Bentley’s Miscellany, a monthly magazine, became known for serializing long, illustrated novels. By the 1840s its following had dropped off, but it continued to entertain middle-class readers until the title ceased in 1868.4 The following story, originally published in 1865, contains all of the ingredients of a decorous country-house Christmas: church-going, alms-bearing, mumming, as well as a Christmas dinner, a ghost-story circle, and a masquerade. The perfect Christmas setting serves as a frame tale for a tragic story and a family supposedly haunted by an avenging spirit. When the ghost narrative begins to invade the frame tale, the memories of past indiscretions disturb the jollity of the holiday proceedings.
4 John Sutherland, “Bentley’s Miscellany” in The Stanford Companion to Victorian Fiction. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1989. 58–59.
CHAPTER I
AN INTRODUCTION TO HUNTINGFIELD HALL AND ITS INHABITANTS
At that period of the year when rain, wind, and frost have, by their combined powers, stripped the trees of their foliage and plucked even the last rose of autumn from its stem, a large merry party of all ages were collected under the hospitable roof of the warm-hearted, generous Sir Gilbert Ilderton, of Huntingfield Hall, prepared for a Christmas campaign of fun and jollity. Sir Gilbert should be described before his mansion. He stood six feet two in his stockings; his figure was broad, stout, and well built; his countenance oblong, with blue eyes, large and expressive, a longish well-formed nose, and a mouth from which a benignant smile was seldom absent. He might be taken as the beau ideal of an English country gentleman.
His eldest son, Gilbert, a fine handsome young fellow, very like him in appearance and manners, was at college, and soon about to come of age; his next was in the army; and the third, Charley—the delight of his mother, the favourite of the household, and of the whole neighbourhood—was serving his country at sea in the exalted position of a midshipman; but never mind, he intended some day to be an admiral, and to thrash the French or any other enemies of Old England with right good will. There were several other younger boys, and three daughters, known to the country round as the Three Graces, lovely young creatures, fair and gentle, with refined, elegant figures. It would have been difficult to find a more beautiful girl than Mary Ilderton, the eldest—she was a year older than Gilbert—and the others promised to equal her. Then there was Lady Ilderton—a true English matron, kind, and gentle, and thoughtful, dignified and courteous, utterly above the littlenesses of common minds—she was the very antipodes of vulgarity, yet she was full of animation and humour also, and could keep everybody alive and make them happy—at least, it was their own fault if they were not so.
The Hall at Christmas was always full of guests, for Sir Gilbert delighted in seeing happy joyous faces around him, and relations and friends, old and young, of high and of humble degree, as far as purses were concerned, were assembled. The life and spirit of the house was a certain Mr. Giles Markland. Everybody called him Cousin Giles. All the young people, not learned in genealogies, thought that he was their cousin, though they did not know how. He was, however, really a cousin of Sir Gilbert’s, who valued him more for the qualities of honesty, simplicity, and kindness of heart which he possessed, than on account of his relationship. The Miss Ildertons were not looked upon as clever, though there could be no doubt that they were well brought up, and possessed the usual accomplishments of young ladies of the nineteenth century, but among the guests was a niece of Lady Ilderton’s, Miss Jane Otterburn, who was considered a genius, for she wrote poetry, had a vast amount of imagination, acted well, got up charades, invented games and amusements of all sorts, and indeed, in the house, ably seconded Cousin Giles, who was himself the prime mover of all out-of-door sports. She was a small, dark, quick, active, bright-eyed girl, or rather young woman, for she was well out of her teens, and acknowledged by all to be very pretty—indeed, in that respect she might have vied with the Miss Ildertons, and as a partner was a greater favourite than they were. She was an orphan, and had a good fortune, which made her doubly interesting. In the art of weaving an extemporary tale of fact or fiction, Jane Otterburn’s fertile imagination burst forth with a brilliancy which few could equal.
The most complete contrast to her in the house was also a distant cousin of Sir Gilbert’s, Susan Langdon. She was good natured, and fair, and fat, and deliciously dull, as Cousin Giles used to say. She was a general and well-satisfied butt, for she was, he added, too obtuse to observe the shafts aimed at her, or too good natured to mind them when they struck her harder than usual. She had a mother very like her, and a brother Simon possessed of the same characteristics, who always chuckled and rubbed his hands when he discovered any tricks played on Susan, not perceiving that similar ones were practised on himself. However, the individual members of the party must be made to appear as they are required.
