“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.

But a man cannot dangle about a woman’s skirts for months, without a desire to assure himself of what is to be his real fate. Dreading rejection—hoping an acceptance—he rushes forward; and I, Squire Orton’s only heir, had, at beautiful Florence Brad­law’s feet, that Christmas Eve, besought her promise to be mine.

The declaration had not taken long to speak—nor the answer. The result was the following tableau. I was standing, with gloomy, angry, despairing brow, near the table; Florence a few paces off by the fire, calm, though her colour was heightened, her head slightly bent, and her fingers plucked, unconsciously, to pieces some winter flowers I had brought her.

“This, then, is your final reply, Florence?” I exclaimed huskily, after a moment’s silence. “After all, you do not love me—you will not marry me?”

“I did not say I did not love you, Sydney,” she answered, quietly, without any agitation, glancing up. “I said I could not, under the circumstances, marry you.”

“And those circumstances?”

“Your utter dependence on your uncle, Squire Orton. He is, if report speaks true, very—pardon my saying it—fond of his wealth and Miss Mayfield. Supposing, were you to offend him, he were to disinherit you? You would be penniless! What should we do?—I, who hate, abhor poverty!”

“Florence!” I cried earnestly, “you should not feel it; I would work day and night that you should not.” Then I could not refrain from adding, rather bitterly, “But this is scarcely a proof of real love.”

“Excuse me,” she said; “it is, in my eyes, the truest, being destitute of all folly of romance, which ever leads to misery and discontent. Better in marriage, as other matters, to look well into the future, than leap blindly.”

I was silent; her words cut me to the heart; but I loved her. After a space, I said, “Why should he disinherit me—I am his heir?”

“A fact a dash of his pen can alter,” she rejoined, her cheek flushing with passionate indignation, as she continued, “Why would he disinherit you? For wedding me, whom he hates equally as he loves his gold.”

I did not refute it; I knew well enough what she said was true. My uncle was never flattering in the terms he applied to Florence. “Heartless!” “Extravagant coquette!” “Selfish flirt!” were among the mildest. Thus her supposition of my disinheritance was not improbable. Did he imagine the gold he held so carefully would be squandered by my wife, I felt he would cut me off with a shilling. To prevent the chance of this, no doubt, was the reason that, though over twenty-one, he yet treated me as a boy. My allowance was large, but entirely dependent on his will.

“I have received your answer; I accept it, Florence,” I said, coldly. “I suppose it is farewell with us for ever?”

“I do not say so!” And lifting her dark, brilliant eyes, she shot at me a glance that thrilled through every nerve, causing them to throb with the fever of my passion. “There is no hurry to decide yet, Sydney. Let us think the words just spoken were never uttered. Let us be the same as before, and wait. Who knows what may happen even in a few weeks?”

She extended her hand, and as I took it, her unpronounced thought seemed to communicate itself to me. My uncle was old—the winter was a severe one—he might die.

“Florence,” I said, a tremor running through my frame, “tell me, if I were master of Orton Hall, would you be mine?”

She drooped her eyes, hesitated, and murmured, “Yes; if you were master of Orton, Sydney, this hand should be yours at once.”

“Then, heaven forgive me! but I wish this day I were, for my love is more than I can bear.”

I drew her rapidly towards me, imprinted a burning kiss on her lips; then, frightened at my audacity, hastened from the house.

As the crisp snow flew scattered by my angry tread, I reflected with rage upon the misery, as I thought it, of my position. A man in years as heart, the penuriousness of my uncle held me like a schoolboy. Money I might have, but not freedom. Northumberland must be my home, as his. Though my wings were strong, I must not fly from the parent nest.

“Better had he flung me forth to starve,” I ejaculated, fiercely; “better if he had given me some profession, where I could have fought my own way in the world, and wedded whom I pleased.”

It yet was not too late, and I determined to see and put the suggestion to him at once, for the Hall was insupportable parted from Florence.

