Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"That
which came here was more than mortal. Oh, Henry, if it had but killed me, now I
had been happy; but I cannot live—I hear it breathing now."
"Talk
of something else, dear Flora," said the much distressed Henry; "you
will make yourself much worse, if you indulge yourself in these strange
fancies."
"Oh,
that they were but fancies!"
"They
are, believe me."
"There
is a strange confusion in my brain, and sleep comes over me suddenly, when I
least expect it. Henry, Henry, what I was, I shall never, never be again."
"Say
not so. All this will pass away like a dream, and leave so faint a trace upon
your memory, that the time will come when you will wonder it ever made so deep
an impression on your mind."
"You
utter these words, Henry," she said, "but they do not come from your
heart. Ah, no, no, no! Who comes?"
The
door was opened by Mrs. Bannerworth, who said,—
"It
is only me, my dear. Henry, here is Dr. Chillingworth in the dining-room."
Henry
turned to Flora, saying,—
"You
will see him, dear Flora? You know Mr. Chillingworth well."
"Yes,
Henry, yes, I will see him, or whoever you please."
"Shew
Mr. Chillingworth up," said Henry to the servant.
In a
few moments the medical man was in the room, and he at once approached the
bedside to speak to Flora, upon whose pale countenance he looked with evident
interest, while at the same time it seemed mingled with a painful feeling—at
least so his own face indicated.
"Well,
Miss Bannerworth," he said, "what is all this I hear about an ugly
dream you have had?"
"A
dream?" said Flora, as she fixed her beautiful eyes on his face.
"Yes,
as I understand."
She
shuddered, and was silent.
"Was
it not a dream, then?" added Mr. Chillingworth.
She
wrung her hands, and in a voice of extreme anguish and pathos, said,—
"Would
it were a dream—would it were a dream! Oh, if any one could but convince me it
was a dream!"
"Well,
will you tell me what it was?"
"Yes,
sir, it was a vampyre."
Mr.
Chillingworth glanced at Henry, as he said, in reply to Flora's words,—
"I
suppose that is, after all, another name, Flora, for the nightmare?"
"No—no—no!"
"Do
you really, then, persist in believing anything so absurd, Miss
Bannerworth?"
"What
can I say to the evidence of my own senses?" she replied. "I saw it,
Henry saw it, George saw, Mr. Marchdale, my mother—all saw it. We could not all
be at the same time the victims of the same delusion."
"How
faintly you speak."
"I
am very faint and ill."
"Indeed.
What wound is that on your neck?"
A
wild expression came over the face of Flora; a spasmodic action of the muscles,
accompanied with a shuddering, as if a sudden chill had come over the whole
mass of blood took place, and she said,—
"It
is the mark left by the teeth of the vampyre."
The
smile was a forced one upon the face of Mr. Chillingworth.
"Draw
up the blind of the window, Mr. Henry," he said, "and let me examine
this puncture to which your sister attaches so extraordinary a meaning."
The
blind was drawn up, and a strong light was thrown into the room. For full two
minutes Mr. Chillingworth attentively examined the two small wounds in the neck
of Flora. He took a powerful magnifying glass from his pocket, and looked at
them through it, and after his examination was concluded, he said,—
"They
are very trifling wounds, indeed."
"But
how inflicted?" said Henry.
"By
some insect, I should say, which probably—it being the season for many
insects—has flown in at the window."
"I
know the motive," said Flora "which prompts all these suggestions it
is a kind one, and I ought to be the last to quarrel with it; but what I have
seen, nothing can make me believe I saw not, unless I am, as once or twice I
have thought myself, really mad."
"How
do you now feel in general health?"
"Far
from well; and a strange drowsiness at times creeps over me. Even now I feel
it."
She
sunk back on the pillows as she spoke and closed her eyes with a deep sigh.
Mr.
Chillingworth beckoned Henry to come with him from the room, but the latter had
promised that he would remain with Flora; and as Mrs. Bannerworth had left the
chamber because she was unable to control her feelings, he rang the bell, and requested
that his mother would come.
