Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  Mrs. Bannerworth was removed to her own room, and so would Flora have been; but Mr. Holland, who was supporting her in his arms, said, —

  “I think the air from the open window is recovering her, and it is likely to do so. Oh, do not now take her from me, after so long an absence. Flora, Flora, look up; do you not know me? You have not yet given me one look of acknowledgment. Flora, dear Flora!”

  The sound of his voice seemed to act as the most potent of charms in restoring her to consciousness; it broke through the death-like trance in which she lay, and, opening her beautiful eyes, she fixed them upon his face, saying, —

  “Yes, yes; it is Charles — it is Charles.”

  She burst into a hysterical flood of tears, and clung to him like some terrified child to its only friend in the whole wide world.

  “Oh, my dear friends,” cried Charles Holland, “do not deceive me; has Flora been ill?”

  “We have all been ill,” said George.

  “All ill?”

  “Ay, and nearly mad,” exclaimed Harry.

  Holland looked from one to the other in surprise, as well he might, nor was that surprise at all lessened when Flora made an effort to extricate herself from his embrace, as she exclaimed, —

  “You must leave me — you must leave me, Charles, for ever! Oh! never, never look upon my face again!”

  “I — I am bewildered,” said Charles.

  “Leave me, now,” continued Flora; “think me unworthy; think what you will, Charles, but I cannot, I dare not, now be yours.”

  “Is this a dream?”

  “Oh, would it were. Charles, if we had never met, you would be happier — I could not be more wretched.”

  “Flora, Flora, do you say these words of so great cruelty to try my love?”

  “No, as Heaven is my judge, I do not.”

  “Gracious Heaven, then, what do they mean?”

  Flora shuddered, and Henry, coming up to her, took her hand in his tenderly, as he said, —

  “Has it been again?”

  “It has.”

  “You shot it?”

  “I fired full upon it, Henry, but it fled.”

  “It did — fly?”

  “It did, Henry, but it will come again — it will be sure to come again.”

  “You — you hit it with the bullet?” interposed Mr. Marchdale. “Perhaps you killed it?”

  “I think I must have hit it, unless I am mad.”

  Charles Holland looked from one to the other with such a look of intense surprise, that George remarked it, and said at once to him, —

  “Mr. Holland, a full explanation is due to you, and you shall have it.”

  “You seem the only rational person here,” said Charles. “Pray what is it that everybody calls ‘it?’”

  “Hush — hush!” said Henry; “you shall hear soon, but not at present.”

  “Hear me, Charles,” said Flora. “From this moment mind, I do release you from every vow, from every promise made to me of constancy and love; and if you are wise, Charles, and will be advised, you will now this moment leave this house never to return to it.”

  “No,” said Charles — ”no; by Heaven I love you, Flora! I have come to say again all that in another clime I said with joy to you. When I forget you, let what trouble may oppress you, may God forget me, and my own right hand forget to do me honest service.”

  “Oh! no more — no more!” sobbed Flora.

  “Yes, much more, if you will tell me of words which shall be stronger than others in which to paint my love, my faith, and my constancy.”

  “Be prudent,” said Henry. “Say no more.”

  “Nay, upon such a theme I could speak for ever. You may cast me off, Flora; but until you tell me you love another, I am yours till the death, and then with a sanguine hope at my heart that we shall meet again, never, dearest, to part.”

  Flora sobbed bitterly.

  “Oh!” she said, “this is the unkindest blow of all — this is worse than all.”

  “Unkind!” echoed Holland.

  “Heed her not,” said Henry; “she means not you.”

  “Oh, no — no!” she cried. “Farewell, Charles — dear Charles.”

  “Oh, say that word again!” he exclaimed, with animation. “It is the first time such music has met my ears.”

  “It must be the last.”

  “No, no — oh, no.”

  “For your own sake I shall be able now, Charles, to show you that I really loved you.”

  “Not by casting me from you?”

  “Yes, even so. That will be the way to show you that I love you.”

  She held up her hands wildly, as she added, in an excited voice, —

  “The curse of destiny is upon me! I am singled out as one lost and accursed. Oh, horror — horror! would that I were dead!”

  Charles staggered back a pace or two until he came to the table, at which he clutched for support. He turned very pale as he said, in a faint voice, —

  “Is — is she mad, or am I?”

  “Tell him I am mad, Henry,” cried Flora. “Do not, oh, do not make his lonely thoughts terrible with more than that. Tell him I am mad.”

  “Come with me,” whispered Henry to Holland. “I pray you come with me at once, and you shall know all.”

  “I — will.”

  “George, stay with Flora for a time. Come, come, Mr. Holland, you ought, and you shall know all; then you can come to a judgment for yourself. This way, sir. You cannot, in the wildest freak of your imagination, guess that which I have now to tell you.”

  Never was mortal man so utterly bewildered by the events of the last hour of his existence as was now Charles Holland, and truly he might well be so. He had arrived in England, and made what speed he could to the house of a family whom he admired for their intelligence, their high culture, and in one member of which his whole thoughts of domestic happiness in this world were centered, and he found nothing but confusion, incoherence, mystery, and the wildest dismay.