On entering, I encountered Susie Mayfield, an orphan and protégée of Squire Orton’s. Rumour whispered that she was the only child of the only woman he ever loved. I believe it was so. Pretty, ever-gentle Susie, I regarded as a sister. Indeed, after Florence, I adored her. She and I seemed one. Though two years her elder, it was to her I had ever carried my boyish troubles; and many a time, in that innocent period of our lives, had wept out my angry passions on her breast.

Once I had been on the point of death from fever—a malignant one—when Susie, despite all remonstrance, had never quitted my couch. On an effort being made to remove her, stamping her foot in girlish rage, she had exclaimed, “If you take me away, I will catch the fever, I will; but I won’t if you let me remain!”

She did remain, and when consciousness returned, it was a blessed thing, after the wild, fevered delirium, to gaze on Susie’s affectionate little face, as she flitted with a grave air of importance about the bed. I vowed I would never forget it—that I would love her as a dear, dear sister all my life.

I told her so; she blushed, laughed, said she hoped I would, then abruptly quitted my side, not to return for above an hour.

But men are ungrateful monsters. When I got so well as almost not to remember I had been ill, I fear I had neglected Susie Mayfield, especially when Florence Brad­law, the belle of the county, engrossed my whole attention.

As we now met, I was passing her unnoticed, when starting, she exclaimed, “Oh, Sydney, you are ill! What has troubled you? Why do you look so angry?”

“Ill! angry!” I repeated, sharply; “I am neither. What prying eyes girls have! Pray attend to your music and sewing, and not to me. Where is the Squire?”

She shrunk away as if struck, then answered, “I did not mean to offend, Sydney. The Squire has gone to Otterlee, and will not return till evening.”

The slight tremor in her voice, as she concluded, recalled me to a sense of my brutality. Quickly I swung round on my heel, to apologize. She was moving rapidly down the corridor, and I fancied her handkerchief was at her eyes.

“What a savage I am!” I muttered. “What harm has she ever done, that I should be such a bearish cub to her? Susie!” I called, following.

She seemed, at first, to think of avoiding me; but without she had absolutely run, I must have overtaken her, so she turned and met me. I could have sworn tears were in her eyes, they were so bright; yet her quiet smile made me doubt.

“Susie, dear,” I said, taking her small hands in mine, “I was an unmanly brute to speak to you as I did just now; you are the kindest of kind little women. Susie, I believe you are the truest—the best friend I have.”

“I should like to be so, Sydney,” she rejoined in low tones. “It is but right I should, for are not you so to me?”

“I!” I ejaculated. “Why, Susie, I am an ungrateful wretch! But, Susie, I am in trouble—great trouble. Let that, dear, be my excuse. Don’t ask what it is; you shall hear soon, only I must see my uncle first.” Stooping, I kissed her. It brought a colour to her cheek, although the salutation was ordinary enough; for, raised together from childhood, we naturally acted as brother and sister. Indeed, I noticed that any endearment of the kind apparently gave singular satisfaction to Squire Orton.

Had not my brain been so full of Florence Brad­law, it might have occurred to me that he hoped Susie would be the wife of my selection. As it was, I looked upon her so much as a sister, that Susie and marriage never presented themselves together before me.

Content in having apologized for my rudeness, and seen her smile, I proceeded to my own room, to await my uncle’s return. It would be some while yet, but my brain was fevered, and I was too restless to support companionship. My mind was made up to ask him to grant me a regular income, and obtain for me the means of entering some profession.

Sitting and pondering, the fascination Florence exerted over me increased in intensity, and I felt it was utterly impossible for me to renounce her. She had confessed she cared for me; her own lips had said “Wait!” and full of the energy of youth, I thought if she only would, she yet should be mine. One sentence of hers rang ever in my ears, while my brain reeled under the recollection of the syren glance of her brilliant eyes.

“If you were master of Orton, Sydney, this hand should be yours at once.”

I was too madly in love to dwell on the selfishness of this remark, as also the poor compliment it was to myself; though it struck me, I accepted it passively, as I did her excuse, that “her affection was truest, because free from the folly of romance.” I knew, as well as she, that Florence Brad­law and poverty could never go happily together. So I sat, these words haunting me, till the early winter sunlight changed into night, and the moon rose up, bringing in her train piles of threatening cloud.

