CHRISTMAS EVE.
It was not in the heart of honest Jerry Vane to harbour much of doubt
when pity was wanted; and, so far as Ida was concerned, it fully
seemed wanted now.
The change that came over her health had been rapid and
unexplainable. Her nerves were evidently hopelessly unstrung; she
seemed to be pining and passing away in the midst of them all. Her
temperament was entirely changed; she could see the light emitted by
a magnet in the dark, and always shuddered at the touch of one. The
doctors shook their heads, and could only speak of change of air when
the season opened, and so forth; while poor Jerry Vane hung about her
in an agony of love and anxiety, hoping against hope that she might
yet recover and be his dear little wife after all; but when Clare
hinted at this, the ailing girl only shook her head and smiled sadly.
It was just shortly before Christmas Eve, however, that Jerry felt
himself lured and tempted, with his heart full of great pity for the
feeble condition in which he saw the once brilliant Ida, to speak to
her again of the love he bore her.
The jealous shame that he had a rival--another who might have won her
when he had failed--the lurker whom Desmond and himself had seen--was
all forgotten now; and though her bloom was gone, her complexion had
become waxen, her beautiful hands almost transparent, her eyes
unnaturally large and bright, he seemed to see in her only the same
Ida whom he had loved in the first flush of her beauty ere it budded,
and whom he had wooed and won in happier and unclouded times, in the
same old English home where they were all gathered together.
She approached the subject herself, by saying to him, when they were
alone:
'Forgive me, Jerry, if I spoke hastily to you when last we parted.'
'Forgive you!' he exclaimed, in a low voice.
'Yes; surely that is not impossible.'
'Oh, Ida! forgiveness is no word to pass between you and me.'
'Especially now, Jerry; but though I treated you ill--very, very
ill--in the past time----'
'Let us not talk of that, Ida.'
'Of what, then?'
'Our future,' he whispered, while, drawing near, he took her passive
hand in his, and longed to kiss, but dared not touch her, while great
love and compassion filled his heart--the love that had never died;
but as he held her hand she shivered like an aspen leaf.
'Future--oh, Jerry, I would that I were at rest beside mamma in
yonder church!' she said, looking to where the square tower of the
village fane, mantled in ivy and snow, stood darkly up in purple
shade against the crimson flush of the evening sky.
'Can it be that your illness is such--your weakness--oh, what shall I
term it!--is such that you are indeed tired of life, Ida?' he asked,
with an anxiety that was not unmixed with fear.
'Life is only a delusion. What is it that we should desire it?'
'You are very strange this evening, dearest Ida,' he urged softly.
'My health is shattered, Jerry--my spirit gone! hence, though you
love me, no comfort or joy would ever come to you through me.'
There were tears in the man's eyes as he listened to her. She was
pressing his hand kindly between hers, but there was a weary
wistfulness in the gaze of Ida which bewildered him, and he thought
how unlike was this sad love-making to that of the past time.
'Poor Jerry!' she resumed, after a long pause, 'I don't think I shall
live very long; a little time, I fear, and I shall only be a dream to
you, but a dream full of disappointment and pain.'
'Do not say so, Ida--my own beloved Ida!' he exclaimed, as the last
vestige of mistrust in her was forgotten, and sorrow, love, and
perplexity took its place. 'Ida,' he continued, in a voice that was
touching, passionate, and appealing, 'young, beautiful, and rich, you
shall yet be well and strong; your own gay spirit will return with
the renewed health which we shall find you in another and a sunnier
land than ours. Oh, for the love I bear you, darling, do thrust
aside these thoughts of gloom and death!'
But she answered him slowly and deliberately, in a voice that was
without tremor, though her eyes were full of melancholy, and with
something of love, too, but not earthly loving, for that passion had
long since departed.
'The thoughts of gloom come over me unsought, and will not be thrust
aside; and to dread or avoid death is folly, and to fear it is also
folly; for that which is so universal must be for our general good;
hence, to fear that which we cannot understand, and is for our good,
is greater folly. Moreover, it puts an end to all earthly suffering
and to all earthly sorrow. But leave me, dear Jerry, now; I am
weary--_so_ weary.'