She
did so, and then Henry went down stairs along with the medical man, whose
opinion he was certainly eager to be now made acquainted with.
As
soon as they were alone in an old-fashioned room which was called the oak closet,
Henry turned to Mr. Chillingworth, and said,—
"What,
now, is your candid opinion, sir? You have seen my sister, and those strange
indubitable evidences of something wrong."
"I
have; and to tell you candidly the truth, Mr. Henry, I am sorely perplexed."
"I
thought you would be."
"It
is not often that a medical man likes to say so much, nor is it, indeed, often
prudent that he should do so, but in this case I own I am much puzzled. It is
contrary to all my notions upon all such subjects."
"Those
wounds, what do you think of them?"
"I
know not what to think. I am completely puzzled as regards them."
"But,
but do they not really bear the appearance of being bites?"
"They
really do."
"And
so far, then, they are actually in favour of the dreadful supposition which
poor Flora entertains."
"So
far they certainly are. I have no doubt in the world of their being bites; but
we not must jump to a conclusion that the teeth which inflicted them were
human. It is a strange case, and one which I feel assured must give you all
much uneasiness, as, indeed, it gave me; but, as I said before, I will not let
my judgment give in to the fearful and degrading superstition which all the
circumstances connected with this strange story would seem to justify."
"It
is a degrading superstition."
"To
my mind your sister seems to be labouring under the effect of some
narcotic."
"Indeed!"
"Yes;
unless she really has lost a quantity of blood, which loss has decreased the
heart's action sufficiently to produce the languor under which she now
evidently labours."
"Oh,
that I could believe the former supposition, but I am confident she has taken
no narcotic; she could not even do so by mistake, for there is no drug of the
sort in the house. Besides, she is not heedless by any means. I am quite
convinced she has not done so."
"Then
I am fairly puzzled, my young friend, and I can only say that I would freely
have given half of what I am worth to see that figure you saw last night."
"What
would you have done?"
"I
would not have lost sight of it for the world's wealth."
"You
would have felt your blood freeze with horror. The face was terrible."
"And
yet let it lead me where it liked I would have followed it."
"I
wish you had been here."
"I
wish to Heaven I had. If I though there was the least chance of another visit I
would come and wait with patience every night for a month."
"I
cannot say," replied Henry. "I am going to sit up to-night with my
sister, and I believe, our friend Mr. Marchdale will share my watch with
me."
Mr.
Chillingworth appeared to be for a few moments lost in thought, and then
suddenly rousing himself, as if he found it either impossible to come to any
rational conclusion upon the subject, or had arrived at one which he chose to
keep to himself, he said,—
"Well,
well, we must leave the matter at present as it stands. Time may accomplish
something towards its development, but at present so palpable a mystery I never
came across, or a matter in which human calculation was so completely
foiled."
"Nor
I—nor I."
"I
will send you some medicines, such as I think will be of service to Flora, and
depend upon seeing me by ten o'clock to-morrow morning."
"You
have, of course, heard something," said Henry to the doctor, as he was
pulling on his gloves, "about vampyres."
"I
certainly have, and I understand that in some countries, particularly Norway
and Sweden, the superstition is a very common one."
"And
in the Levant."
"Yes.
The ghouls of the Mahometans are of the same description of beings. All that I
have heard of the European vampyre has made it a being which can be killed, but
is restored to life again by the rays of a full moon falling on the body."
"Yes,
yes, I have heard as much."
"And
that the hideous repast of blood has to be taken very frequently, and that if
the vampyre gets it not he wastes away, presenting the appearance of one in the
last stage of a consumption, and visibly, so to speak, dying."
"That
is what I have understood."
"To-night,
do you know, Mr. Bannerworth, is the full of the moon."
Henry
started.
"If
now you had succeeded in killing—. Pshaw, what am I saying. I believe I am
getting foolish, and that the horrible superstition is beginning to fasten
itself upon me as well as upon all of you. How strangely the fancy will wage
war with the judgment in such a way as this."
