subject, I felt instinctively Cicely returned my love.

  Christmas at last arrived—the eventful Christmas. It had lost much interest to me; I seemed to care little whether I was left a full share or nothing of my uncle’s wealth, so that I could call Cicely wife; and I resolved that on this night, which was to decide so much, this also should be decided.

  According to Uncle Jaffery’s singular will, invitations had been issued to all the neighbouring gentry, and the Holme ball-room was crowded, its old walls echoing to the spirit-inspiring sounds of music and women’s silvery laughter. Every window was a blaze of light, and cast bright reflections on the snow laying thickly without, till, at a certain radius, the darkness and the pine-trees closed it in.

  To look at the old place, which for a year and more had been so dull and tenantless, it reminded one of a desolate old age being suddenly re-endowed with youthful vigour. The casements winked from beneath their heavy ivy brows; mirth floated on the night air; all seemed happiness. It was to be a merry Christmas, indeed.

  Even Oswald appeared affected by the general good fellowship the season ever brings. For the few days previously he had kept much to his own room, had been silent and thoughtful in company, and on being addressed, returned but short replies, especially when I was the interlocutor. On being questioned, he gave as the reason that his mind was engaged by a difficult brief, containing a point of old law, which, could he fully master, would not only win his cause, but make him a high name in his profession.

  This day, however, his bearing was totally changed. He laughed and jested with the best, though in an excited way; he hung about Cicely’s skirts wherever she went.

  ‘Confound him! would he have her all to himself?’ I mentally exclaimed, in some annoyance. Then added, compassionately, ‘Poor fellow, does he not also love her—and he, hopelessly? Poor Oswald! for—as surely as if her own sweet lips had uttered it—I know Cicely is mine!’

  Nevertheless, however certain of his mistress’s favour, a lover does not like to see his rival, though unsuccessful, engrossing all her attention; and I rejoiced at my determination to speak that night; for, on our engagement being un fait accompli, none could dispute with me the place by her side. The evening was at its merriest, when I led Cicely from the ball-room, for the ostensible purpose of showing her the northern lights, which were flashing brilliantly. As we passed through an ante-room, I wrapped a huge, thick plaid about her, and insisted on her putting her little feet in a pair of snow boots.

  Then, opening the glass doors, we stood on the terrace together, watching the dancers. I cannot say I saw them much; for my heart was beating right up in my throat, my brain felt confused, and my usual easy flow of speech was wanting. I yet feared to begin my confession, lest I might be interrupted—for the servants were passing to and fro in the inner room; so, declaring we should see the aurora borealis far better from the rising ground at the other side of the plantation, I drew her small hand through my arm, and led her down to the path, which had been well swept from snow. I do not in the least imagine she believed anything about the better view. I think she divined my purpose; for she could no longer meet my glance. She trembled, just a little, and I own her few sentences were not uttered with much wisdom.

  At the other side of the plantation, we stopped and regarded the moving columns of light, as we had intended; but Cicely’s little head now nestled confidingly close to my shoulder, and my arm encircled her waist. She looked at the heavens; I preferred to see their reflection in her eyes. The avowal had been made under the pine-trees—and I was not rejected. At that moment, Cicely and I were the happiest beings in all creation.

  I don’t know whether it is the same with every one as with myself; but I never feel my face near a pretty woman’s, but some magnetic influence attracts my lips to hers. The law of adhesion, I suppose. In my betrothed’s case, I saw no reason to suppress the impulse; so stooped just a little, and the deed was done.

  She instantly broke away, her dimpled face suffused with mirth and blushes.

  ‘For shame, sir!’ she exclaimed; ‘for such rudeness, you must do penance. So stay here, while I return to the Grange; I would not be seen entering the house with such a monster for worlds. Now, mind, do not move for five minutes, at least.’

  She shook her pretty finger authoritatively, bent her dark eyes, radiant with love, upon me, then the tree-trunks closed about her graceful figure.

  I never again saw Cicely Mostyn alive!

  Determined to obey her, to prove how I heeded her every word—I waited, literally not stirring from the spot. As strictly as a devotee, I took out my watch to count the minutes. What a fund of exquisite happiness was centred in my being; my veins were dancing; my temples throbbing with it. I dreamed of seeing Cicely speedily in the ball-room; of beholding the conscious blush dye her cheek when our eyes met, and she recalled the stolen kiss.

  The imaginary meeting made me forget our present separation. My eyes were still fixed on the watch, its hands having moved over ten minutes unnoticed—for the sweet face floated between me and it—when the stillness of the Christmas night was broken by a fearful shriek.