Then Vane, with his eyes full of tears, pressed his lips to her pale
forehead as she sank back in her chair and closed her eyes as if to
court sleep; and he left her slowly and reluctantly, and with a heart
torn by many emotions, and not the least of these was the aching and
clamorous sense of a coming calamity.
It was Christmas-tide, when, from all parts of the British Isles, the
trains are pouring London-ward, laden with turkeys, game, and geese,
and all manner of good things; when the post-bags are filled with
dainty Christmas cards that express good and kind thoughts; when the
warmest wishes of the jocund season are exchanged by all who meet,
even to those whose hands they do not clasp, though eye looks kindly
to eye; when the sparrows, finches, and robins flock about the
farmyards, and the poor little blue tomtits feel cold and hungry in
the leafless woods and orchards; Christmas Eve--'whose red signal
fires shall glow through gloom and darkness till all the years be
done'--the season of plum-pudding and holly, mistletoe and carolling,
and of kind-hearted generosity, when the traditional stocking is
filled, and the green branches of the festive tree are loaded with
every species of 'goodies,' for excited and expectant little folks;
and 'once a year,' the eve that, of all others, makes the place of
those whom death has taken seem doubly vacant, and when the baby that
came since last Christmas is hailed with a new joy; the eve that is
distinguished by the solemnity of the mighty mission with which if is
associated; and when over all God's Christian world, the bells ring
out the chimes in memory of the star that shone over Bethlehem; and
even now they were jingling merrily in the old square English tower
of Collingwood church, from whence the cadence of the sweet
even-song, in which the voices of Clare and Violet mingled with
others, came on the clear frosty breeze to the old Court, the painted
oriels of which were all aflame with ruddy light, that fell far in
flakes across the snow-covered chase.
One voice alone was wanting there--the soft and tender one of Ida,
who was unable to leave the house and face the keen, cold winter air.
She alone, of all the gay party assembled at the Court, remained
behind.
Anxious to rejoin her, the moment the service was over in the little
village church--the altar and pillars of which Clare and her friends,
with the assistance of the gardener, had elaborately decorated: with
bays and glistening hollies--Jerry Vane slipped out of his pew and
hastened away through the snow-covered fields to where the
picturesque masses of the ancient Court, with all its traceried and
tinted windows gaily lighted up, stood darkly against the starry sky.
Unusual anxiety agitated the breast of Jerry Vane on this night; the
strange words and stranger manner of Ida had made a great impression
upon him.
That she respected him deeply he saw plainly enough; but her regard
for him, if it existed at all, which he often doubted, at least, such
regard as he wished, seemed merely that of a sister; and every way
the altered terms on which they now were seemed singular and
perplexing; and yet he loved her fondly, truly, and, when he thought
of her shattered health, most compassionately.
On entering the drawing-room, which was brilliantly lighted, he saw
Ida within an arched and curtained alcove that opened out of it; the
blue silk hangings were festooned on each side by silver tassels and
cords. The recess was thus partly in shadow, and, within, Ida
reclined on a couch, near which lay a book, that had apparently
dropped from her hand.
Her attitude, expressive of great excitement or of great grief, made
Vane pause for a moment. Her figure was in shadow, but her lovely
auburn hair glittered in light as she lay back on the couch, with her
white hands covering her eyes, pressing, to all appearance, hard upon
them, while heavy sobs convulsed her bosom and throat.
Vane was about to approach and question her as to this excessive
grief, when his blood ran cold on perceiving the figure of a
gentleman bending tenderly and caressingly over her--the man of the
arbour.
His form was in shadow, but his face was most distinct; it was
handsome in contour, though very pale; his eyes, that were cast
fondly down on Ida, were dark, as Vane could perceive, and his thick
moustache was jetty in hue.
What could he have to say to Ida that agitated her thus? And who was
this stranger who seemed to avail himself of every conceivable moment
she was alone to thrust himself upon her?--if, indeed, he were not,
as Jerry's jealousy began to hint, but too welcome!