"The
full of the moon," repeated Henry, as he glanced towards the window,
"and the night is near at hand."
"Banish
these thoughts from your mind," said the doctor, "or else, my young
friend, you will make yourself decidedly ill. Good evening to you, for it is
evening. I shall see you to-morrow morning."
Mr.
Chillingworth appeared now to be anxious to go, and Henry no longer opposed his
departure; but when he was gone a sense of great loneliness came over him.
"To-night,"
he repeated, "is the full of the moon. How strange that this dreadful
adventure should have taken place just the night before. 'Tis very strange. Let
me see—let me see."
He
took from the shelves of a book case the work which Flora had mentioned,
entitled, "Travels in Norway," in which work he found some account of
the popular belief in vampyres.
He
opened the work at random, and then some of the leaves turned over of
themselves to a particular place, as the leaves of a book will frequently do
when it has been kept open a length of time at that part, and the binding
stretched there more than anywhere else. There was a note at the bottom of one
of the pages at this part of the book, and Henry read as follows:—
"With
regard to these vampyres, it is believed by those who are inclined to give
credence to so dreadful a superstition, that they always endeavour to make
their feast of blood, for the revival of their bodily powers, on some evening
immediately preceding a full moon, because if any accident befal them, such as
being shot, or otherwise killed or wounded, they can recover by lying down
somewhere where the full moon's rays will fall upon them."
Henry
let the book drop from his hands with a groan and a shudder.
THE NIGHT WATCH.—THE PROPOSAL.—THE MOONLIGHT.—THE FEARFUL
ADVENTURE.
A
kind of stupefaction came over Henry Bannerworth, and he sat for about a
quarter of an hour scarcely conscious of where he was, and almost incapable of
anything in the shape of rational thought. It was his brother, George, who
roused him by saying, as he laid his hand upon his shoulder,—
"Henry,
are you asleep?"
Henry
had not been aware of his presence, and he started up as if he had been shot.
"Oh,
George, is it you?" he said.
"Yes,
Henry, are you unwell?"
"No,
no; I was in a deep reverie."
"Alas!
I need not ask upon what subject," said George, sadly. "I sought you
to bring you this letter."
"A
letter to me?"
"Yes,
you see it is addressed to you, and the seal looks as if it came from someone
of consequence."
"Indeed!"
"Yes,
Henry. Read it, and see from whence it comes."
There
was just sufficient light by going to the window to enable Henry to read the
letter, which he did aloud.
It
ran thus:—
"Sir
Francis Varney presents his compliments to Mr. Beaumont, and is much concerned
to hear that some domestic affliction has fallen upon him. Sir Francis hopes
that the genuine and loving sympathy of a neighbour will not be regarded as an
intrusion, and begs to proffer any assistance or counsel that may be within the
compass of his means.
"Ratford Abbey."
"Sir
Francis Varney!" said Henry, "who is he?"
"Do
you not remember, Henry," said George, "we were told a few days ago,
that a gentleman of that name had become the purchaser of the estate of Ratford
Abbey."
"Oh,
yes, yes. Have you seen him?"
"I
have not."
"I
do not wish to make any new acquaintance, George. We are very poor—much poorer
indeed than the general appearance of this place, which, I fear, we shall soon
have to part with, would warrant any one believing. I must, of course, return a
civil answer to this gentleman, but it must be such as one as shall repress
familiarity."
"That
will be difficult to do while we remain here, when we come to consider the very
close proximity of the two properties, Henry."
"Oh,
no, not at all. He will easily perceive that we do not want to make
acquaintance with him, and then, as a gentleman, which doubtless he is, he will
give up the attempt."
"Let
it be so, Henry. Heaven knows I have no desire to form any new acquaintance
with any one, and more particularly under our present circumstances of
depression. And now, Henry, you must permit me, as I have had some repose, to
share with you your night watch in Flora's room."
"I
would advise you not, George; your health, you know, is very far from
good."
"Nay,
allow me. If not, then the anxiety I shall suffer will do me more harm than the
watchfulness I shall keep up in her chamber."