The wind, too, began to rise; a drear chill was in the atmosphere or in myself; and stirring the fire to a scorching blaze, I leaned back in my chair, my eyes creating pictures in the glowing coals. “It is eight o’clock,” I exclaimed at last, starting from my reverie; “and the squire not returned. He always walks from Otterlee; it is late for that.”

Leaving my chair, and approaching the window, I looked out. The land was white with snow, but the clouds were of a dull, leaden hue.

“Suppose I go and meet him?” I thought. “He cannot prevent the interview then, as he might here.”

While getting my hat, a hesitation seized me. Should I go? My will seemed divided into two: one said “Yes;” the other appeared to utter a warning “No.” I decided for the former, and left the house unseen, by a side-door.

“I will walk to the cross-roads,” I reflected, “and wait his coming; he would never take the short cut over the mine-land to-night.”

What was it that yet made me long to turn back every step I took forward? What was it that made me not turn back, but go on? I have since given those two sensations names—those of Susie and Florence. Florence, here as everywhere then, was the strongest, and I proceeded.

On reaching the cross-roads, I halted. It was a rather elevated spot, and on one side I could see the road that led dipping down to Ivy Lodge. My eyes naturally fixed themselves in that direction, and, consequently, could not fail to perceive a horseman who, at a smart pace, proceeded along it. I recognised him as Colonel Harrison, a devoted admirer of Florence Brad­law, to whose presence I knew he was bound.

He was handsome in appearance, and the rival from whom I felt I had most to fear. Clenching my teeth, I struck my foot fiercely in the snow, as I cursed my dependence on another. I cursed, and mentally vowed to free myself from the bondage.

“And be a beggar,” whispered an inner voice; “destroying all chance of the future!”

“But, Florence Brad­law!” added the other. “Ah! if only you were the master of Orton, these troubles would cease; the happiness you crave would be yours for the asking. You might laugh at rivals—even at handsome Colonel Harrison.”

Similar ideas were yet haunting me, when a sharp, loud, sudden cry of pain caught my ear. It came from the direction of the mine-land.

Starting, I looked towards it; the cry was distant, and a clump of trees between me and the mines hid my view. Should I go? Yes.

The power which had previously dominated over my actions, urged me now: and, leaping the hedge, noiselessly across the snow, and in the shadow through the trees, I advanced.

Emerging from the latter on to a clear, open space, I beheld before me a man resting on the ground, his back towards me. It was Squire Orton. He had taken the short cut, and, slipping, had evidently come violently down, for he held his knee, and groaned, in pain.

My first impulse was to spring to his aid. The second made me hesitate; a strong hand appeared to draw me back, while the evil counsellor again whispered, “You master of the Hall, and this hand shall be yours.”

I stooped. How was it that that huge, jagged stone came so readily into my hand? Others must answer; I know not. It was there; and creeping forward, with all my force I hurled it down on the head of the writhing man, my uncle.

A frightful yell of agony, that froze my blood, escaped his lips. He first bowed his stricken head to the snow; then, by an effort, turned and faced me. Oh, mercy! the horror of that glance.

For a second we gazed at each other—the murdered man and I. In that instant, he had read my every thought. I stood convicted, trembling, helpless before him, till, with a strange, almost exultant cry, leaping up, he caught me round the throat with his long arms, and bent his aged, wrinkled face to mine.

For a moment, I was paralyzed; the thin features, full of fierce vindictiveness, chilled me. The lips moved, but ages seemed to roll over my brain before they spoke. At last the words came gasping forth, “Murderer! Your hands are red with my blood! I guess the reason. The Hall—the money—are yours, and Florence Brad­law. But my retribution shall be terrible. I curse you; and my curse shall render every moment of your evil life a torture. Never will I be absent from you; as your shadow, shall you ever find me by your side. Sleeping, waking, day as night, the murderer and his victim shall be together. One—one other only shall see me besides yourself; and she—she——”

The voice failed; the jaw dropped; the dews of death stood on the forehead; the rigidly clasped arms weighed me down. It was no longer a man, but a corpse, that clung to me. Terror—abhorrence aroused me to exertion. Making a violent effort, I flung it off: with a heavy, sickening thud, it fell to a heap upon the ground, and I hastened to quit the fearful spot.

