by Bram Stoker
“Then come with me, and, from among the few articles I brought with me here, I can find some papers which may help her to pass some merry hours.”
Charles took Henry to his room, and, unstrapping a small valise, he took from it some manuscript papers, one of which he handed to Henry, saying —
“Give that to her: it contains an account of a wild adventure, and shows that human nature may suffer much more — and that wrongfully too — than came ever under our present mysterious affliction.”
“I will,” said Henry; “and, coming from you, I am sure it will have a more than ordinary value in her eyes.”
“I will now,” said Charles, “seek my uncle. I will tell him how I love her; and at the end of my narration, if he should not object, I would fain introduce her to him, that he might himself see that, let what beauty may have met his gaze, her peer he never yet met with, and may in vain hope to do so.”
“You are partial, Charles.”
“Not so. ‘Tis true I look upon her with a lover’s eyes, but I look still with those of truthful observation.”
“Well, I will speak to her about seeing your uncle, and let you know. No doubt, he will not be at all averse to an interview with any one who stands high in your esteem.”
The young men now separated — Henry, to seek his beautiful sister; and Charles, to communicate to his uncle the strange particulars connected with Varney, the Vampyre.
CHAPTER XIX.
FLORA IN HER CHAMBER. — HER FEARS. — THE MANUSCRIPT. — AN ADVENTURE.
Henry found Flora in her chamber. She was in deep thought when he tapped at the door of the room, and such was the state of nervous excitement in which she was that even the demand for admission made by him to the room was sufficient to produce from her a sudden cry of alarm.
“Who — who is there?” she then said, in accents full of terror.
“‘Tis I, dear Flora,” said Henry.
She opened the door in an instant, and, with a feeling of grateful relief, exclaimed —
“Oh, Henry, is it only you?”
“Who did you suppose it was, Flora?”
She shuddered.
“I — I — do not know; but I am so foolish now, and so weak-spirited, that the slightest noise is enough to alarm me.”
“You must, dear Flora, fight up, as I had hoped you were doing, against this nervousness.”
“I will endeavour. Did not some strangers come a short time since, brother?”
“Strangers to us, Flora, but not to Charles Holland. A relative of his — an uncle whom he much respects, has found him out here, and has now come to see him.”
“And to advise him,” said Flora, as she sunk into a chair, and wept bitterly; “to advise him, of course, to desert, as he would a pestilence, a vampyre bride.”
“Hush, hush! for the sake of Heaven, never make use of such a phrase, Flora. You know not what a pang it brings to my heart to hear you.”
“Oh, forgive me, brother.”
“Say no more of it, Flora. Heed it not. It may be possible — in fact, it may well be supposed as more than probable — that the relative of Charles Holland may shrink from sanctioning the alliance, but do you rest securely in the possession of the heart which I feel convinced is wholly yours, and which, I am sure, would break ere it surrendered you.”
A smile of joy came across Flora’s pale but beautiful face, as she cried, —
“And you, dear brother — you think so much of Charles’s faith?”
“As Heaven is my judge, I do.”
“Then I will bear up with what strength God may give me against all things that seek to depress me; I will not be conquered.”
“You are right, Flora; I rejoice to find in you such a disposition. Here is some manuscript which Charles thinks will amuse you, and he bade me ask you if you would be introduced to his uncle.”
“Yes, yes — willingly.”
“I will tell him so; I know he wishes it, and I will tell him so. Be patient, dear Flora, and all may yet be well.”
“But, brother, on your sacred word, tell me do you not think this Sir Francis Varney is the vampyre?”
“I know not what to think, and do not press me for a judgment now. He shall be watched.”
Henry left his sister, and she sat for some moments in silence with the papers before her that Charles had sent her.
“Yes,” she then said, gently, “he loves me — Charles loves me; I ought to be very, very happy. He loves me. In those words are concentrated a whole world of joy — Charles loves me — he will not forsake me. Oh, was there ever such dear love — such fond devotion? — never, never. Dear Charles. He loves me — he loves me!”
The very repetition of these words had a charm for Flora — a charm which was sufficient to banish much sorrow; even the much-dreaded vampyre was forgotten while the light of love was beaming upon her, and she told herself, —
“He is mine! — he is mine! He loves me truly.”
After a time, she turned to the manuscript which her brother had brought her, and, with a far greater concentration of mind than she had thought it possible she could bring to it, considering the many painful subjects of contemplation that she might have occupied herself with, she read the pages with very great pleasure and interest.
The tale was one which chained her attention both by its incidents and the manner of its recital. It commenced as follows, and was entitled, “Hugo de Verole; or, the Double Plot.”