This
was an argument which Henry felt himself the force of too strongly not to admit
it in the case of George, and he therefore made no further opposition to his
wish to make one in the night watch.
"There
will be an advantage," said George, "you see, in three of us being
engaged in this matter, because, should anything occur, two can act together,
and yet Flora may not be left alone."
"True,
true, that is a great advantage."
Now a
soft gentle silvery light began to spread itself over the heavens. The moon was
rising, and as the beneficial effects of the storm of the preceding evening
were still felt in the clearness of the air, the rays appeared to be more
lustrous and full of beauty than they commonly were.
Each
moment the night grew lighter, and by the time the brothers were ready to take
their places in the chamber of Flora, the moon had risen considerably.
Although
neither Henry nor George had any objection to the company of Mr. Marchdale, yet
they gave him the option, and rather in fact urged him not to destroy his
night's repose by sitting up with them; but he said,—
"Allow
me to do so; I am older, and have calmer judgment than you can have. Should
anything again appear, I am quite resolved that it shall not escape me."
"What
would you do?"
"With
the name of God upon my lips," said Mr. Marchdale, solemnly, "I would
grapple with it."
"You
laid hands upon it last night."
"I
did, and have forgotten to show you what I tore from it. Look here,—what should
you say this was?"
He
produced a piece of cloth, on which was an old-fashioned piece of lace, and two
buttons. Upon a close inspection, this appeared to be a portion of the lapel of
a coat of ancient times, and suddenly, Henry, with a look of intense anxiety,
said,—
"This
reminds me of the fashion of garments very many years ago, Mr. Marchdale."
"It
came away in my grasp as if rotten and incapable of standing any rough
usage."
"What
a strange unearthly smell it has!"
"Now
you mention it yourself," added Mr. Marchdale, "I must confess it
smells to me as if it had really come from the very grave."
"It
does—it does. Say nothing of this relic of last night's work to any one."
"Be
assured I shall not. I am far from wishing to keep up in any one's mind proofs
of that which I would fain, very fain refute."
Mr.
Marchdale replaced the portion of the coat which the figure had worn in his
pocket, and then the whole three proceeded to the chamber of Flora.
It
was within a very few minutes of midnight, the moon had climbed high in the
heavens, and a night of such brightness and beauty had seldom shown itself for
a long period of time.
Flora
slept, and in her chamber sat the two brothers and Mr. Marchdale, silently, for
she had shown symptoms of restlessness, and they much feared to break the light
slumber into which she had fallen.
Occasionally
they had conversed in whispers, which could not have the effect of rousing her,
for the room, although smaller than the one she had before occupied, was still
sufficiently spacious to enable them to get some distance from the bed.
Until
the hour of midnight now actually struck, they were silent, and when the last
echo of the sounds had died away, a feeling of uneasiness came over them, which
prompted some conversation to get rid of it.
"How
bright the moon is now," said Henry, in a low tone.
"I
never saw it brighter," replied Marchdale. "I feel as if I were
assured that we shall not to-night be interrupted."
"It
was later than this," said Henry.
"It
was—it was."
"Do
not then yet congratulate us upon no visit."
"How
still the house is!" remarked George; "it seems to me as if I had
never found it so intensely quiet before."
"It
is very still."
"Hush!
she moves."
Flora
moaned in her sleep, and made a slight movement. The curtains were all drawn
closely round the bed to shield her eyes from the bright moonlight which
streamed into the room so brilliantly. They might have closed the shutters of
the window, but this they did not like to do, as it would render their watch
there of no avail at all, inasmuch as they would not be able to see if any
attempt was made by any one to obtain admittance.
A
quarter of an hour longer might have thus passed when Mr. Marchdale said in a
whisper,—
"A
thought has just struck me that the piece of coat I have, which I dragged from
the figure last night, wonderfully resembles in colour and appearance the style
of dress of the portrait in the room which Flora lately slept in."
