Vampires 3

by J. R. Rain

  "Yield belief!" exclaimed Henry, as he rose, and lifted up one of his hands above his head. "No; by Heaven, and the great God of all, who there rules, I will not easily believe aught so awful and so monstrous."

  "I applaud your sentiment, Henry; not willingly would I deliver up myself to so frightful a belief—it is too horrible. I merely have told you of that which you saw was on my mind. You have surely before heard of such things."

  "I have—I have."

  "I much marvel, then, that the supposition did not occur to you, Henry."

  "It did not—it did not, Marchdale. It—it was too dreadful, I suppose, to find a home in my heart. Oh! Flora, Flora, if this horrible idea should once occur to you, reason cannot, I am quite sure, uphold you against it."

  "Let no one presume to insinuate it to her, Henry. I would not have it mentioned to her for worlds."

  "Nor I—nor I. Good God! I shudder at the very thought—the mere possibility; but there is no possibility, there can be none. I will not believe it."

  "Nor I."

  "No; by Heaven's justice, goodness, grace, and mercy, I will not believe it."

  "Tis well sworn, Henry; and now, discarding the supposition that Flora has been visited by a vampyre, let us seriously set about endeavouring, if we can, to account for what has happened in this house."

  "I—I cannot now."

  "Nay, let us examine the matter; if we can find any natural explanation, let us cling to it, Henry, as the sheet-anchor of our very souls."

  "Do you think. You are fertile in expedients. Do you think, Marchdale; and, for Heaven's sake, and for the sake of our own peace, find out some other way of accounting for what has happened, than the hideous one you have suggested."

  "And yet my pistol bullets hurt him not; he has left the tokens of his presence on the neck of Flora."

  "Peace, oh! peace. Do not, I pray you, accumulate reasons why I should receive such a dismal, awful superstition. Oh, do not, Marchdale, as you love me!"

  "You know that my attachment to you," said Marchdale, "is sincere; and yet, Heaven help us!"

  His voice was broken by grief as he spoke, and he turned aside his head to hide the bursting tears that would, despite all his efforts, show themselves in his eyes.

  "Marchdale," added Henry, after a pause of some moments' duration, "I will sit up to-night with my sister."

  "Do—do!"

  "Think you there is a chance it may come again?"

  "I cannot—I dare not speculate upon the coming of so dreadful a visitor, Henry; but I will hold watch with you most willingly."

  "You will, Marchdale?"

  "My hand upon it. Come what dangers may, I will share them with you, Henry."

  "A thousand thanks. Say nothing, then, to George of what we have been talking about. He is of a highly susceptible nature, and the very idea of such a thing would kill him."

  "I will; be mute. Remove your sister to some other chamber, let me beg of you, Henry; the one she now inhabits will always be suggestive of horrible thoughts."

  "I will; and that dreadful-looking portrait, with its perfect likeness to him who came last night."

  "Perfect indeed. Do you intend to remove it?"

  "I do not. I thought of doing so; but it is actually on the panel in the wall, and I would not willingly destroy it, and it may as well remain where it is in that chamber, which I can readily now believe will become henceforward a deserted one in this house."

  "It may well become such."

  "Who comes here? I hear a step."

  There was a tip at the door at this moment, and George made his appearance in answer to the summons to come in. He looked pale and ill; his face betrayed how much he had mentally suffered during that night, and almost directly he got into the bed-chamber he said,—

  I shall, I am sure, be censured by you both for what I am going to say; but I cannot help saying it, nevertheless, for to keep it to myself would destroy me."

  "Good God, George! what is it?" said Mr. Marchdale.

  "Speak it out!" said Henry.

  "I have been thinking of what has occurred here, and the result of that thought has been one of the wildest suppositions that ever I thought I should have to entertain. Have you never heard of a vampyre?"

  Henry sighed deeply, and Marchdale was silent.

  "I say a vampyre," added George, with much excitement in his manner. "It is a fearful, a horrible supposition; but our poor, dear Flora has been visited by a vampyre, and I shall go completely mad!"

  He sat down, and covering his face with his hands, he wept bitterly and abundantly.