Christmas-day arrived. Everybody went to church over the hard crisp ground, and the sacred edifice was decked with holly and bright red berries, and there were appropriate inscriptions under the organ gallery, and the subject of the sermon inculcated on the congregation was peace and good will towards their fellow-men, and no one would doubt what Sir Gilbert practised as they saw the smiling, pleased countenances of the villagers as he passed among them. Then there was a luncheon and a brisk walk taken by the younger people, Cousin Giles leading, among hedges no longer green and woods denuded of leaves, and by ponds, to judge how soon the ice would bear, and a dozen or more cottages visited, and gifts bestowed on old people unable to move out, he singing joyous carols, and Jane Otterburn discoursing learnedly on the nature of frost and snow, and hibernating animals, and on other topics suggested by the season, and Susan Langdon, laughing she knew not why, except that she felt happy, and Simon trying to play her a trick, but not having the wit to invent one. The Miss Ildertons talked pleasantly, listening to their brother Gilbert’s remarks, or conversed with young Lord Harston and Captain Fotheringsail of the navy, dividing their attentions with praiseworthy impartiality. Then came the dinner—old English fare, but better cooked than formerly—roast beef and turkey, and plum-puddings and mince-pies, all decked with holly, and lighted brandy to warm the pies and puddings, and no lack of generous wine of the best, and a real grace said by the minister, present with his family, and a blessing asked. Little attendance was demanded from the servants when the cloth was removed, for they, too, were enjoying Heaven’s bounteous gifts, bestowed through their kind master’s hand, in their hall below, decked with holly, one end, with the aid of screens and boughs, forming a tasteful stage.
Their repast over, voices outside announced the arrival of the carol-singers, and they being speedily admitted, and, after partaking of refreshment, arranged on the stage, the whole family from the drawing-room assembled in the hall to hear them, Sir Gilbert sitting in front, with purse in hand, giving many an encouraging and approving smile. They gave place to mummers, to the great satisfaction of the younger part of the audience. There was Father Christmas and his attendant sprites, Hail, Frost, and Snow, and heroes innumerable, dressed in paper hats, helmets, and armour decked with spangles and ribbons, and swords of wood, and long spears, altogether a motley group; the Duke of Wellington and Napoleon Bonaparte; Nelson, Soult, and Blucher; the Black Prince and Julius Caesar; the Duke of Marlborough and Richard of the Lion Heart; and numerous other men of renown of all ages, brought together with delightful disregard to historical correctness. They fought one with the other, and fell mortally wounded, the Great Duke of modern days alone surviving, when a new character rushed in—a doctor with a nostrum to cure all complaints—and, applying it to their noses, with some words of a cabalistic character, which sounded like “Take some of this riff-raff up thy sniff-snaff,” he set each dead hero on his feet ready to fight another day.
“That gentleman would have wonderful practice if he could be as successful among the public as he has been to-night,” observed Cousin Giles, while Sir Gilbert was bestowing his largesse on the performers. “Let’s have it all over again!”
“Ancore!—ancore!” was shouted by the younger members of the audience; and not unwillingly the actors, with the utmost gravity, went through their parts without the slightest variation of word or gesture.
Tea over, the juveniles were invited into the dining-room, where at the farther end of the table a hideous witch was seen presiding over a huge bowl, from which suddenly, as the lights were withdrawn, blue flames burst forth, and the witch, her long brown arms extending over the bowl, grew more hideous still, and a voice was heard inviting them all to partake of the contents—“Hot raisins—sweet raisins—nice burning raisins”—and but few hung back, for the voice was not unfriendly, and was easily recognised as that of Cousin Giles; and when they had seen their own faces turn blue and yellow and green, and the raisins were all gone, the witch sunk down under the table and Cousin Giles popped up, and the witch was gone. Then came games of all sorts, old and young joining with equal zest, led by Cousin Giles and Jane Otterburn. Now all were silent to listen to, and many to join in, a Christmas carol sweetly sung, and family prayers were held and the Scriptures read, and Christmas-day was over, and all retired, with grateful hearts and kindly thoughts of one another, to rest.