  Oh, heavens! I recognized it as Cicely’s. In an instant, I was dashing in the direction. It did not come from the path we had traversed, but deeper among the trees. She had, no doubt, in her flight, taken the wrong way.

  ‘Cicely! Cicely!’ I shouted, as I ran; but no answer came. I searched the paths, the bushes; I called again and again— not a trace, not a sound. Could I have been deceived? I had begun to imagine so, when I reached a small, open space, where, upon the white snow, which had been scattered as by restlessly-moving feet, I saw—a dark, red stain! It was blood!

  My brain reeled; my heart grew sick with a d
read I dared not trust myself to analyse. I sought for other marks. Heaven help me! I found them. Found to lose, to find them again, till I emerged upon the broad expanse of snow before the front of the Holme. Here they were more distinct; but I needed them no longer as a guide.

  An object extended on the white ground, just within the brilliant light from the ball-room windows, at once attracted my attention. With a heart as chill as the icicles on the trees about me, I sprang forward; then, with a great cry, sank on my knees by it.

  It was Cicely Mostyn—my beloved—my darling—dead! She laid her face and bosom on the snow; one fair arm extended to the house, as if she had fallen in the very act of summoning aid. The dark, red stain was all about her now; and, as with passionate words, lifting her, I turned her towards me, the plaid falling away, I beheld the crimson life-stream welling forth from a ghastly wound that disfigured her soft, white neck.

  Again I shrieked for help, and this time so loudly, that no music could drown my voice. But, impatient in my frenzy, starting up, with my clenched hands I dashed in the panes of the glass doors upon the startled guests.

  I need not enter fully into the scene which ensued, the mirth that had so rapidly been turned to mourning. Rapidly I recounted what had transpired; aid was summoned, and the awe-struck guests, all in their bright, festive attire, grouped around, waiting it. A change had come over me. I no longer raved. I did not even speak. A dumb, stony expression of horror on my face—I stood, with folded arms, mutely gazing at the beautiful corpse at my feet. The night was about us; the dark pine-trees shut us in like a pall. Light was nowhere but in the holly-decorated ball-room, which, in yellow rays, streamed forth on the dead, on me, upon the guests, and the aghast servants huddled at one side, with the old housekeeper in the front.

  They had once attempted to move the body, but, with a ferocity that alarmed them, I had bade them desist. Medical help was coming, but I knew my darling had been dead, even before I reached her.

  Suddenly I looked up, not noticing how all shrunk away from my wild, haggard countenance.

  ‘My brother,’ I said, hoarsely, for my lips felt glued together. ‘Where is Oswald?’

  There was a pause, then I saw one of the servants, a groom, whispering to the other.

  ‘Stand forth!’ I exclaimed, in a tone he dared not disobey. ‘Tell me—where is Oswald Tregethan?’

  They now guessed what I had known from the first—that my brother was the murderer!

  In evident trepidation the groom complied, but hesitated to speak. Striding forward, I seized him by the throat. In my fury at his silence, I could have killed him.

  ‘Speak, hound!’ I cried, ‘or, by heaven, this night shall witness two murders instead of one!’

  Terrified for his own safety he spoke; and I learned that, about a quarter of an hour previously, Oswald, with a scared, ashen face, had dashed into the stables, ordered a horse to be saddled, and at a break-neck pace, had plunged through the darkness towards the hills.

  What had taken place between him and Cicely, I never knew; but I suppose he must have met her, and avowed his passion, when, finding its fruitlessness—that I was the successful suitor— he, in the moment of jealous, disappointed passion, must have dealt her that death-blow.

  My lips compressed more and more, as I listened, but on the man’s ending, I said, quietly releasing him, ‘Go, instantly, and saddle the fleetest horse for me.’

  He rose to obey, and I was about to follow, when the old housekeeper, dropping on the snow, and clinging to my knees, cried, ‘No, no, Master Frank; there is that on your face fearful to look upon. This must not be—it must not—there has been blood enough shed this night. It was destiny, you nor he could not have prevented it. Remember, the Weird Woman of Tregethan! Wait!—wait, at least, till morning!’

  I did not stay to answer. Flinging her aside, I hurried to the stables. At the housekeeper’s entreaty, some of the guests sought to stay me; but the expression of the features I turned upon them, startled them back.

  Aiding in the saddling of the horse, I led him out. Taking a stable lantern, I tracked the feet of Oswald’s horse to the road. As the groom had stated, he had gone towards the hills. Throwing down the lantern, I leaped into my saddle, and plunging my spurs deep in the animal’s side, pursued. It was a blind—a fearful ride; but I never hesitated. I blessed the moon for rising. I cursed the dark, floating clouds she brought with her. I cursed the snow, which hindered my hearing Oswald in advance.