But not three steps had I gone, before that strong instinct, inherent in man, self-safety came over me, and I reflected. I must conceal the body.

I looked anxiously round. The locality was familiar to me; and I knew, within fifty paces, was the Fellbrig Pit—one that had been exhausted and disused years ago, its black interior being surrendered to fire-damp and other nauseous, poisonous gases.

What better hiding-place than that?

To approach the body now was necessity; my life, my hope to escape a disgraceful death, depended on it; and giddy, sick with fear, I advanced. The blow had produced blood, and the murdered man lying on his face, it had oozed forth, meandering down the white hair to the whiter snow. With a shivering fright, I glanced at my dress and hands. Had they any condemnatory marks of my crime upon them? No. How my heavily-beating heart rejoiced!

Raising the body, already stiffening, and avoiding any possible contact with the crimson stream, I stamped out its traces on the snow into the earth, then, with my burden, strode rapidly to the pit’s mouth. I had no fear of being seen; the place was deserted, and the night dark—so dark that as I drew near, I had to go cautiously, lest, by a false stop, I might find myself over the brink of the yawning chasm, that, laying unprotected, seemed waiting expressly to engulf the unwary traveller.

I found it at last, and kneeling by the edge, placed the body on the ground, then—rolled it over!

Oh, heaven! the horror of that moment—the maddening agony with which each dull reverberating thud beat upon my frenzied brain! I could have sworn, too, that a shriek arose from those awful depths.

After a space, when all was still, an impulse urged me to look over. Lying flat, clutching convulsively at the sides, I did so. All was black, impenetrable; till, from the darkness, hundreds of eyes appeared to rise and glare at me; while in the midst was Squire Orton’s white face, with a jeering smile upon it.

Shaking in every limb, I crept away; then falling on my knees, covered my face with my hands, and wept, as men in direst agony alone can weep.

Merciful heaven, what would I not have given to have recalled that deed? Impossible! What was done, could never be undone; and finally, dreading to glance right or left, I fled.

Reaching the Hall, I found the entrance by which I had left it still unfastened, and, unseen, regained my own room, locking the door. I lighted the lamp, then replaced my wet clothes by dressing gown and slippers, for I feared showing anything peculiar in my appearance to create suspicion.

Scarcely had I done so, than a footman knocked to know if I would not descend to supper. I excused myself, saying I was busy, and would take supper in my own apartment.

Then I forced my shaking lips to ask if my uncle had returned.

“No,” was the reply. “Miss Mayfield thought it very singular, and felt uneasy, but supposed he must have stopped at Otterlee, divining the heavy rain which had come on.”

I acquiesced in this readily, for he had done so on past occasions. I even found courage—if that can be termed courage which is the creation of excessive fear—to see and comfort Susie, advising her not to sit up, but leaving the footman to do so, in case Squire Orton returned (how devotedly I wished he could!), retire to rest, saying I felt certain he had stayed at Otterlee.

When I went back to my own room, putting out the lamp, I flung myself on the bed, to bear my agony alone.

Scarcely had I done so, than I leaped up again—every separate root of hair thrilled with alarm—for there, seated in the arm-chair I had just left, was Squire Orton. His face was as it had been in life, only the ghastly wound was visible among the matted gray hair. I tried to think it a delusion of an over-taxed brain. I rubbed my eyes, shut them, opened them; there still the figure sat, placidly gazing at the fire. It was so very still, that it drove me to madness. If it had moved, I could have better borne it. At last, mustering sufficient nerve, I crept from the bed, the farthest side from the figure, and, not looking at it, but stealing round, quickly raked out the fire.

