Vintage Vampire Stories (3 page)

After going on in this way for an hour or more, when he had not a dry rag upon him, he came to a change of scene, namely, a thick mass of low trees and shrubs, which extended on each side as far as he could see. He thought that perhaps the bird would fly against them and be caught in their branches, but no such thing, over it flew just above the highest, and went skimming along as before. Pedro had no help for it but to follow, or, after all his labour, give up the pursuit. I shall be dry, at all events, he thought, as he entered among the underwood. He soon, however, found to his cost that he had fallen from the frying-pan into the fire. Before he had tumbled in soft mud and merely got wet, now his hands and face were scratched by the brambles, and his clothes were torn into shreds. Still there was the strange bird flying unconcernedly on, just above his head, among the trees. Every now and then it turned round its head with a knowing look, as if just to see whether he was following, and Pedro could see the malicious glitter of its eye.

“I'll have you, my fine bird, never fear,” he cried and dashed on. Just then he tumbled plump into a pit filled with briars and covered over with dry leaves. He had great difficulty in getting out, the blood streaming down from every limb, and he made sure the bird must have escaped him, but there was the creature stopping quietly on the top of a tree as if to wait for him. He had not time to draw breath after all his exertions, when away it again flew; and now, being scratched and seamed all over (it was a miracle his eyes still remained in his head), he found himself clear of the wood. Whether he had changed for the better or worse was now to be seen. A wide extent of rocky ground lay before him, with hills in the distance, towards which the bird directed its course, quacking louder than ever to attract him onward.

Poor Pedro! Down he tumbled and broke his shins; then he scraped all the skin off his elbows; then down he came on his seat, black and blue in every part, till he found himself slipping over a wet smooth slab of stone, off which he fell splash into a rapid stream. Fortunately he could swim, though not very well, so his head went under several times till he was half full of water, and at length, by dint of great exertion, he reached the other bank, spluttering and blowing. A steep hill was before him, up which the bird flew, he following, climbing from rock to rock; now he caught hold of the branch of a tree, which gave way in his hand and let him fall down a dozen yards or so—he did not stop to measure the distance. He was up again in a moment, catching hold of trees, shrubs, tufts of grass, rocks, or whatever came in his way, till at last he was only a few feet from the creature on the top of the hill. He now saw its immense size, but undaunted at the sight and furious with rage, he drew his sword, and rushed at it to cut it down. The bird rose as he approached; so headlong was his speed that he could not stop his way, and over he went down a steep precipice—bounding from rock to rock, the bird quacking and screeching in his ears all the time, every bone in his body cracking, till he bounded on to a smooth rock, down which he slid, slid, slid, every instant expecting to find himself in the ocean, which he could hear roaring beneath him; but a comfort it was, though a small and cold one, when instead, he was shot right into the soft sand on the sea shore. He looked up, there was the creature flying round and round and round, which remained uninjured; so he tried to rise, for he was, as has been seen, a plucky little fellow, a true Lusitanian of those days; but though he could not stand he lifted himself up on his knees, drew his last bolt, a louder shriek, which sounded like the derisive laughter of a hundred Pedro, “A pretty night's work I have had for nothing; I have got only a certainty when I get home. There is no use being drowned into the bargain, so I'll try and get out of this.”

He accordingly crawled along till he found some soft, dry sand above high-water mark, and there he went to sleep to wait for the morning light to enable him to find his way home. At last he was awoke by a rough shake on the shoulder.

“What are you doing here, my friend?” said a loud voice; and looking up, Pedro beheld a fisherman standing over him.

“I've been sleeping,” said Pedro.

“I see you have,” said the other.

“But where am I, Patricio?” asked Pedro.

“Upon the sea shore, about six leagues from Aveiro,” was the answer.

“Impossible,” muttered Pedro to himself, “six leagues in one night!”

“And what's your name, friend?” said the fisherman.

“Pedro Pacheco,” said Pedro.

