Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"It
may, certainly, but, after what has happened already, we may well suppose a
mysterious connexion between any unusual sight or sound, and the fearful ones
we have already seen."
"Certainly
we may."
"How
earnestly that strange portrait seems to look upon us, Charles."
"It
does, and I have been examining it carefully. It seems to have been removed
lately."
"Removed!"
"Yes,
I think, as far as I can judge, that it has been taken from its frame; I mean,
that the panel on which it is painted has been taken out."
"Indeed!"
"If
you touch it you will find it loose, and, upon a close examination, you will
perceive that a piece of the moulding which holds it in its place has been
chipped off, which is done in such a place that I think it could only have
arisen during the removal of the picture."
"You
must be mistaken."
"I
cannot, of course, take upon myself, Henry, to say precisely such is the
case," said Charles.
"But
there is no one here to do so."
"That
I cannot say. Will you permit me and assist me to remove it? I have a great
curiosity to know what is behind it."
"If
you have, I certainly will do so. We thought of taking it away altogether, but
when Flora left this room the idea was given up as useless. Remain here a few
moments, and I will endeavour to find something which shall assist us in its
removal."
Henry
left the mysterious chamber in order to search in his own for some means of
removing the frame-work of the picture, so that the panel would slip easily
out, and while he was gone, Charles Holland continued gazing upon it with
greater interest, if possible, than before.
In a
few minutes Henry returned, and although what he had succeeded in finding were
very inefficient implements for the purpose, yet with this aid the two young
men set about the task.
It is
said, and said truly enough, that "where there is a will there is a
way," and although the young men had no tools at all adapted for the
purpose, they did succeed in removing the moulding from the sides of the panel,
and then by a little tapping at one end of it, and using a knife at a lever at
the other end of the panel, they got it fairly out.
Disappointment
was all they got for their pains. On the other side there was nothing but a
rough wooden wall, against which the finer and more nicely finished oak
panelling of the chamber rested.
"There
is no mystery here," said Henry.
"None
whatever," said Charles, as he tapped the wall with his knuckles, and
found it all hard and sound. "We are foiled."
"We
are indeed."
"I
had a strange presentiment, now," added Charles, "that we should make
some discovery that would repay us for our trouble. It appears, however, that
such is not to be the case; for you see nothing presents itself to us but the
most ordinary appearances."
"I
perceive as much; and the panel itself, although of more than ordinary
thickness, is, after all, but a bit of planed oak, and apparently fashioned for
no other object than to paint the portrait on."
"True.
Shall we replace it?"
Charles
reluctantly assented, and the picture was replaced in its original position. We
say Charles reluctantly assented, because, although he had now had ocular
demonstration that there was really nothing behind the panel but the ordinary
woodwork which might have been expected from the construction of the old house,
yet he could not, even with such a fact staring him in the face, get rid
entirely of the feeling that had come across him, to the effect that the
picture had some mystery or another.
"You
are not yet satisfied," said Henry, as he observed the doubtful look of
Charles Holland's face.
"My
dear friend," said Charles, "I will not deceive you. I am much
disappointed that we have made no discovery behind that picture."
"Heaven
knows we have mysteries enough in our family," said Henry.
Even
as he spoke they were both startled by a strange clattering noise at the
window, which was accompanied by a shrill, odd kind of shriek, which sounded fearful
and preternatural on the night air.
"What
is that?" said Charles.
"God
only knows," said Henry.
The
two young men naturally turned their earnest gaze in the direction of the
window, which we have before remarked was one unprovided with shutters, and there,
to their intense surprise, they saw, slowly rising up from the lower part of
it, what appeared to be a human form. Henry would have dashed forward, but
Charles restrained him, and drawing quickly from its case a large holster
pistol, he levelled it carefully at the figure, saying in a whisper,—
"Henry,
if I don't hit it, I will consent to forfeit my head."
He
pulled the trigger—a loud report followed—the room was filled with smoke, and
then all was still. A circumstance, however, had occurred, as a consequence of
the concussion of air produced by the discharge of the pistol, which neither of
the young men had for the moment calculated upon, and that was the putting out
of the only light they there had.
In
spite of this circumstance, Charles, the moment he had discharged the pistol,
dropped it and sprung forward to the window. But here he was perplexed, for he
could not find the old fashioned, intricate fastening which held it shut, and
he had to call to Henry,—
"Henry!
For God's sake open the window for me, Henry! The fastening of the window is
known to you, but not to me. Open it for me."
Thus
called upon, Henry sprung forward, and by this time the report of the pistol
had effectually alarmed the whole household. The flashing of lights from the
corridor came into the room, and in another minute, just as Henry succeeded in
getting the window wide open, and Charles Holland had made his way on to the
balcony, both George Bannerworth and Mr. Marchdale entered the chamber, eager
to know what had occurred. To their eager questions Henry replied,—
"Ask
me not now;" and then calling to Charles, he said,—"Remain where you
are, Charles, while I run down to the garden immediately beneath the
balcony."
"Yes—yes,"
said Charles.
Henry
made prodigious haste, and was in the garden immediately below the bay window
in a wonderfully short space of time. He spoke to Charles, saying,—
"Will
you now descend? I can see nothing here; but we will both make a search."
George
and Mr. Marchdale were both now in the balcony, and they would have descended
likewise, but Henry said,—
"Do
not all leave the house. God only knows, now, situated as we are, what might
happen."