When all was darkness, I turned, to find my position worse. The spirit was still there, but the life-glow of the blazing coals gone; it was now of a cold, grayish transparency. The look it turned upon me showed the fruitlessless of my efforts. With his dying breath he had sworn to haunt me like my shadow, and he was keeping his word.

I stole to bed, and turning my back, covered my eyes with the clothes. It was no good—it was unbearable. The knowing it was there was worse than seeing it.

How the next hour passed it would be difficult to describe. A hundred deaths were preferable to the agony I endured. It seemed a lifetime. I knew by the clock that it was but an hour.

As the last beat reverberated through the silent house—twelve—my ghostly visitant rose. My eyes were fixed on him. Anxiously I watched his movements. Gliding to the window, for the first time, he turned and gazed at me; the cruel, vindictive smile still distorted its features. Then, floating through the window, he was gone. Thank heaven! But where?

Leaping to the floor, darting across the room, I drew aside the curtain, and looked forth; then, with a cry, recoiled. The night was twilight. Despite the rain, the moon at its greatest power gave to the darkness a dim twilight. Thus I could see the mine-land, which was visible from the Hall, and Fellbrig Pit. It was the latter which caused my terror; for over it, illumined by a halo of bright floating vapour, was Squire Orton’s ghost.

I had believed the place where his body had been hid could not be found. He had resolved otherwise.

“My crime must come to light,” I thought. “He wills it so. His retribution has risen from the grave.”

Already I felt the hangman’s hands upon me, and worn out by terror and weariness, I fell insensible on the bed.

With morning, rest and daylight brought renewed strength and courage. The vindictiveness of the spirit began to create an antagonistic feeling in myself, while came the assurance that even if the body were found, it would be utterly impossible to bring the crime home to me. Consoled by that, I resolved to play my part in the world as usual, and by a superhuman effort, keep my torturing misery to myself.

The non-return of the Squire next day caused first surprise, then alarm, and it was my suggestion—mine—that a groom should ride over to Otterlee, and make inquiries. I knew before he started the message he would bring back—that the Squire had set out to return home at about eight the previous evening. But he brought this additional information, which filled my guilty soul with an exquisite joy. Squire Orton had drank rather too freely, and his friends had tried to persuade him to remain at Otterlee all night, fearing any accident happening him.

This news necessitated a careful search, which gave me an excuse for not visiting Florence Brad­law. My whole being shrunk from doing so. Not only was she fearfully blended with the crime I had committed, but the murdered man had declared another—a woman—also should see his spirit as I. I believed he meant Florence, and thus avoided her; for my punishment was ever beside me—sitting, walking, sleeping, regulating each silent step and movement by mine, save at midnight, when, for a certain period, it hovered over the gloomy mouth of Fellbrig Pit.

The roads—the fields—the mine-land—were traversed; rewards for any intelligence offered. Need I say in vain? The rain had removed every mark of the dead man’s footsteps, by which otherwise he might have been traced; and the whole affair was enveloped in mystery—save to me. The hope of finding him was given up, the surmise being that he had fallen into one of the disused shafts. He did not appear, and I was master of Orton Hall.

Even yet I had not seen Florence Brad­law—I had not the courage. The fact that she was the real cause of the murder clung about my soul; while the constant, horrible presence of the murdered man at my elbow dominated over all other sensations, even my love. It needed the fatal witchery of her eyes to again set it aflame.

I remained much within doors, consoling Susie Mayfield, whose grief for the loss of a protector who had ever been kind to her was great. How my heart sickened and rebelled against the false words I forced myself to utter! How I would, if possible, have shunned her pure presence; but in her sorrow she seemed to lean more upon me, and I feared by any change of manner to arouse suspicion. Crime truly makes cowards of the bravest.

It was some short while after the murder, that, as I was strolling moodily through the lanes, a light step sounded on the frozen ground, and a hand was laid on my arm, as a musical voice, in low accents, said, “Good morning, Sydney; why have I not seen you before? Did you think that I had no sympathy to give in your trouble? It is scarcely kind to treat me thus!”