“You Pedro Pacheco!” exclaimed the fisherman. “I don't believe it. Pedro Pacheco is a quiet, sober man, and you, to say the best of it, look like a good-for-nothing drunken beast, who has been getting into some scrape or other and received a broken head.”

“And so I have got into a terrible scrape, which has taken all the skin off my shins, and my head has been broken into the bargain,” answered poor Pedro. “But it was all owing to a terrible Bruxa, which led me astray, oh, oh, oh,” and Pedro fell back from exhaustion.

Now the fisherman was a kind-hearted man, so he lifted Pedro into his boat and rowed him back along the cost to the spot nearest his house, where he landed and carried him home. Poor Pedro's troubles were not over, for no sooner did Senhora Gertrudes catch sight of him than, thinking he had got tipsy at the merry-making, without stopping to inquire the truth of the fisherman, she darted at him, nearly scratching out his eyes and pulling his ears, till they were black and blue all over.

“Oh, oh, oh,” uttered poor Pedro; but being very weak, he resigned himself to his fate, as many another better man has done before under like circumstances.

The fisherman, however, published the story which Pedro told him, and as he was a great favourite, the neighbours did him justice; some, indeed, going as far as to hint to each other that perhaps his wife was the Bruxa who so cruelly beguiled him.

These whispers of course honest Pedro did not hear, but owing to his adventure he was one of the loudest in demanding the separation of the Princess Theresa and King Alfonso, that the ban of the church might be removed, till when, he affirmed, the people could never hope to get the land rid of Bruzas and other evil spirits. The removal of the excommunication had not, however, the desired effect: Bruxas having been met with at a much later date in Portugal.

Mary Helena Wilson (1833-1910) was born in Belfast, Ireland. Her family moved to Montreal, Canada, where she married Joseph Fortune in 1851. Shortly thereafter, Mary's father immigrated to Melbourne, Australia, and she joined him there in 1855.

She was a prolific writer whose career began in 1855 with pseudonymous contributions to local newspapers. She began to write for
The Australian Journal
in Melbourne under the pseudonyms “W. W.” and “Waif Wander” in 1865. Fortune was one of the first female crime writers in the world. Her most important series was “The Detective's Album” which ran from 1868 to 1908.

“The White Maniac: A Doctor's Tale” was first published in
The Australian Journal
2:98 in 1867 under the pseudonym “Waif Wander.”

I
n the year 1858 I had established a flourishing practice in London; a practice which I owed a considerable proportion of, not to my ability, I am afraid, but to the fact that I occupied the singular position of a man professional, who was entirely independent of his profession. Doubtless, had I been a poor man, struggling to earn a bare existence for wife and family, I might have been the cleverest physician that ever administered a bolus, yet have remained in my poverty to the end of time. But it was not so, you see. I was the second son of a nobleman, and had Honourable attached to my name; and I practised the profession solely and entirely because I had become enamoured of it, and because I was disgusted at the useless existence of a fashionable and idle young man, and determined that I, at least, would not add another to their ranks.

And so I had a handsome establishment in a fashionable portion of the city, and my door was besieged with carriages, from one end of the week to the other. Many of the occupants were disappointed, however, for I would not demean myself by taking fees from some vapourish Miss or dissipated Dowager. Gout in vain came rolling to my door, even though it excruciated the leg of a Duke; I undertook none but cases that enlisted my sympathy, and after in time the fact became known, and my levees were not so well attended.

One day I was returning on horseback toward the city. I had been paying a visit to a patient, in whom I was deeply interested, and for whom I had ordered the quiet and purer air of a suburban residence. I had reached a spot, in the neighbourhood of Kensington, where the vines were enclosed in large gardens, and the road was marked for a considerable distance by the brick and stone walls that enclosed several of the gardens belonging to those mansions. On the opposite side of the road stood a small country-looking inn, which I had patronised before, and I pulled up my horse and alighted, for the purpose of having some rest and refreshment after my ride.

As I sat in a front room sipping my wine and water, my thoughts were fully occupied with a variety of personal concerns. I had received a letter from my mother that morning, and the condition of the patient I had recently left was precarious in the extreme.