In a very mountainous part of Hungary lived a nobleman whose paternal estates covered many a mile of rock and mountain land, as well as some fertile valleys, in which reposed a hardy and contented peasantry. The old Count de Hugo de Verole had quitted life early, and had left his only son, the then Count Hugo de Verole, a boy of scarcely ten years, under the guardianship of his mother, an arbitrary and unscrupulous woman.
The count, her husband, had been one of those quiet, even-tempered men, who have no desire to step beyond the sphere in which they are placed; he had no cares, save those included in the management of his estate, the prosperity of his serfs, and the happiness of those, around him.
His death caused much lamentation throughout his domains, it was so sudden and unexpected, being in the enjoyment of his health and strength until a few hours previous, and then his energies became prostrated by pain and disease. There was a splendid funeral ceremony, which, according to the usages of his house, took place by torch-light.
So great and rapid were the ravages of disease, that the count’s body quickly became a mass of corruption. All were amazed at the phenomena, and were heartily glad when the body was disposed of in the place prepared for its reception in the vaults of his own castle. The guests who came to witness the funeral, and attend the count’s obsequies, and to condole with the widow on the loss she had sustained, were entertained sumptuously for many days.
The widow sustained her part well. She was inconsolable for the loss of her husband, and mourned his death bitterly. Her grief appeared profound, but she, with difficulty, subdued it to within decent bounds, that she might not offend any of her numerous guests.
However, they left her with the assurances of their profound regard, and then when they were gone, when the last guest had departed, and were no longer visible to the eye of the countess, as she gazed from the battlements, then her behaviour changed totally.
She descended from the battlements, and then with an imperious gesture she gave her orders that all the gates of the castle should be closed, and a watch set. All signs of mourning she ordered to be laid on one side save her own, which she wore, and then she retired to her own apartment, where she remained unseen.
Here the countess remained in profound meditation for nearly two days, during which time the attendants believed she was praying for the welfare of the soul of their deceased master, and they feared she would starve herself to death if she remained any longer.
Just as they had assembled together for the purpose of either recalling her f
rom her vigils or breaking open the door, they were amazed to see the countess open the room-door, and stand in the midst of them.
“What do you here?” she demanded, in a stern voice.
The servants were amazed and terrified at her contracted brow, and forgot to answer the question she put to them.
“What do you do here?”
“We came, my lady, to see — see — if — if you were well.”
“And why?”
“Because we hadn’t seen your ladyship these two days, and we thought that your grief was so excessive that we feared some harm might befall you.”
The countess’s brows contracted for a few seconds, and she was about to make a hasty reply, but she conquered the desire to do so, and merely said, —
“I am not well, I am faint; but, had I been dying, I should not have thanked you for interfering to prevent me; however, you acted for the best, but do so no more. Now prepare me some food.”
The servants, thus dismissed, repaired to their stations, but with such a degree of alacrity, that they sufficiently showed how much they feared their mistress.
The young count, who was only in his sixth year, knew little about the loss he had sustained; but after a day or two’s grief, there was an end of his sorrow for the time.
That night there came to the castle-gate a man dressed in a black cloak, attended by a servant. They were both mounted on good horses, and they demanded to be admitted to the presence of the Countess de Hugo de Verole.
The message was carried to the countess, who started, but said, —
“Admit the stranger.”
Accordingly the stranger was admitted, and shown into the apartment where the countess was sitting.
At a signal the servants retired, leaving the countess and the stranger alone. It was some moments ere they spoke, and then the countess said in a low tone, —
“You are come?”
“I am come.”
“You cannot now, you see, perform your threat. My husband, the count, caught a putrid disease, and he is no more.”
“I cannot indeed do what I intended, inform your husband of your amours; but I can do something as good, and which will give you as much annoyance.”
“Indeed.”
“Aye, more, it will cause you to be hated. I can spread reports.”
“You can.”
“And these may ruin you.”
“They may.”
“What do you intend to do? Do you intend that I shall be an enemy or a friend? I can be either, according to my will.”
“What, do you desire to be either?” inquired the countess, with a careless tone.
“If you refuse my terms, you can make me an implacable enemy, and if you grant them, you can make me a useful friend and auxiliary,” said the stranger.
“What would you do if you were my enemy?” inquired the countess.
“It is hardly my place,” said the stranger, “to furnish you with a knowledge of my intentions, but I will say this much, that the bankrupt Count of Morven is your lover.”
“Well?”
“And in the second place, that you were the cause of the death of your husband,”
“How dare you, sir — ”
“I dare say so much, and I dare say, also, that the Count of Morven bought the drug of me, and that he gave it to you, and that you gave it to the count your husband.”
“And what could you do if you were my friend?” inquired the countess, in the same tone, and without emotion.
“I should abstain from doing all this; should be able to put any one else out of your way for you, when you get rid of this Count of Morven, as you assuredly will; for I know him too well not to be sure of that.”
“Get rid of him!”
“Exactly, in the same manner you got rid of the old count.”