Instinctively I shrunk away from the speaker, I had begun so to fear her. It was Florence Brad­law. Recovering myself, however, I raised my eyes, and, like one under the influence of the basilisk, fell again her victim. Those beautiful features had always a singular power over me; now, as they smiled as they had never smiled before, I—thrilled with a sudden ecstacy—yielded once more a willing slave. I asked to join her in her walk—I saw her home. I then returned to the Hall, its master, and Florence Brad­law’s future husband.

As I entered, a footman met me. His face was white and scared.

“Oh, Mr. Orton, have you heard the news?” he exclaimed.

“News! What news?” I demanded, irritably.

“That every night the poor Squire’s ghost is to be seen floatin’ over the mouth of Fellbrig Pit.”

The start I gave—the sudden lots of colour—the man conceived but natural to one hearing such intelligence. Also, in his eyes, it accounted for my husky voice, when I asked who had said so.

It appeared that a miner, by chance late abroad, had seen the figure; and flying in mortal terror, spread the news. The next night, several agreed to watch. They, too, saw it; and the rumour getting over the country—the many giving courage to the few—every night the vicinity of the pit’s mouth was thronged.

“Pshaw!” I managed to exclaim, contemptuously, though my eyes turned timidly to the figure ever by my side. “What country clods, to believe such absurdities!”

In the dining-room I found Susie. She was seated, sewing busily; but looked up on hearing my step. I expected, as usual, to meet her ever welcome smile; but this time, in its place, an expression of unspeakable horror and alarm spread over her features. Trembling violently, she arose and retreated from me; her lips pallid, her soft eyes dilated, her finger extended, as she exclaimed, “Merciful heaven, Sydney, look there!—there, beside you! Who is he? What—what does he want?”

“He! What, Susie?” I articulated, hoarsely. “Girl, are you mad? What do you mean?”

“He standing by you, Sydney, his hand on your shoulder, is Squire Orton, risen from the dead!”

I opened my lips to deny it; I could not—my tongue was paralyzed. She, Susie, then, was the other to whom my uncle was to make himself visible. I felt the guilty, accusing blood rush to my face. My eyes dropped before the clear, inquiring ones of my gentle companion. I stood a criminal confessed. My crime was discovered, and to her. I had no power to refute it.

Swiftly Susie moved forward, caught my hand, and gasped, “Sydney!”

It was a simple word, but the tone in which it was uttered was all eloquent of horror, of interrogation. I made an effort; I lifted my eyes; but rapidly averting them, covered my quivering face from sight.

“Oh, my God!” I heard her ejaculate, as she fell prostrate on the floor.

In an instant I was kneeling by her.

“This—this,” I cried, enraged, addressing the spirit, “is your work, and you said you loved her!”

It smiled, and fixed its eyes tauntingly upon me. I turned away, and, summoning aid, had Susie conveyed to her room. No sooner had I done so, than an awful fear took possession of me. Supposing, in the moment of recovery, words should escape her lips which would proclaim my guilt to others? The idea had come too late. I could not prevent it now. What did it matter? I began to feel the end must come; what difference, then, if soon or late?

In a dull, lethargic stupor, I waited news of Susie. Each step approaching shook me like a reed.

At last, the door opened, and Susie’s own maid entered. As indifferently as I could, I took the note the girl brought, and, dismissing her, eagerly tore off the envelope. The contents ran:—

“Sydney Orton, your secret is safe with me. Heaven forgive you! I hope—I believe you must have had some great cause for what you have done; or, rather, that it was occasioned by maddened anger, or accident, for which repentance may atone; but we two must never meet again. By his desire, expressed in his will, the Hall is to be my home till I marry. I would fulfil this desire. Heaven knows, I would not fail to do so now for worlds! Hence, as no longer I can mix with the household, may I ask permission to keep my present suite of rooms? Illness will be a real excuse, for the blow I have received I shall never recover. Farewell!”

I seized a pen, and, with dim eyes and grateful heart, wrote:—

“Heaven bless you, Susie Mayfield! Each wish of yours shall be complied with. Bless you a thousand times for not quitting this ill-fated house, which your sweet presence alone can purify. Pray for me—save me! One day you shall know all.”

