Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"My
dear friend, I always make it a rule to take things at their worst, and then I
cannot be disappointed. I am content to reason upon this matter as if the fact
of the existence of a vampyre were thoroughly established, and then to think
upon what is best to be done about it."
"You
are right."
"If
it should turn out then that there is an error in the fact, well and good—we
are all the better off; but if otherwise, we are prepared, and armed at all
points."
"Let
it be so, then. It strikes me, Charles, that you will be the coolest and the
calmest among us all on this emergency; but the hour now waxes late, I will get
them to prepare a chamber for you, and at least to-night, after what has
occurred already, I should think we can be under no apprehension."
"Probably
not. But, Henry, if you would allow me to sleep in that room where the portrait
hangs of him whom you suppose to be the vampyre, I should prefer it."
"Prefer
it!"
"Yes;
I am not one who courts danger for danger's sake, but I would rather occupy
that room, to see if the vampyre, who perhaps has a partiality for it, will pay
me a visit."
"As
you please, Charles. You can have the apartment. It is in the same state as
when occupied by Flora. Nothing has been, I believe, removed from it."
"You
will let me, then, while I remain here, call it my room?"
"Assuredly."
This
arrangement was accordingly made to the surprise of all the household, not one
of whom would, indeed, have slept, or attempted to sleep there for any amount
of reward. But Charles Holland had his own reasons for preferring that chamber,
and he was conducted to it in the course of half an hour by Henry, who looked
around it with a shudder, as he bade his young friend good night.
CHARLES HOLLAND'S SAD FEELINGS.—THE PORTRAIT.—THE OCCURRENCE
OF THE NIGHT AT THE HALL.
Charles
Holland wished to be alone, if ever any human being had wished fervently to be
so. His thoughts were most fearfully oppressive.
The
communication that had been made to him by Henry Bannerworth, had about it too
many strange, confirmatory circumstances to enable him to treat it, in his own
mind, with the disrespect that some mere freak of a distracted and weak
imagination would, most probably, have received from him.
He
had found Flora in a state of excitement which could arise only from some such
terrible cause as had been mentioned by her brother, and then he was, from an
occurrence which certainly never could have entered into his calculations,
asked to forego the bright dream of happiness which he had held so long and so
rapturously to his heart.
How
truly he found that the course of true love ran not smooth; and yet how little
would any one have suspected that from such a cause as that which now oppressed
his mind, any obstruction would arise.
Flora
might have been fickle and false; he might have seen some other fairer face,
which might have enchained his fancy, and woven for him a new heart's chain;
death might have stepped between him and the realization of his fondest hopes;
loss of fortune might have made the love cruel which would have yoked to its
distresses a young and beautiful girl, reared in the lap of luxury, and who was
not, even by those who loved her, suffered to feel, even in later years, any of
the pinching necessities of the family.
All
these things were possible—some of them were probable; and yet none of them had
occurred. She loved him still; and he, although he had looked on many a fair
face, and basked in the sunny smiles of beauty, had never for a moment
forgotten her faith, or lost his devotion to his own dear English girl.
Fortune
he had enough for both; death had not even threatened to rob him of the prize
of such a noble and faithful heart which he had won. But a horrible
superstition had arisen, which seemed to place at once an impassable abyss
between them, and to say to him, in a voice of thundering denunciation,—
"Charles
Holland, will you have a vampyre for your bride?"
The
thought was terrific. He paced the gloomy chamber to and fro with rapid
strides, until the idea came across his mind that by so doing he might not only
be proclaiming to his kind entertainers how much he was mentally distracted,
but he likewise might be seriously distracting them.
The
moment this occurred to him he sat down, and was profoundly still for some
time. He then glanced at the light which had been given to him, and he found
himself almost unconsciously engaged in a mental calculation as to how long it
would last him in the night.
Half
ashamed, then, of such terrors, as such a consideration would seem to indicate,
he was on the point of hastily extinguishing it, when he happened to cast his
eyes on the now mysterious and highly interesting portrait in the panel.