“Then I accept your terms.”
“It is agreed, then?”
“Yes, quite.”
“Well, then, you must order me some rooms in a tower, where I can pursue my studies in quiet.”
“You will be seen — and noticed — all will be discovered.”
“No, indeed, I will take care of that, I can so far disguise myself that he will not recognise me, and you can give out I am a philosopher or necromancer, or what you will; no one will come to me — they will be terrified.”
“Very well.”
“And the gold?”
“Shall be forthcoming as soon as I can get it. The count has placed all his gold in safe keeping, and all I can seize are the rents as they become due.”
“Very well; but let me have them. In the meantime you must provide for me, as I have come here with the full intention of staying here, or in some neighbouring town.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; and my servant must be discharged, as I want none here.”
The countess called to an attendant and gave the necessary orders, and afterwards remained some time with the stranger, who had thus so unceremoniously thrust himself upon her, and insisted upon staying under such strange and awful circumstances.
The Count of Morven came a few weeks after, and remained some days with the countess. They were ceremonious and polite until they had a moment to retire from before people, when the countess changed her cold disdain to a cordial and familiar address.
“And now, my dear Morven,” she exclaimed, as soon as they were unobserved — ”and now, my dear Morven, that we are not seen, tell me, what have you been doing with yourself?”
“Why, I have been in some trouble. I never had gold that would stay by me. You know my hand was always open.”
“The old complaint again.”
“No; but having come to the end of my store, I began to grow serious.”
“Ah, Morven!’ said the countess, reproachfully.
“Well, never mind; when my purse is low my spirits sink, as the mercury does with the cold. You used to say my spirits were mercurial — I think they were.”
“Well, what did you do?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Was that what you were about to tell me?” inquired the countess.
“Oh, dear, no. You recollect the Italian quack of whom I bought the drug you gave to the count, and which put an end to his days — he wanted more money. Well, as I had no more to spare, I could spare no more to him, and he turned vicious, and threatened. I threatened, too, and he knew I was fully able and willing to perform any promise I might make to him on that score. I endeavoured to catch him, as he had already began to set people off on the suspicious and marvellous concerning me, and if I could have come across him, I would have laid him very low indeed.”
“And you could not find him?”
“No, I could not.”
“Well, then, I will tell you where he is at this present moment.”
“You?”
“Yes, I.”
“I can scarcely credit my senses at what you say,” said Count Morven. “My worthy doctor, you are little better than a candidate for divine honours. But where is he?”
“Will you promise to be guided by me?” said the countess.
“If you make it a condition upon which you grant the information, I must.”
“Well, then, I take that as a promise.”
“You may. Where — oh, where is he?”
“Remember your promise. Your doctor is at this moment in this castle.”
“This castle?”
“Yes, this castle.”
“Surely there must be some mistake; it is too much fortune at once.”
“He came here for the same purpose he went to you.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, to get more money by extortion, and a promise to poison anybody I liked.”
“D — n! it is the offer he made to me, and he named you.”
“He named you to me, and said I should be soon tired of you.”
“You have caged him?”
“Oh, dear, no; he has a suite of apartments in the eastern to
wer, where he passes for a philosopher, or a wizard, as people like best.”
“How?”
“I have given him leave there.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; and what is more amazing is, that he is to aid me in poisoning you when I have become tired of you.”
“This is a riddle I cannot unravel; tell me the solution.”
“Well, dear, listen, — he came to me and told me of something I already knew, and demanded money and a residence for his convenience, and I have granted him the asylum.”
“You have?”
“I have.”
“I see; I will give him an inch or two of my Andrea Ferrara.”
“No — no.”
“Do you countenance him?”
“For a time. Listen — we want men in the mines; my late husband sent very few to them of late years, and therefore they are getting short of men there.”
“Aye, aye.”
“The thing will be for you to feign ignorance of the man, and then you will be able to get him seized, and placed in the mines, for such men as he are dangerous, and carry poisoned weapons.”
“Would he not be better out of the world at once; there would be no escape, and no future contingencies?”
“No — no. I will have no more lives taken; and he will be made useful; and, moreover, he will have time to reflect upon the mistake he had made in threatening me.”
“He was paid for the job, and he had no future claim. But what about the child?”
“Oh, he may remain for some time longer here with us.”
“It will be dangerous to do so,” said the count; “he is now ten years old, and there is no knowing what may be done for him by his relatives.”
“They dare not enter the gates of this castle Morven.”
“Well, well; but you know he might have travelled the same road as his father, and all would be settled.”
“No more lives, as I told you; but we can easily secure him some other way, and we shall be equally as free from him and them.”
“That is enough — there are dungeons, I know, in this castle, and he can be kept there safe enough.”
“He can; but that is not what I propose. We can put him into the mines and confine him as a lunatic.”