  An hour, and I was still riding on, now among the hills. I never thought whether I might be wrong—I knew I was right! Strange, too, but the country I was traversing—even the occurrence seemed as one acted long, long before, in that past which appears to have been another life in another world before our birth; and this was but the mechanical - repetition of it? What was that? That sound amid the silence? His horse’s feet? No; it was but the dashing of water. I was approaching some cataract or fall among the hills; there were many such. It was distant yet; but I was nearing it. Was I ever to overtake him?

  Yes.

  Even as I mentally put the question, the clouds abruptly drifted from the moon, and fifty paces before me, on the same road, was Oswald.

  Uttering a cry of joy which was fiendish in its rapture, I urged my horse to greater speed. My brother heard me—looked once behind—then also increased his pace; but I shudder now at the satisfaction I then experienced when I noticed his horse flagged, and, indeed, was already dead beat, I must reach him—nothing could prevent me!

  The road, too, was a steep incline; its course being over a hill; consequently I gained rapidly on Oswald. The dash of waters sounded to me now very close, but I did not heed them. ‘Where he goes,’ I thought, ‘I can follow!’ Though each second I shortened the distance between us, yet he was far enough in advance to reach before me the crest of the hill, over which he disappeared.

  This drove me to frenzy. When I could not see him, I dreaded his escaping. And I also rapidly reached the top. Oswald was not twenty yards off. I shouted with triumphant exultation, and spurred on.

  The way, bordered by stunted bushes, was now level, and within forty paces ended in a rustic bridge, spanning the waterfall I had heard, and which I now remembered dashed down from a great height between two hills, its bed being composed of rugged boulders and huge masses of rock.

  A new fear seized me. I was aware how fragile were these country bridges, and I thought if Oswald were to reach the other side and swing it from its hold, further pursuit would be impossible.

  Encouraging my horse by whip, word, and hand, I resolved to prevent his doing this. A moment longer, and I was close upon him—so close that he must have heard my breathing, as I heard his. He looked quickly back. Heaven, forgive me! but if I live a hundred years, I shall never forget that white, ghastly, affrighted face. At the instant, I felt no pity.

  ‘Murderer!’ I cried—‘assassin!’

  Then the old, old love rushed upon me-the love of our boyhood and youth, when we had been all in all to each other; and wildly I shouted, ‘Oswald! brother! come back!’

  Why was this sudden revulsion of feeling? I will explain. As I had uttered the accusatory words, Oswald, with a cry had, by a rapid pressure of his knees, caused his jaded beast to spring forward beyond my reach on to the bridge. The frail, rude construction trembled under the sudden shock; but there might have been no danger, had not the over-ridden brute, stumbling, fallen with all its weight against the sapling which served for a hand-rail. I saw it bend—snap— and horse and rider hung helpless above the abyss!

  There was a fearful moment, that seemed like whole years of compressed agony, when Oswald, perceiving his danger, struggled manfully against it; but even as I bounded forward to lend my aid, the bridge fell, and I beheld my brother’s form, blended in a confused mass with the horse, plunge down into the tumbling waters. He flung wide his arms, but yet uttered no sound. The shriek that echoed among the hills was from my lips. My shriek mingled with another�
�s. Yes; in the air above came that sad, moaning, yet exultant, cry I had heard on the first night of my arrival at The Grange. My blood chilled to stagnation. I looked up as I reared my horse on its haunches, to save myself from Oswald’s fate; and there, floating over us and the waters, was the Weird Woman with the Dead Eyes.

  Her frightfully dilated pupils were fixed on me. The bony arm and hand were stretched down towards where my brother had disappeared. Then I knew where I had seen all this before. It had been the subject of my dream.

  I remembered no more. Two hours after, I was found in a fainting fit, which ended in brain fever, by my horse’s side, and in dangerous proximity to the edge of the water-fall; only by a miracle I had escaped death. My poor brother’s body, and his horse’s were found lifeless among the rocks.

  Spike Milligan

  I’M WALKING BACKWARDS FOR CHRISTMAS

  I'm walking backwards for Christmas,

  Across the Irish Sea,

  I'm walking backwards for Christmas,

  It's the only thing for me.

  I've tried walking sideways,

  And walking to the front,

  But people just look at me,

  And say it's a publicity stunt.

  I'm walking backwards for Christmas,

  To prove that I love you.

  An immigrant lad, loved an Irish colleen

  From Dublin Galway Bay.

  He longed for her arms,

  But she spurned his charms,

  And sailed o'er the foam away

  She left the lad by himself, on his own

  All alone, a-sorrowing

  And sadly he dreamed, or at least that's the

  way it seemed, buddy,