How many times had he been with her, unknown to all? was the next
bitter thought that flashed upon him.
He resolved to bring Chute to the spot, for Chute had never believed
the stories of Ida and her mysterious friend or admirer; so, instead
of boldly advancing and intruding upon them, he softly quitted the
room, and met the Captain in the entrance hall.
'Where is Clare?' he asked.
'Gone to take off her wraps,' replied Chute.
'Quick!' said Jerry, in an agitated voice; 'come this way.'
'What is the matter?'
'You shall see. The honour--oh, that I should speak of it!--the
honour of Ida is dearer to me than life,' said Vane, in a voice which
indicated great mental pain; 'yet what am I to think, unless her
brain is turned?'
He leaned for a moment against a console table, as if a giddiness or
a weakness had come over him.
'Jerry, are you unwell?' asked Chute, anxiously.
'I don't know what the devil is up, or whether Ida--with her face
lovely as it is, and pure as that of a saint in some old cathedral
window--is playing false to me and to us all!'
'False!' exclaimed Chute, astonished by this outburst, which was made
with great bitterness.
'Yes, false.'
'Ida--why--how?'
'Because that mysterious fellow is with her now.'
'Where?'
'In the arched alcove off the drawing-room. I know not what he has
been saying to her, but the effect of his presence is to fill her
with grief and agitation; these are manifest enough, whatever may be
the secret tie or sympathy between them.'
They were for the present alone, Chute and Vane.
The gentlemen had all gone unanimously to the smoking-room, and the
voices of the ladies were heard merrily talking in the upper
corridors, in anticipation of a ball on the morrow, for which the
gayest and richest of toilettes that Paris and Regent Street could
produce were spread on more than one bed to be exultingly
contemplated.
Trevor Chute gave Jerry a grave and inquiring glance, and with
soldierlike promptitude stepped quickly towards the drawing-room.
'She declined to go with us to the evensong, and _this_ is the reason
why!' resumed Vane, bitterly. 'There--he is beside her still!'
Ida now reclined with her face upward, and the pure outline of her
profile could be distinctly seen against the dark background of the
alcove, as also the dazzling whiteness of her hands, which were
crossed upon her bosom. Over her hung the stranger, with his face so
closely bowed to hers that his features could not be seen.
'She is asleep or in a faint,' said Jerry, as they paused.
'This man's figure is familiar to me--quite,' said Chute; '_where_
have I seen him before?
As he spoke, the stranger raised his head, and turning to them his
pale, now ghastly, face, gazed at them for a moment with eyes that
were dark, singularly piercing, and intensely melancholy; there was
something in their expression which chilled the blood of Vane; but
for a moment only did he so look, and then the face and figure
melted, and in that moment a thrill of unnatural horror ran through
the heart of Trevor Chute, who stood rooted to the spot, and next, as
a wild cry escaped him, fell senseless on the carpet, for he had
beheld the visual realization of that which he had begun to fear was
Ida's haunting spirit--the face and form of Beverley, or of a demon
in his shape.
And ere he sank down where he lay, even when the eyes of this dread
thing had turned upon him, there stole over his passing senses,
quickly, the memory of the hot air of that breathless Indian morning,
when the notes of the réveille seemed to mingle with the last dying
words of his comrade--his farewell message to Ida!
All this passed in the vibration of a pendulum.
Vane was in equal terror and perplexity, all the more so that the
name of 'Beverley' had mingled with the cry of Trevor Chute.
'Beverley!' he thought. 'My God! can we look upon such things and
live!'
Like Chute and many others, he had ever prided himself on his
superiority to all thoughts of superstition and vulgar fears; he had
ever scoffed at all manner of warnings, dreams, visitations, and
spiritual influences, believing that the laws of nature were fixed
and immutable; and here, amid the blaze of light, he had been face to
face with the usually unseen world! He was face to face with
more--death!