The
picture, as a picture, was well done, whether it was a correct likeness or not
of the party whom it represented. It was one of those kind of portraits that
seem so life-like, that, as you look at them, they seem to return your gaze
fully, and even to follow you with their eyes from place to place.
By
candle-light such an effect is more likely to become striking and remarkable
than by daylight; and now, as Charles Holland shaded his own eyes from the
light, so as to cast its full radiance upon the portrait, he felt wonderfully
interested in its life-like appearance.
"Here
is true skill," he said; "such as I have not before seen. How
strangely this likeness of a man whom I never saw seems to gaze upon me."
Unconsciously,
too, he aided the effect, which he justly enough called life-like, by a slight
movement of the candle, such as any one not blessed with nerves of iron would
be sure to make, and such a movement made the face look as if it was inspired
with vitality.
Charles
remained looking at the portrait for a considerable period of time. He found a
kind of fascination in it which prevented him from drawing his eyes away from
it. It was not fear which induced him to continue gazing on it, but the
circumstance that it was a likeness of the man who, after death, was supposed
to have borrowed so new and so hideous an existence, combined with its artistic
merits, chained him to the spot.
"I
shall now," he said, "know that face again, let me see it where I
may, or under what circumstances I may. Each feature is now indelibly fixed
upon my memory—I never can mistake it."
He
turned aside as he uttered these words, and as he did so his eyes fell upon a
part of the ornamental frame which composed the edge of the panel, and which
seemed to him to be of a different colour from the surrounding portion.
Curiosity
and increased interest prompted him at once to make a closer inquiry into the
matter; and, by a careful and diligent scrutiny, he was almost induced to come
to the positive opinion, that it no very distant period in time past, the
portrait had been removed from the place it occupied.
When
once this idea, even vague and indistinct as it was, in consequence of the
slight grounds he formed it on, had got possession of his mind, he felt most anxious
to prove its verification or its fallacy.
He
held the candle in a variety of situations, so that its light fell in different
ways on the picture; and the more he examined it, the more he felt convinced
that it must have been moved lately.
It
would appear as if, in its removal, a piece of the old oaken carved framework
of the panel had been accidentally broken off, which caused the new look of the
fracture, and that this accident, from the nature of the broken bit of framing,
could have occurred in any other way than from an actual or attempted removal
of the picture, he felt was extremely unlikely.
He
set down the candle on a chair near at hand, and tried if the panel was fast in
its place. Upon the very first touch, he felt convinced it was not so, and that
it easily moved. How to get it out, though, presented a difficulty, and to get
it out was tempting.
"Who
knows," he said to himself, "what may be behind it? This is an old
baronial sort of hall, and the greater portion of it was, no doubt, built at a
time when the construction of such places as hidden chambers and intricate
staircases were, in all buildings of importance, considered a disiderata."
That
he should make some discovery behind the portrait, now became an idea that
possessed him strongly, although he certainly had no definite grounds for
really supposing that he should do so.
Perhaps
the wish was more father to the thought than he, in the partial state of
excitement he was in, really imagined; but so it was. He felt convinced that he
should not be satisfied until he had removed that panel from the wall, and seen
what was immediately behind it.
After
the panel containing the picture had been placed where it was, it appeared that
pieces of moulding had been inserted all around, which had had the effect of
keeping it in its place, and it was a fracture of one of these pieces which had
first called Charles Holland's attention to the probability of the picture
having been removed. That he should have to get two, at least, of the pieces of
moulding away, before he could hope to remove the picture, was to him quite
apparent, and he was considering how he should accomplish such a result, when
he was suddenly startled by a knock at his chamber door.
Until
that sudden demand for admission at his door came, he scarcely knew to what a
nervous state he had worked himself up. It was an odd sort of tap—one only—a
single tap, as if some one demanded admittance, and wished to awaken his
attention with the least possible chance of disturbing any one else.
"Come
in," said Charles, for he knew he had not fastened his door; "come
in."
There
was no reply, but after a moment's pause, the same sort of low tap came again.