It was fortunate that I was thought-occupied and not dependent upon outward objects to amuse them, for although the window at which I sat was open, it presented no view whatever, save the bare, blank, high brick wall belonging to a house at the opposite side of the road. That is to say, I presume, it enclosed some residence, for from where I sat not even the top of a chimney was visible.

Presently, however, the sound of wheels attracted my eyes from the pattern of the wall-paper at which I had been unconsciously gazing, and I looked out to see a handsome, but very plain carriage drawn up at a small door that pierced the brick wall I have alluded to; and almost at the same moment the door opened and closed again behind two figures in a most singular attire. They were both of the male sex, and one of them was evidently a gentleman, while the other waited on him as if he was the servant; but it was the dress of these persons that most strangely interested me. They were attired in white from head to heel; coats, vests, trousers, hats, shoes, not to speak of shirts at all, all were white as white could be.

While I stared at this strange spectacle, the gentleman stepped into the vehicle; but although he did so the coachman made no movement toward driving onward, nor did the attendant leave his post at the carriage door. At the expiration, however, of about a quarter of an hour, the servant closed the door and re-entered through the little gate, closing it, likewise, carefully behind him. Then the driver leisurely made a start, only, however, to stop suddenly again, when the door of the vehicle was burst open and a gentleman jumped out and rapped loudly at the gate.

He turned his face hurriedly around as he did so, hiding, it seemed to me, meanwhile, behind the wall so as not to be seen when it opened. Judge of my astonishment when I recognised in this gentleman the one who had but a few minutes before entered the carriage dressed in white, for he was now in garments of the hue of Erebus. While I wondered at this strange metamorphosis the door in the wall opened, and the gentleman, now attired in black, after giving some hasty instructions to the servant, sprang once more into the carriage and was driven rapidly toward London.

My curiosity was strangely excited; and as I stood at the door before mounting my horse, I asked the landlord who and what were the people who occupied the opposite dwelling.

“Well, sir,” he replied, looking curiously at the dead wall over against him, “They've been there now a matter of six months, I dare say, and you've seen as much of them as I have. I believe the whole crew of them, servants and all, is foreigners, and we, that is the neighbours around, sir, calls them the ‘white mad people.'”

“What! do they always wear that singular dress?”

“Always, sir, saving as soon as ever the old gentleman goes inside the gate he puts black on in the carriage, and as soon as be comes back takes it off again, and leaves it in the carriage.”

“And why in the name of gracious does he not dress himself inside?”

“Oh, that I can't tell you sir! only it's just as you see, always. The driver or coachman never even goes inside the walls, or the horses or any one thing that isn't white in colour, sir; and if the people aren't mad after that, what else can it be?”

“It seems very like it, indeed; but do you mean to say that everything inside the garden wall is white? Surely you must be exaggerating a little?”

Not a bit on it, sir! The coachman, who can't speak much English, sir, comes here for a drink now and then. He doesn't live in the house, you see, and is idle most of his time. Well, he told me himself, one day, that every article in the house was white, from the garret to the drawing-room, and that everything
outside
it is white I can swear, for I saw it myself, and a stranger sight surely no eye ever saw.”

“How did you manage to get into the enchanted castle, then?”

“I didn't get in sir, I only saw it outside, and from a place where you can see for yourself too, if you have a mind. When first the people came to the place over there, you see sir, old Mat the sexton and bell-ringer of the church there, began to talk of the strange goings on he had seen from the belfry; and so my curiosity took me there one day to look for myself. Blest if I ever heard of such a strange sight! no wonder they call them the white mad folk.”

“Well, you've roused my curiosity,” I said, as I got on my horse, “and I'll certainly pay old Mat's belfry a visit the very next time I pass this way, if I'm not hurried.”

It appeared unaccountable to even myself that these mysterious people should make such a singular impression on me; I thought of little else during the next two days. I attended to my duties in an absent manner, and my mind was over recurring to the one subject—viz. an attempt to account for the strange employment of one hue only in the household of this foreign gentleman. Of whom did the household consist? Had he any family? and could one account for the eccentricity in any other way save by ascribing it to lunacy, as mine host of the inn had already done. As it happened, the study of brain diseases had been my hobby during my noviciate, and I was peculiarly interested in observing a new symptom of madness, if this was really one.

