Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
Mrs. Bannerworth
was the last to do so. She would have remained, but for the earnest
solicitation of Henry, that she would endeavour to get some sleep to make up
for her broken night's repose, and she was indeed so broken down by her alarm
on Flora's account, that she had not power to resist, but with tears flowing
from her eyes, she sought her own chamber.
And
now the calmness of the night resumed its sway in that evil-fated mansion; and
although no one really slept but Flora, all were still. Busy thought kept every
one else wakeful. It was a mockery to lie down at all, and Henry, full of
strange and painful feelings as he was, preferred his present position to the
anxiety and apprehension on Flora's account which he knew he should feel if she
were not within the sphere of his own observation, and she slept as soundly as
some gentle infant tired of its playmates and its sports.
THE MORNING.—THE CONSULTATION.—THE FEARFUL SUGGESTION.
What
wonderfully different impressions and feelings, with regard to the same
circumstances, come across the mind in the broad, clear, and beautiful light of
day to what haunt the imagination, and often render the judgment almost
incapable of action, when the heavy shadow of night is upon all things.
There
must be a downright physical reason for this effect—it is so remarkable and so
universal. It seems that the sun's rays so completely alter and modify the
constitution of the atmosphere, that it produces, as we inhale it, a
wonderfully different effect upon the nerves of the human subject.
We
can account for this phenomenon in no other way. Perhaps never in his life had
he, Henry Bannerworth, felt so strongly this transition of feeling as he now
felt it, when the beautiful daylight gradually dawned upon him, as he kept his
lonely watch by the bedside of his slumbering sister.
That
watch had been a perfectly undisturbed one. Not the least sight or sound of any
intrusion had reached his senses. All had been as still as the very grave.
And
yet while the night lasted, and he was more indebted to the rays of the candle,
which he had placed upon a shelf, for the power to distinguish objects than to
the light of the morning, a thousand uneasy and strange sensations had found a
home in his agitated bosom.
He
looked so many times at the portrait which was in the panel that at length he
felt an undefined sensation of terror creep over him whenever he took his eyes
off it.
He
tried to keep himself from looking at it, but he found it vain, so he adopted
what, perhaps, was certainly the wisest, best plan, namely, to look at it
continually.
He
shifted his chair so that he could gaze upon it without any effort, and he
placed the candle so that a faint light was thrown upon it, and there he sat, a
prey to many conflicting and uncomfortable feelings, until the daylight began
to make the candle flame look dull and sickly.
Solution
for the events of the night he could find none. He racked his imagination in
vain to find some means, however vague, of endeavouring to account for what
occurred, and still he was at fault. All was to him wrapped in the gloom of the
most profound mystery.
And
how strangely, too, the eyes of that portrait appeared to look upon him—as if
instinct with life, and as if the head to which they belonged was busy in
endeavouring to find out the secret communings of his soul. It was wonderfully
well executed that portrait; so life-like, that the very features seemed to
move as you gazed upon them.
"It
shall be removed," said Henry. "I would remove it now, but that it
seems absolutely painted on the panel, and I should awake Flora in any attempt
to do so."
He
arose and ascertained that such was the case, and that it would require a
workman, with proper tools adapted to the job, to remove the portrait.
"True,"
he said, "I might now destroy it, but it is a pity to obscure a work of
such rare art as this is; I should blame myself if I were. It shall be removed
to some other room of the house, however."
Then,
all of a sudden, it struck Henry how foolish it would be to remove the portrait
from the wall of a room which, in all likelihood, after that night, would be
uninhabited; for it was not probable that Flora would choose again to inhabit a
chamber in which she had gone through so much terror.
"It
can be left where it is," he said, "and we can fasten up, if we
please, even the very door of this room, so that no one need trouble themselves
any further about it."
The
morning was now coming fast, and just as Henry thought he would partially draw
a blind across the window, in order to shield from the direct rays of the sun
the eyes of Flora, she awoke.