"I
will remain, then," said George. "I have been sitting up to-night as
the guard, and, therefore, may as well continue to do so."
Marchdale
and Charles Holland clambered over the balcony, and easily, from its
insignificant height, dropped into the garden. The night was beautiful, and
profoundly still. There was not a breath of air sufficient to stir a leaf on a
tree, and the very flame of the candle which Charles had left burning in the
balcony burnt clearly and steadily, being perfectly unruffled by any wind.
It
cast a sufficient light close to the window to make everything very plainly
visible, and it was evident at a glance that no object was there, although had
that figure, which Charles shot at, and no doubt hit, been flesh and blood, it
must have dropped immediately below.
As
they looked up for a moment after a cursory examination of the ground, Charles
exclaimed,—
"Look
at the window! As the light is now situated, you can see the hole made in one
of the panes of glass by the passage of the bullet from my pistol."
They
did look, and there the clear, round hole, without any starring, which a bullet
discharged close to a pane of glass will make in it, was clearly and plainly
discernible.
"You
must have hit him," said Henry.
"One
would think so," said Charles; "for that was the exact place where
the figure was."
"And
there is nothing here," added Marchdale. "What can we think of these
events—what resource has the mind against the most dreadful suppositions
concerning them?"
Charles
and Henry were both silent; in truth, they knew not what to think, and the
words uttered by Marchdale were too strikingly true to dispute for a moment.
They were lost in wonder.
"Human
means against such an appearance as we saw to-night," said Charles,
"are evidently useless."
"My
dear young friend," said Marchdale, with much emotion, as he grasped Henry
Bannerworth's hand, and the tears stood in his eyes as he did so,—"my dear
young friend, these constant alarms will kill you. They will drive you, and all
whose happiness you hold dear, distracted. You must control these dreadful
feelings, and there is but one chance that I can see of getting now the better
of these."
"What
is that?"
"By
leaving this place for ever."
"Alas!
am I to be driven from the home of my ancestors from such a cause as this? And
whither am I to fly? Where are we to find a refuge? To leave here will be at
once to break up the establishment which is now held together, certainly upon
the sufferance of creditors, but still to their advantage, inasmuch as I am
doing what no one else would do, namely, paying away to within the scantiest
pittance the whole proceeds of the estate that spreads around me."
"Heed
nothing but an escape from such horrors as seem to be accumulating now around
you."
"If
I were sure that such a removal would bring with it such a corresponding
advantage, I might, indeed, be induced to risk all to accomplish it."
"As
regards poor dear Flora," said Mr. Marchdale, "I know not what to
say, or what to think; she has been attacked by a vampyre, and after this
mortal life shall have ended, it is dreadful to think there may be a
possibility that she, with all her beauty, all her excellence and purity of
mind, and all those virtues and qualities which should make her the beloved of
all, and which do, indeed, attach all hearts towards her, should become one of
that dreadful tribe of beings who cling to existence by feeding, in the most
dreadful manner, upon the life blood of others—oh, it is too dreadful to
contemplate! Too horrible—too horrible!"
"Then
wherefore speak of it?" said Charles, with some asperity. "Now, by
the great God of Heaven, who sees all our hearts, I will not give in to such a
horrible doctrine! I will not believe it; and were death itself my portion for
my want of faith, I would this moment die in my disbelief of anything so truly
fearful!"
"Oh,
my young friend," added Marchdale, "if anything could add to the
pangs which all who love, and admire, and respect Flora Bannerworth must feel
at the unhappy condition in which she is placed, it would be the noble nature
of you, who, under happier auspices, would have been her guide through life,
and the happy partner of her destiny."
"As
I will be still."
"May
Heaven forbid it! We are now among ourselves, and can talk freely upon such a
subject. Mr. Charles Holland, if you wed, you would look forward to being
blessed with children—those sweet ties which bind the sternest hearts to life
with so exquisite a bondage. Oh, fancy, then, for a moment, the mother of your
babes coming at the still hour of midnight to drain from their veins the very
life blood she gave to them. To drive you and them mad with the expected horror
of such visitations—to make your nights hideous—your days but so many hours of
melancholy retrospection. Oh, you know not the world of terror, on the awful
brink of which you stand, when you talk of making Flora Bannerworth a
wife."
"Peace!
oh, peace!" said Henry.
"Nay,
I know my words are unwelcome," continued Mr. Marchdale. "It happens,
unfortunately for human nature, that truth and some of our best and holiest
feelings are too often at variance, and hold a sad contest—"
"I
will hear no more of this," cried Charles Holland.—"I will hear no
more."
"I
have done," said Mr. Marchdale.
"And
'twere well you had not begun."
"Nay,
say not so. I have but done what I considered was a solemn duty."
"Under
that assumption of doing duty—a solemn duty—heedless of the feelings and the
opinions of others," said Charles, sarcastically, "more mischief is
produced—more heart-burnings and anxieties caused, than by any other two causes
of such mischievous results combined. I wish to hear no more of this."
"Do
not be angered with Mr. Marchdale, Charles," said Henry. "He can have
no motive but our welfare in what he says. We should not condemn a speaker
because his words may not sound pleasant to our ears."
"By
Heaven!" said Charles, with animation, "I meant not to be illiberal;
but I will not because I cannot see a man's motives for active interference in
the affairs of others, always be ready, merely on account of such ignorance, to
jump to a conclusion that they must be estimable."