His beloved Ida was found to have been dead for many minutes. Her
heart was cold, her pulses still, and when the cry of Chute brought,
by its strange and unnatural sound, all the household thronging to
the room in alarm and amazement, Vane was found hanging over her, and
weeping as only women weep, and with all the wild and passionate
abandonment he had never felt since childhood.
Had she seen, as they had at last, this haunting figure, whose
vicinity caused that mysterious icy chill and tremor which nevermore
would shock her delicate system and lovely form? Had the--to
her--long unseen been visible at last--that pale, solemn face with
its sad, dark eyes and black moustache?
It almost seemed so, for terror dwelt on her still features for a
time, then repose, sadness, and sweetness stole over her beautiful
face--still most beautiful in death.
Had she died of terror, of grief, or of both, inducing perhaps a
rupture of the heart? The pressure of her hands upon her breast
would seem to say the latter, but all was wild and sad conjecture now
in the startled and sorrowing household.
So ended the _haunted life_!
But the doctors discussed the subject learnedly, and her nervous
thrills or involuntary tremors were accounted for by one who asserted
'that such an emotion was producible in persons of a certain nervous
_diathesis_ by the approach alike of an unseen spirit or the
impingement of an electric fluid evolved by the superior will of
another.'
It was urged by some that anything supernatural could only be seen by
a person who was under an extraordinary exaltation of the sensuous
perceptions, and certainly this was not the case with either Desmond,
Vane, or Chute; thus it was deemed doubly strange that such men as
they should have seen this singular and terrible presence, when she,
whose system was of the most refined and delicate nature, and
rendered more spiritual by her sinking health, should only have felt
that something unseen was near her, until, perhaps, that fatal night.
What miracle, _diablerie_, or spiritualistic horror was this?
speculated all, when the story came to be sifted around the couch
whereon the dead Ida lay, like a marble statue, with her skin soft
and pale as a white camellia leaf.
Can it be, they asked, that 'his solicitude cannot rest with his
bones,' far away in that Indian grave where Trevor Chute had laid
him? Was that grave not deep enough to hide him, that his spiritual
essence--if essence it is--comes here?
It was a dark and sorrowful Christmas Eve at Carnaby Court; guests
who came to be gay, and to rejoice in the festivities of the joyous
season, departed in quick succession.
Jerry Vane never quite recovered the death of Ida or the manner of
it, and some time elapsed before the gallant heart of Trevor Chute
got the better of the shock of that night; but he could never forget
the expression of the dead eyes that seemed to have looked again into
his!
He could recall the fierce and sudden excitement of finding himself
face to face with his first tiger in India, and putting the contents
of both barrels into him, just as the monster was in the act of
tearing down the shrieking mahout from his perch behind the ears of
his shikaree elephant in a jungle where the twisted branches had to
be torn aside at every step; and the nearly similar emotion with
which he speared his first wild hog--an old boar, but too likely to
turn like an envenomed devil when hard pressed and the pace grew hot;
he could recall its glistening bristles that were like blue steel,
its red eyes, and its fierce white tusks, as he whetted them in his
dying wrath against a peepul tree; he could recall, too, the shock of
the first bullet that took him in the arm, the vague terror of a
barbed arrow that pierced his thigh, and which, for all he knew,
might be poisoned; but never was mortal shock or emotion equal to the
horror that burst upon him that night in the drawing-room of Carnaby
Court, when a grasp of iron seemed to tighten round his heart, 'when
the hair of his flesh stood up,' the light went out of his eyes, and
he sank into oblivion.
* * * * *
Brighter times come anon.
None can sorrow for ever; though that of the inmates of Carnaby Court
did not pass away with the snows of winter--nay, nor with the sweet
buds of spring or the roses of summer, when they climbed round the
oriels and gables of the grand old mansion. Thus it was not for many
months after that night of dread and dismay--that most mournful
Christmas Eve--that the merry chimes were heard to ring in the old
square tower of the Saxon church for the marriage of Clare and Trevor
Chute, who passed, with chastened looks and much of tender sorrow,
amid their long-deferred happiness, the now flower-covered garden of
the gentle sister who had been indirectly the good angel who brought
that happiness to pass.
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD AND LONDON.