"Help—help!"
she cried, and Henry was by her side in a moment.
"You
are safe, Flora—you are safe," he said.
"Where
is it now?" she said.
"What—what,
dear Flora?"
"The
dreadful apparition. Oh, what have I done to be made thus perpetually
miserable?"
"Think
no more of it, Flora."
"I
must think. My brain is on fire! A million of strange eyes seem gazing on
me."
"Great
Heaven! she raves," said Henry.
"Hark—hark—hark!
He comes on the wings of the storm. Oh, it is most horrible—horrible!"
Henry
rang the bell, but not sufficiently loudly to create any alarm. The sound
reached the waking ear of the mother, who in a few moments was in the room.
"She
has awakened," said Henry, "and has spoken, but she seems to me to
wander in her discourse. For God's sake, soothe her, and try to bring her mind
round to its usual state."
"I
will, Henry—I will."
"And
I think, mother, if you were to get her out of this room, and into some other
chamber as far removed from this one as possible, it would tend to withdraw her
mind from what has occurred."
"Yes;
it shall be done. Oh, Henry, what was it—what do you think it was?"
"I
am lost in a sea of wild conjecture. I can form no conclusion; where is Mr.
Marchdale?"
"I
believe in his chamber."
"Then
I will go and consult with him."
Henry
proceeded at once to the chamber, which was, as he knew, occupied by Mr.
Marchdale; and as he crossed the corridor, he could not but pause a moment to
glance from a window at the face of nature.
As is
often the case, the terrific storm of the preceding evening had cleared the
air, and rendered it deliciously invigorating and lifelike. The weather had
been dull, and there had been for some days a certain heaviness in the
atmosphere, which was now entirely removed.
The
morning sun was shining with uncommon brilliancy, birds were singing in every
tree and on every bush; so pleasant, so spirit-stirring, health-giving a
morning, seldom had he seen. And the effect upon his spirits was great,
although not altogether what it might have been, had all gone on as it usually
was in the habit of doing at that house. The ordinary little casualties of evil
fortune had certainly from time to time, in the shape of illness, and one thing
or another, attacked the family of the Bannerworths in common with every other
family, but here suddenly had arisen a something at once terrible and
inexplicable.
He
found Mr. Marchdale up and dressed, and apparently in deep and anxious thought.
The moment he saw Henry, he said,—
"Flora
is awake, I presume."
"Yes,
but her mind appears to be much disturbed."
"From
bodily weakness, I dare say."
"But
why should she be bodily weak? she was strong and well, ay, as well as she
could ever be in all her life. The glow of youth and health was on her cheeks.
Is it possible that, in the course of one night, she should become bodily weak
to such an extent?"
"Henry,"
said Mr. Marchdale, sadly, "sit down. I am not, as you know, a
superstitious man."
"You
certainly are not."
"And
yet, I never in all my life was so absolutely staggered as I have been by the
occurrences of to-night."
"Say
on."
"There
is a frightful, a hideous solution of them; one which every consideration will
tend to add strength to, one which I tremble to name now, although, yesterday,
at this hour, I should have laughed it to scorn."
"Indeed!"
"Yes,
it is so. Tell no one that which I am about to say to you. Let the dreadful
suggestion remain with ourselves alone, Henry Bannerworth."
"I—I
am lost in wonder."
"You
promise me?"
"What—what?"
"That
you will not repeat my opinion to any one."
"I
do."
"On
your honour."
"On
my honour, I promise."
Mr.
Marchdale rose, and proceeding to the door, he looked out to see that there
were no listeners near. Having ascertained then that they were quite alone, he
returned, and drawing a chair close to that on which Henry sat, he said,—
"Henry,
have you never heard of a strange and dreadful superstition which, in some
countries, is extremely rife, by which it is supposed that there are beings who
never die."
"Never
die!"
"Never.
In a word, Henry, have you never heard of—of—I dread to pronounce the
word."