At length I escaped to pay my country patient his usual visit, and on my return alighted at the inn, and desired the landlord to have my horse put in the stable for a bit.

“I'm going to have a peep at your madhouse,” I said, “do you think I shall find old Mat about?”

“Yes, doctor; I saw him at work in the churchyard not half an hour ago, but at any rate he won't be farther off than his cottage, and it lies just against the yard wall.”

The church was an old, ivy-wreathed structure, with a square Norman belfry, and a large surrounding of grey and grass-grown old headstones. It was essentially a country church, and a country church-yard; and one wondered to find it so close to the borders of a mighty city, until they remembered that the mighty city had crept into the country, year by year, until it had covered with stone and mortar the lowly site of many a cottage home, and swallowed up many an acre of green meadow and golden corn. Old Mat was sitting in the middle of the graves; one tombstone forming his seat, and he was engaged in scraping the moss from a headstone that seemed inclined to tumble over, the inscription on which was tin but obliterated by a growth of green slimy-looking moss.

“Good-day, friend, you are busy,” I said. “One would fancy that stone so old now, that the living had entirely forgotten their loss. But I suppose they have not, or you would not be cleaning it.”

“It's only a notion of my own, sir; I'm idle, and when I was a lad I had it sort o' likin' for this stone, Lord only knows why. But you see I've clean forgotten what name was on it, and I thought I'd like to see.”

“Well, I want to have a look at these ‘white mad folk' of yours, Mat, will you let me into the belfry? Mr Tanning tells me you can see something queer up there.”

“By jove you can, sir!” he replied, rising with alacrity, “I often spend an hour watching the mad folk; faith if they had my old church and yard they'd whitewash ‘em, belfry and all!” and the old man led the way into the tower.

Of course my first look on reaching the summit was in the direction of the strange house, and I must confess to an ejaculation of astonishment as I peeped through one of the crevices. The belfry was elevated considerably above the premises in which I was interested, and not at a very great distance, so that grounds and house lay spread beneath me like a map.

I scarcely know how to commence describing it to you, it was something I had never seen or imagined. The mansion itself was a square and handsome building of two stories, built in the Corinthian, style, with pillared portico, and pointed windows. But the style attracted my attention but little, it was the universal white, white everywhere, that drew from me the ejaculation to which I have alluded.

From the extreme top of the chimneys to the basement, roof, windows, everything was pure white; not a shade lurked even inside a window; the windows themselves were painted white, and the curtains were of white muslin that fell over every one of them. Every yard of the broad space that one might reasonably have exported to see decorated with flowers and grass and shrubberies, was covered with a glaring and sparkling white gravel, the effect of which, even in the hot brilliant sun of a London afternoon, was to dazzle, and blind, and aggravate. And if this was not enough, the inside of the very brick walls was whitewashed like snow, and at intervals, here and there, were placed a host of white marble statues and urns that only increased the, to me, horrible aspect of the place.

“I don't wonder they are mad!” I exclaimed, “I should soon become mad in such a place myself.”

“Like enough, sir,” replied old Mat, stolidly, “but you see it
didn't
make they mad, for they did it theirselves, so they must ‘a been mad afore.”

An incontrovertible fact, according to the old man's way of putting it; and as I had no answer for it, I went down the old stone stairs, and having given my guide his donation, left the churchyard as bewildered as I had entered it. Nay, more so, for then I had not seen the extraordinary house that had made so painful an impression upon me.

I was in no humour for a gossip with mine host, but just as I was about to mount my horse, which had been brought round, the same carriage drove round to the mysterious gate, and the same scene was enacted to which I had before been a witness. I drew back until the old gentleman had stopped inside and performed his toilet, and when the carriage drove rapidly toward the city, I rode thoughtfully onward toward home.