"I
thought of that," said Henry, "when first I saw it; but, to tell the
honest truth, I dreaded to suggest any new proof connected with last night's
visitation."
"Then
I ought not to have drawn your attention to it," said Mr. Marchdale,
"and regret I have done so."
"Nay,
do not blame yourself on such an account," said Henry. "You are quite
right, and it is I who am too foolishly sensitive. Now, however, since you have
mentioned it, I must own I have a great desire to test the accuracy of the
observation by a comparison with the portrait."
"That
may easily be done."
"I
will remain here," said George, "in case Flora awakens, while you two
go if you like. It is but across the corridor."
Henry
immediately rose, saying—
"Come,
Mr. Marchdale, come. Let us satisfy ourselves at all events upon this point at
once. As George says it is only across the corridor, and we can return
directly."
"I
am willing," said Mr. Marchdale, with a tone of sadness.
There
was no light needed, for the moon stood suspended in a cloudless sky, so that
from the house being a detached one, and containing numerous windows, it was as
light as day.
Although
the distance from one chamber to the other was only across the corridor, it was
a greater space than these words might occupy, for the corridor was wide,
neither was it directly across, but considerably slanting. However, it was
certainly sufficiently close at hand for any sound of alarm from one chamber to
reach another without any difficulty.
A few
moments sufficed to place Henry and Mr. Marchdale in that antique room, where,
from the effect of the moonlight which was streaming over it, the portrait on
the panel looked exceedingly life like.
And
this effect was probably the greater because the rest of the room was not
illuminated by the moon's rays, which came through a window in the corridor,
and then at the open door of that chamber upon the portrait.
Mr.
Marchdale held the piece of cloth he had close to the dress of the portrait,
and one glance was sufficient to show the wonderful likeness between the two.
"Good
God!" said Henry, "it is the same."
Mr.
Marchdale dropped the piece of cloth and trembled.
"This
fact shakes even your scepticism," said Henry.
"I
know not what to make of it."
"I
can tell you something which bears upon it. I do not know if you are
sufficiently aware of my family history to know that this one of my ancestors,
I wish I could say worthy ancestors, committed suicide, and was buried in his
clothes."
"You—you
are sure of that?"
"Quite
sure."
"I
am more and more bewildered as each moment some strange corroborative fact of
that dreadful supposition we so much shrink from seems to come to light and to
force itself upon our attention."
There
was a silence of a few moments duration, and Henry had turned towards Mr.
Marchdale to say something, when the cautious tread of a footstep was heard in
the garden, immediately beneath that balcony.
A
sickening sensation came over Henry, and he was compelled to lean against the
wall for support, as in scarcely articulate accents he said—
"The
vampyre—the vampyre! God of heaven, it has come once again!"
"Now,
Heaven inspire us with more than mortal courage," cried Mr. Marchdale, and
he dashed open the window at once, and sprang into the balcony.
Henry
in a moment recovered himself sufficiently to follow him, and when he reached
his side in the balcony, Marchdale said, as he pointed below,—
"There
is some one concealed there."
"Where—where?"
"Among
the laurels. I will fire a random shot, and we may do some execution."
"Hold!"
said a voice from below; "don't do any such thing, I beg of you."
"Why,
that is Mr. Chillingworth's voice," cried Henry.
"Yes,
and it's Mr. Chillingworth's person, too," said the doctor, as he emerged
from among some laurel bushes.
"How
is this?" said Marchdale.
"Simply
that I made up my mind to keep watch and ward to-night outside here, in the
hope of catching the vampyre. I got into here by climbing the gate."
"But
why did you not let me know?" said Henry.
"Because
I did not know myself, my young friend, till an hour and a half ago."
"Have
you seen anything?"
"Nothing.
But I fancied I heard something in the park outside the wall."
"Indeed!"
"What
say you, Henry," said Mr. Marchdale, "to descending and taking a
hasty examination of the garden and grounds?"
"I
am willing; but first allow me to speak to George, who otherwise might be
surprised at our long absence."
Henry
walked rapidly to the bed chamber of Flora, and he said to George,—