"Speak
it. God of Heaven! let me hear it."
"A
vampyre
!"
Henry
sprung to his feet. His whole frame quivered with emotion; the drops of
perspiration stood upon his brow, as, in, a strange, hoarse voice, he repeated
the words,—
"A
vampyre!"
"Even
so; one who has to renew a dreadful existence by human blood—one who lives on
for ever, and must keep up such a fearful existence upon human gore—one who
eats not and drinks not as other men—a vampyre."
Henry
dropped into his scat, and uttered a deep groan of the most exquisite anguish.
"I
could echo that groan," said Marchdale, "but that I am so thoroughly
bewildered I know not what to think."
"Good
God—good God!"
"Do
not too readily yield belief in so dreadful a supposition, I pray you."
"Yield
belief!" exclaimed Henry, as he rose, and lifted up one of his hands above
his head. "No; by Heaven, and the great God of all, who there rules, I
will not easily believe aught so awful and so monstrous."
"I
applaud your sentiment, Henry; not willingly would I deliver up myself to so
frightful a belief—it is too horrible. I merely have told you of that which you
saw was on my mind. You have surely before heard of such things."
"I
have—I have."
"I
much marvel, then, that the supposition did not occur to you, Henry."
"It
did not—it did not, Marchdale. It—it was too dreadful, I suppose, to find a
home in my heart. Oh! Flora, Flora, if this horrible idea should once occur to
you, reason cannot, I am quite sure, uphold you against it."
"Let
no one presume to insinuate it to her, Henry. I would not have it mentioned to
her for worlds."
"Nor
I—nor I. Good God! I shudder at the very thought—the mere possibility; but
there is no possibility, there can be none. I will not believe it."
"Nor
I."
"No;
by Heaven's justice, goodness, grace, and mercy, I will not believe it."
"Tis
well sworn, Henry; and now, discarding the supposition that Flora has been
visited by a vampyre, let us seriously set about endeavouring, if we can, to
account for what has happened in this house."
"I—I
cannot now."
"Nay,
let us examine the matter; if we can find any natural explanation, let us cling
to it, Henry, as the sheet-anchor of our very souls."
"Do
you think. You are fertile in expedients. Do you think, Marchdale; and, for
Heaven's sake, and for the sake of our own peace, find out some other way of
accounting for what has happened, than the hideous one you have
suggested."
"And
yet my pistol bullets hurt him not; he has left the tokens of his presence on
the neck of Flora."
"Peace,
oh! peace. Do not, I pray you, accumulate reasons why I should receive such a
dismal, awful superstition. Oh, do not, Marchdale, as you love me!"
"You
know that my attachment to you," said Marchdale, "is sincere; and
yet, Heaven help us!"
His
voice was broken by grief as he spoke, and he turned aside his head to hide the
bursting tears that would, despite all his efforts, show themselves in his
eyes.
"Marchdale,"
added Henry, after a pause of some moments' duration, "I will sit up
to-night with my sister."
"Do—do!"
"Think
you there is a chance it may come again?"
"I
cannot—I dare not speculate upon the coming of so dreadful a visitor, Henry;
but I will hold watch with you most willingly."
"You
will, Marchdale?"
"My
hand upon it. Come what dangers may, I will share them with you, Henry."
"A
thousand thanks. Say nothing, then, to George of what we have been talking
about. He is of a highly susceptible nature, and the very idea of such a thing
would kill him."
"I
will; be mute. Remove your sister to some other chamber, let me beg of you,
Henry; the one she now inhabits will always be suggestive of horrible
thoughts."
"I
will; and that dreadful-looking portrait, with its perfect likeness to him who
came last night."
"Perfect
indeed. Do you intend to remove it?"
"I
do not. I thought of doing so; but it is actually on the panel in the wall, and
I would not willingly destroy it, and it may as well remain where it is in that
chamber, which I can readily now believe will become henceforward a deserted
one in this house."