  Well might he doubt if he were sleeping or waking — well might he ask if he or they were mad.

  And now, as, after a long, lingering look of affection upon the pale, suffering face of Flora, he followed Henry from the room, his thoughts were busy in fancying a thousand vague and wild imaginations with respect to the communication which was promised to be made to him.

  But, as Henry had truly said to him, not in the wildest freak of his imagination could he conceive of any thing near the terrible strangeness and horror of that which he had to tell him, and consequently he found himself closeted with Henry in a small private room, removed from the domestic part of the hall, to the full in as bewildered a state as he had been from the first.

  CHAPTER XI.

  THE COMMUNICATIONS TO THE LOVER. — THE HEART’S DESPAIR.

  Consternation is sympathetic, and any one who had looked upon the features of Charles Holland, now that he was seated with Henry Bannerworth, in expectation of a communication which his fears told him was to blast all his dearest and most fondly cherished hopes for ever, would scarce have recognised in him the same young man who, one short hour before, had knocked so loudly, and so full of joyful hope and expectation, at the door of the hall.

  But so it was. He knew Henry Bannerworth too well to suppose that any unreal cause could blanch his cheek. He knew Flora too well to imagine for one moment that caprice had dictated the, to him, fearful words of dismissal she had uttered to him.

  Happier would it at that time have been for Charles Holland had she acted capriciously towards him, and convinced him that his true heart’s devotion had been cast at the feet of one unworthy of so really noble a gift. Pride would then have enabled him, no doubt, successfully to resist the blow. A feeling of honest and proper indignation at having his feelings trifled with, would, no doubt, have sustained him, but, alas! the case seemed widely different.

  True, she implored him to think of her no more — no longer to cherish in his breast the fond d
ream of affection which had been its guest so long; but the manner in which she did so brought along with it an irresistible conviction, that she was making a noble sacrifice of her own feelings for him, from some cause which was involved in the profoundest mystery.

  But now he was to hear all. Henry had promised to tell him, and as he looked into his pale, but handsomely intellectual face, he half dreaded the disclosure he yet panted to hear.

  “Tell me all, Henry — tell me all,” he said. “Upon the words that come from your lips I know I can rely.”

  “I will have no reservations with you,” said Henry, sadly. “You ought to know all, and you shall. Prepare yourself for the strangest revelation you ever heard.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Ay. One which in hearing you may well doubt; and one which, I hope, you will never find an opportunity of verifying.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “And yet speak truly, Charles. You heard with what a frantic vehemence Flora desired you to think no more of her?”

  “I did — I did.”

  “She was right. She is a noble-hearted girl for uttering those words. A dreadful incident in our family has occurred, which might well induce you to pause before uniting your fate with that of any member of it.”

  “Impossible. Nothing can possibly subdue the feelings of affection I entertain for Flora. She is worthy of any one, and, as such, amid all changes — all mutations of fortune, she shall be mine.”

  “Do not suppose that any change of fortune has produced the scene you were witness to.”

  “Then, what else?”

  “I will tell you, Holland. In all your travels, and in all your reading, did you ever come across anything about vampyres?”

  “About what?” cried Charles, drawing his chair forward a little. “About what?”

  “You may well doubt the evidence of your own ears, Charles Holland, and wish me to repeat what I said. I say, do you know anything about vampyres?”

  Charles Holland looked curiously in Henry’s face, and the latter immediately added, —

  “I can guess what is passing in your mind at present, and I do not wonder at it. You think I must be mad.”

  “Well, really, Henry, your extraordinary question — ”

  “I knew it. Were I you, I should hesitate to believe the tale; but the fact is, we have every reason to believe that one member of our own family is one of those horrible preternatural beings called vampyres.”

  “Good God, Henry, can you allow your judgment for a moment to stoop to such a supposition?”

  “That is what I have asked myself a hundred times; but, Charles Holland, the judgment, the feelings, and all the prejudices, natural and acquired, must succumb to actual ocular demonstration. Listen to me, and do not interrupt me. You shall know all, and you shall know it circumstantially.”

  Henry then related to the astonished Charles Holland all that had occurred, from the first alarm of Flora, up to that period when he, Holland, caught her in his arms as she was about to leave the room.

  “And now,” he said, in conclusion, “I cannot tell what opinion you may come to as regards these most singular events. You will recollect that here is the unbiassed evidence of four or five people to the facts, and, beyond that, the servants, who have seen something of the horrible visitor.”

  “You bewilder me, utterly,” said Charles Holland.

  “As we are all bewildered.”

  “But — but, gracious Heaven! it cannot be.”

  “It is.”

  “No — no. There is — there must be yet some dreadful mistake.”

  “Can you start any supposition by which we can otherwise explain any of the phenomena I have described to you? If you can, for Heaven’s sake do so, and you will find no one who will cling to it with more tenacity than I.”

  “Any other species or kind of supernatural appearance might admit of argument; but this, to my perception, is too wildly improbable — too much at variance with all we see and know of the operations of nature.”