After this, I was conscious of a great relief, but also an equally great misery. The Hall was no longer the Hall with Susie away. The report of my possible marriage had got whispered about, and many attributed her seclusion to the fact that she loved me, and her indisposition and retirement were occasioned by the thought of my union with another.

As to that union, I no longer desired it. It tortured me; I seemed to recoil from Florence’s brilliant talk and careless laughter. The selfishness of her disposition, which could not sympathize with mine, I began at last to comprehend; and instead, I craved, like a starving man, for Susie’s sweet, consoling presence.

But I had gone too far to draw back. I was Squire Orton now; and Florence, as her father, urged on the wedding; so, after a quiet marriage and brief honeymoon, I brought home my bride to the Hall.

Susie, to avoid remarks, occasionally consented to join us in the drawing-room; but the exceeding pallor of her complexion, her wasted features, and depressed manner, were fitting causes for her seclusion. I felt I had murdered her also.

Never once had we two met alone. One day I had encountered her in the corridor, but, with a low, affrighted cry, she had fled from me.

Her aversion, coupled with the ever constant presence of my dead victim, could not fail soon to break down my constitution, and affect my disposition. I grow gloomy—morose.

I had first tried what constant change of society and excitement would do, thereby delighting Florence; but it would not answer—it only made the nights worse, and I adopted seclusion. My wife complained, persuaded, was angry. Each was equally futile. That haunting figure, the remembrance of Susie, and the eager longing for her presence, had made my wife’s influence naught. “The longing for her presence?” Yes, too late, I found I loved Susie, with that deep, calm love which never dies.

Florence did not guess my secret, but she knew my affection had gone from her; hers I had never possessed. She had wished to be mistress of Orton Hall, and she was finding the fruit so coveted, bitter—bitter at the core.

Suddenly a change took place in her—she no longer pleaded nor complained. The expression of her handsome face was stony impassibility. She regarded me curiously, sometimes timidly, and rather avoided my company. I readily fell into her humour, for it suited me.

One morning, on awakening, I found her absent from my side. I looked round, no one was there except my awful attendant.

Since my crime, when sleep, long courted, once quitted me, it never again returned till night; so, rising, I dressed quietly. My wife did not appear, and, gently, I opened the door of her dressing-room. She was there, attired in her customary morning toilette, and writing hurriedly. On becoming aware of my presence, hurriedly she slipped the paper beneath some others, and coldly asked what I wanted.

“Merely to see where you were,” I rejoined, turning away.

Shortly after, I heard her bell ring for her maid. Then, in a few moments, the quick beat of a horse’s hoofs on the gravel drive attracted me to the window. It was a groom riding from the hall at full speed.

The indifference between Florence and me had reached such a height, that one never interfered in the other’s concerns; so I went back to my reading till the hour for breakfast, during which Florence was unusually silent, and I could not fail to perceive was nervously anxious about something; but, occupied with the morning papers, I paid little heed to her.

The meal had nearly concluded, when the footman brought in a card. At the same moment the footman ushered in a Mr. Midhurst—a county magistrate—and two men. Before we could exchange the ordinary salutations, Florence approaching between us, said, in a quick, hurried tone,“Mr. Midhurst, I wrote you this morning that it was in my power to surrender to justice a criminal now at large. I do so. I order—I command the arrest of that man, my husband, for the murder of Squire Orton, whose body you will find in Fellbrig Pit.”

I had leaped to my feet, and now stood confounded—aghast.

“Madam!” I cried; “are you aware of what you state?”

“Perfectly, sir!” she answered, frigidly. “What, waking, you deny; sleeping, you have confessed. Night after night,” she proceeded, in a kind of triumph, “I have listened, trembling, to the wild sentences uttered in slumber. I have watched the nightmares which have tortured you, till the whole occurrence has been confided to my ear. Yes, the meeting—the cruel blow—the concealment of the body—the ever-haunting presence—everything. Murderers, sir, should not marry! Mr. Midhurst, I swear to you, yonder is Squire Orton’s assassin! You know whether to arrest him or not.”

