Chapter XXI: 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.