Again
he cried "come in," but, whoever it was, seemed determined that the
door should be opened for him, and no movement was made from the outside. A
third time the tap came, and Charles was very close to the door when he heard
it, for with a noiseless step he had approached it intending to open it. The
instant this third mysterious demand for admission came, he did open it wide.
There was no one there! In an instant he crossed the threshold into the
corridor, which ran right and left. A window at one end of it now sent in the
moon's rays, so that it was tolerably light, but he could see no one. Indeed,
to look for any one, he felt sure was needless, for he had opened his
chamber-door almost simultaneously with the last knock for admission.
"It
is strange," he said, as he lingered on the threshold of his room door for
some moments; "my imagination could not so completely deceive me. There
was most certainly a demand for admission."
Slowly,
then, he returned to his room again, and closed the door behind him.
"One
thing is evident," he said, "that if I am in this apartment to be
subjected to these annoyances, I shall get no rest, which will soon exhaust
me."
This
thought was a very provoking one, and the more he thought that he should
ultimately find a necessity for giving up that chamber he had himself asked as
a special favour to be allowed to occupy, the more vexed he became to think
what construction might be put upon his conduct for so doing.
"They
will all fancy me a coward," he thought, "and that I dare not sleep
here. They may not, of course, say so, but they will think that my appearing so
bold was one of those acts of bravado which I have not courage to carry fairly
out."
Taking
this view of the matter was just the way to enlist a young man's pride in
staying, under all circumstances, where he was, and, with a slight accession of
colour, which, even although he was alone, would visit his cheeks, Charles
Holland said aloud,—
"I
will remain the occupant of this room come what may, happen what may. No
terrors, real or unsubstantial, shall drive me from it: I will brave them all,
and remain here to brave them."
Tap
came the knock at the door again, and now, with more an air of vexation than
fear, Charles turned again towards it, and listened. Tap in another minute
again succeeded, and much annoyed, he walked close to the door, and laid his
hand upon the lock, ready to open it at the precise moment of another demand
for admission being made.
He
had not to wait long. In about half a minute it came again, and, simultaneously
with the sound, the door flew open. There was no one to be seen; but, as he
opened the door, he heard a strange sound in the corridor—a sound which
scarcely could be called a groan, and scarcely a sigh, but seemed a compound of
both, having the agony of the one combined with the sadness of the other. From
what direction it came he could not at the moment decide, but he called out,—
"Who's
there? who's there?"
The
echo of his own voice alone answered him for a few moments, and then he heard a
door open, and a voice, which he knew to be Henry's, cried,—
"What
is it? who speaks?"
"Henry,"
said Charles.
"Yes—yes—yes."
"I
fear I have disturbed you."
"You
have been disturbed yourself, or you would not have done so. I shall be with
you in a moment."
Henry
closed his door before Charles Holland could tell him not to come to him, as he
intended to do, for he felt ashamed to have, in a manner of speaking, summoned
assistance for so trifling a cause of alarm as that to which he had been
subjected. However, he could not go to Henry's chamber to forbid him from
coming to his, and, more vexed than before, he retired to his room again to
await his coming.
He
left the door open now, so that Henry Bannerworth, when he had got on some
articles of dress, walked in at once, saying,—
"What
has happened, Charles?"
"A
mere trifle, Henry, concerning which I am ashamed you should have been at all
disturbed."
"Never
mind that, I was wakeful."
"I
heard a door open, which kept me listening, but I could not decide which door
it was till I heard your voice in the corridor."
"Well,
it was this door; and I opened it twice in consequence of the repeated taps for
admission that came to it; some one has been knocking at it, and, when I go to
it, lo! I can see nobody."
"Indeed!"
"Such
is the case."
"You
surprise me."
"I
am very sorry to have disturbed you, because, upon such a ground, I do not feel
that I ought to have done so; and, when I called out in the corridor, I assure
you it was with no such intention."
"Do
not regret it for a moment," said Henry; "you were quite justified in
making an alarm on such an occasion."
"It's
strange enough, but still it may arise from some accidental cause; admitting,
if we did but know it, of some ready enough explanation."