There must have been that in my quivering face which confirmed her words, for the magistrate, making a sign to the constables, they approached me. I retreated, casting my eyes round for a means of escape. None offered; the windows were locked. So, seizing a chair, I resolved they should not take me easily.

The men had recoiled a step before my threatening attitude, when, abruptly, the door was thrown open, and, as white as death—her lips hueless, her large eyes bright and glistening—Susie Mayfield glided in. Passing by them all, advancing, she threw her arms about me.

“Back!” she then exclaimed, authoritatively, addressing the men. “That woman lies! Sydney Orton is innocent of this deed, and you shall not harm him. If yonder faithless wife denounces him, I say he is guiltless. My word is equal to hers. You have no proofs—none. You shall not take him.”

Florence laughed mockingly.

“Certainly it is right that you should be his shield and champion, Miss Mayfield,” she said—“the assassin of your best friend. Mr. Midhurst, I have done my duty; do yours, as you please or not.”

“Mr. Orton,” remarked the magistrate, gravely, “I am deeply sorry for this; but after the accusation has been made in such a manner, I cannot pass it over. Men, arrest Mr. Sydney Orton.”

As they drew near, Susie’s arms tightened about me. Her sweet, scared face was raised to mine; her eyes beamed affection as alarm; while her trembling lips sought vainly to be firm, as she whispered, assuringly, “Do not fear, Sydney; they dare not hurt you. I alone know the truth, and they shall kill me before I confess it—they shall, they shall!”

But at the touch of the constables’ hands, her courage gave way, and, shrieking, she resisted their efforts to remove her. I imagined they were handling her roughly, and my love took fire, to the forgetting of my own safety; and, like a tiger, I flew upon them. A scuffle ensued; but I was weak in their grasp. They flung me down. My chest heaved with painful gasps. A moment, I lost consciousness. Then the scene had changed. Feeble, languid, I was lying on a sofa, my coat off, a tight bandage about my arm, the lassitude of illness upon me; and, wearily, I raised my heavy lids.

I was yet at the Hall; and on the hearth-rug, by the fire, stood Susie, talking earnestly with my ghostly companion, whose shape was far more solid and defined, while his expression was irritable rather than angry.

“Dear guardian,” Susie was saying—she always called him thus—“I beseech you yield to his desire. The trouble, the disappointment may kill him. Oh, consent to his marrying her! She is handsome——”

“Handsome, Susie!” interrupted the spirit, sharply. “Yes, so are you. But you are the good, the kindest, the best; while she is a heartless flirt, I tell you, whose brainless head is full of only her splendid self. She would but marry yonder foolish lad to be mistress of this old place; and I will not, by yielding, have him ruined and my money squandered. He is not the first this girl has wilfully driven to despair. She wouldn’t look at him if he were penniless; and I took care to let old Bradlaw know to-day that he will never be otherwise, unless I approve his selection of a wife.”

“But, guardian, if he love her?” pleaded Susie.

“He does not love her; he is only fascinated as a child might be with the brilliant hues of a snake.”

“Oh, guardian! Yet, think; she may be all you say; yet the heart is powerful. Love may change her; she may be different to poor Sydney.”

“Susie, you are a darling, brave, noble, generous girl, thus to plead this coquette’s cause,” said the spirit, taking his protégée’s face fondly between his hands, and gazing into the brown eyes. “Noble, indeed, when you are aware that you yourself have given your heart and warm affection to my worthless nephew!”

Susie uttered a little cry, and quickly covered her crimson face with her fingers; then, pleadingly looking up, she said, “Dear guardian, who have been to me as a father, why should I conceal the truth from you? But, oh! please, never—never tell him.”

“My child, if he has not the eyes to discover the rich gem he might call his, do not think I would debase you by informing the idiot of his blunder. No, let him take his course; I shall take mine. There, do not fret; all danger is passed now; he’ll soon be better, since Doctor Gruge has bled him. It was merely a fit.”

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.