CHAPTER II
A TALE OF A GHOST
There is said to be a skeleton in some out-of-the way cupboard of every house. There was one in Huntingfield Hall. No one liked to speak of it, though. Even the jovial Sir Gilbert shunned the subject. The morning had been spent on the ice—several of the ladies had put on skates for the first time, and the gentlemen had exerted themselves till all were tolerably tired. Still games of all sorts had gone on as usual for the sake of the younger members of the party, blindman’s-buff and hide-and-seek suiting best the taste of most of them, no one thinking of the tale of the Old Oak Chest, or dreading a fate similar to that of the heroine. At length even the most active had had enough of movement, and a general cry was raised for a story from Jane Otterburn. Cousin Giles pressed the point, and Jane was led within a large semicircle formed round the fire, Sir Gilbert taking his usual seat on one side, and Lady Ilderton on the other. She took a low seat, with one arm resting on Miss Ilderton’s chair, her dark locks falling over the light-blue dress of her fair cousin, while her other hand held a feather-screen to guard her eyes from the fire.
“Now, Jane—now Miss Otterburn, your story—your story!” cried several voices, old and young.
Jane waited a moment in silence, gazing at the fire, and began:
There was an old, old family, whose ancestors were among the Norman conquerors of Britain, and who had ever since owned the same estate in the centre of England. The ladies were fair and virtuous, the men brave and upright, but proud of their birth, and somewhat haughty withal. They had fought for King Charles, and sided with James to the last, though they became loyal subjects of William of Orange, and, whatever their sympathies, having sworn to acknowledge him, they took no part with the supporters of the Pretender.
At length, a certain Sir Hugh Oswald became the head of the house. He had a son and daughter, of whose good looks, manners, and general bearing, he was justly proud. He was proud, indeed, of all things belonging to himself, and it would have been difficult to persuade him that they were otherwise than perfection.
It was on a dark night in November, the wind was howling and whistling through the trees, and the sleet and rain came pelting down with a fury which drove even the most hardy under shelter, that young Hugh Oswald left the Hall by a side-door, and took his way across the park towards a keeper’s cottage. At his tap the door opened, and a young girl, fair and beautiful as a Houri, who had been sitting reading by a lamp, stood ready to receive him.
“Dearest Hugh, you know I love to see you, but what a night for you to come out, and leave the gay party assembled at the Hall.”
“The very reason that I came, as no one will suspect, even if I am missed, that I have left the Hall, my own sweet May,” answered Hugh, folding her in his arms.
What more was said I need not describe. This was only one of many stolen visits to the keeper’s lodge, strange as it may seem, known of and suspected by no one at the Hall. At length Hugh obtained leave from his father to travel. He had seen little of England, nothing of the Continent. He was absent for some time, and then he wrote to say that he had taken a step he hoped his father would forgive, though he had acted without first seeking his sanction. He had married a girl, young, lovely, and amiable. It was only necessary to see her to love her. He entreated forgiveness, and hoped that his father would receive her as his bride.
The answer Sir Hugh sent was more favourable than might have been expected, still he remarked that his forgiveness must of necessity depend on circumstances. Hugh, on one pretence or another, delayed returning home, not trusting, apparently, to the circumstances on which his forgiveness depended. At last, Sir Hugh, losing patience, or suspecting that all was not right, peremptorily ordered his son to return. The young couple came. Hugh had not overpraised his wife’s beauty. Sir Hugh gazed at her earnestly without speaking, then took his son aside.
“Hugh,” he said, “you do not know whom you have married, but I do. There is no happiness for you on this side the grave.”
Not another word would he say, notwithstanding all his son’s solicitations for an explanation. Little did he know what at that very moment was taking place.
It was summer. In a distant part of the shrubbery, in a bower covered with roses, jasmine, and other creeping plants, stood Emily Oswald, waiting with anxious gaze and beating heart the coming of one who had declared himself her lover. He came; his dress was rustic, but his figure was refined, his countenance eminently handsome, and his bearing manly. He showed no timidity as he approached the young lady, for he was evidently confident of her love. He urged her to fly with him. He pleaded his devoted love and affection. He told her that he knew her father would never consent to their union, and that it would be better to marry without his sanction than after he had refused it. She listened credulously and too readily. She fled with him; her subsequent history I will not detail. She had believed that the peasant youth, the keeper’s pretended son, was a noble in disguise.
She was not missed till late at night, and when sought for throughout the house and grounds no trace of her could be found. Not till two days afterwards did Sir Hugh discover that his only daughter, the beautiful child of whom he was so proud, had fled with the keeper’s son, the brother of the girl his own boy Hugh had married, and thereby entailed, as he conceived, eternal disgrace on his family; yet, as if that were not enough, Emily, his trusted child, must commit an act to increase the stigma tenfold. He suspected, too, that the wound to his feelings had been premeditated, and he knew, too, the foe by whose machinations it had been accomplished. The baronet took his gun and wandered forth into the grounds. Such was his constant custom. He seldom went out without his weapon.