  “It is so. All that we have told ourselves repeatedly, and yet is all human reason at once struck down by the few brief words of — ’We have seen it.’”

  “I would doubt my eyesight.”

  “One might; but many cannot be labouring under the same delusion.”

  “My friend, I pray you, do not make me shudder at the supposition that such a dreadful thing as this is at all possible.”

  “I am, believe me, Charles, most unwilling to oppress anyone with the knowledge of these evils; but you are so situated with us, that you ought to know, and you will clearly understand that you may, with perfect honour, now consider yourself free from all engagements you have entered into with Flora.”

  “No, no! By Heaven, no!”

  “Yes, Charles. Reflect upon the consequences now of a union with such a family.”

  “Oh, Henry Bannerworth, can you suppose me so dead to all good feeling, so utterly lost to honourable impulses, as to eject from my heart her who has possession of it entirely, on such a ground as this?”

  “You would be justified.”

  “Coldly justified in prudence I might be. There are a thousand circumstances in which a man may be justified in a particular course of action, and that course yet may be neither honourable nor just. I love Flora; and were she tormented by the whole of the supernatural world, I should still love her. Nay, it becomes, then, a higher and a nobler duty on my part to stand between her and those evils, if possible.”

  “Charles — Charles,” said Henry, “I cannot of course refuse to you my meed of praise and admiration for your generosity of feeling; but, remember, if we are compelled, despite all our feelings and all our predilections to the contrary, to give in to a belief in the existence of vampyres, why may we not at once receive as the truth all that is recorded of them?”

  “To what do you allude?”

  “To this. That one who has been visited by a vampyre, and whose blood has formed a horrible repast for such a being, becomes, after death, one of the dreadful race, and visits others in the same way.”

  “Now this must be insanity,” cried Charles.

  “It bears the aspect of it, indeed,” said Henry; “oh, that you could by some means satisfy yourself that I am mad.”

  “There may be insanity in this family,” thought Charles, with such an exquisite pang of misery, that he groaned aloud.

  “Already,” added Henry, mournfully, “already the blighting influence of the dreadful tale is upon you, Charles. Oh, let me add my advice to Flora’s entreaties. She loves you, and we all esteem you; fly, then, from us, and leave us to encounter our miseries alone. Fly from us, Charles Holland, and take with you our best wishes for happiness which you cannot know here.”

  “Never,” cried Charles; “I devote my existence to Flora. I will not play the coward, and fly from one whom I love, on such grounds. I devote my life to her.”

  Henry could not speak for emotion for several minutes, and when at length, in a faltering voice, he could utter some words, he said, —

  “God of heaven, what happiness is marred by these horrible events? What have we all done to be the victims of such a dreadful act of vengeance?”

  “Henry, do not talk in that way,” cried Charles. “Rather let us bend all our energies to overcoming the evil, than spend any time in useless lamentations. I cannot even yet give in to a belief in the existence of such a being as you say visited Flora.”

  “But the evidences.”

  “Look you here, Henry: until I am convinced that some things have happened which it is totally impossible could happen by any human means whatever, I will not ascribe them to supernatural influence.”

  “But what human means, Charles, could produce what I have now narrated to you?”

  “I do not know, just at present, but I will give the subject the most attentive consideration. Will you accommodate me here for a time?”

  “You know you are as welcome here as if the
house were your own, and all that it contains.”

  “I believe so, most truly. You have no objection, I presume, to my conversing with Flora upon this strange subject?”

  “Certainly not. Of course you will be careful to say nothing which can add to her fears.”

  “I shall be most guarded, believe me. You say that your brother George, Mr. Chillingworth, yourself, and this Mr. Marchdale, have all been cognisant of the circumstances.”

  “Yes — yes.”

  “Then with the whole of them you permit me to hold free communication upon the subject?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “I will do so then. Keep up good heart, Henry, and this affair, which looks so full of terror at first sight, may yet be divested of some of its hideous aspect.”

  “I am rejoiced, if anything can rejoice me now,” said Henry, “to see you view the subject with so much philosophy.”

  “Why,” said Charles, “you made a remark of your own, which enabled me, viewing the matter in its very worst and most hideous aspect, to gather hope.”

  “What was that?”

  “You said, properly and naturally enough, that if ever we felt that there was such a weight of evidence in favour of a belief in the existence of vampyres that we are compelled to succumb to it, we might as well receive all the popular feelings and superstitions concerning them likewise.”

  “I did. Where is the mind to pause, when once we open it to the reception of such things?”

  “Well, then, if that be the case, we will watch this vampyre and catch it.”

  “Catch it?”

  “Yes; surely it can be caught; as I understand, this species of being is not like an apparition, that may be composed of thin air, and utterly impalpable to the human touch, but it consists of a revivified corpse.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Then it is tangible and destructible. By Heaven! if ever I catch a glimpse of any such thing, it shall drag me to its home, be that where it may, or I will make it prisoner.”

  “Oh, Charles! you know not the feeling of horror that will come across you when you do. You have no idea of how the warm blood will seem to curdle in your veins, and how you will be paralysed in every limb.”

  “Did you feel so?”