  "George," said Henry, when he saw that the frantic grief had in some measure abated—"be calm, George, and endeavour to listen to me."

  "I hear, Henry."

  "Well, then, do not suppose that you are the only one in this house to whom so dreadful a superstition has occurred."

  "Not the only one?"

  "No; it has occurred to Mr. Marchdale also."

  "Gracious Heaven!"

  "He mentioned it to me; but we have both agreed to repudiate it with horror."

  "To—repudiate—it?"

  "Yes, George."

  "And yet—and yet—"

  "Hush, hush! I know what you would say. You would tell us that our repudiation of it cannot affect the fact. Of that we are aware; but yet will we disbelieve that which a belief in would be enough to drive us mad."

  "What do you intend to do?"

  "To keep this supposition to ourselves, in the first place; to guard it most zealously from the ears of Flora."

  "Do you think she has ever heard of vampyres?"

  "I never heard her mention that in all her reading she had gathered even a hint of such a fearful superstition. If she has, we must be guided by circumstances, and do the best we can."

  "Pray Heaven she may not!"

  "Amen to that prayer, George," said Henry. "Mr. Marchdale and I intend to keep watch over Flora to-night."

  "May not I join you?"

  "Your health, dear George, will not permit you to engage in such matters. Do you seek your natural repose, and leave it to us to do the best we can in this most fearful and terrible emergency."

  "As you please, brother, and as you please, Mr. Marchdale. I know I am a frail reed, and my belief is that this affair will kill me quite. The truth is, I am horrified—utterly and frightfully horrified. Like my poor, dear sister, I do not believe I shall ever sleep again."

  "Do not fancy that, George," said Marchdale. "You very much add to the uneasiness which must be your poor mother's portion, by allowing this circumstance to so much affect you. You well know her affection for you all, and let me therefore, as a very old friend of hers, entreat you to wear as cheerful an aspect as you can in her presence."

  "For once in my life," said George, sadly, "I will; to my dear mother, endeavour to play the hypocrite."

  "Do so," said Henry. "The motive will sanction any such deceit as that, George, be assured."

  The day wore on, and Poor Flora remained in a very precarious situation. It was not until mid-day that Henry made up his mind he would call in a medical gentleman to her, and then he rode to the neighbouring market-town, where he knew an extremely intelligent practitioner resided. This gentleman Henry resolved upon, under a promise of secrecy, makings confidant of; but, long before he reached him, he found he might well dispense with the promise of secrecy.

  He had never thought, so engaged had he been with other matters, that the servants were cognizant of the whole affair, and that from them he had no expectation of being able to keep the whole story in all its details. Of course such an opportunity for tale-bearing and gossiping was not likely to be lost; and while Henry was thinking over how he had better act in the matter, the news that Flora Bannerworth had been visited in the night by a vampyre—for the servants named the visitation such at once—was spreading all over the county.

  As he rode along, Henry met a gentleman on horseback who belonged to the county, and who
, reining in his steed, said to him,

  "Good morning, Mr. Bannerworth."

  "Good morning," responded Henry, and he would have ridden on, but the gentleman added,—

  "Excuse me for interrupting you, sir; but what is the strange story that is in everybody's mouth about a vampyre?"

  Henry nearly fell off his horse, he was so much astonished, and, wheeling the animal around, he said,—

  "In everybody's mouth!"

  "Yes; I have heard it from at least a dozen persons."

  "You surprise me."

  "It is untrue? Of course I am not so absurd as really to believe about the vampyre; but is there no foundation at all for it? We generally find that at the bottom of these common reports there is a something around which, as a nucleus, the whole has formed."

  "My sister is unwell."

  "Ah, and that's all. It really is too bad, now."

  "We had a visitor last night."

  "A thief, I suppose?"

  "Yes, yes—I believe a thief. I do believe it was a thief, and she was terrified."

  "Of course, and upon such a thing is grafted a story of a vampyre, and the marks of his teeth being in her neck, and all the circumstantial particulars."

  "Yes, yes."

  "Good morning, Mr. Bannerworth."

  Henry bade the gentleman good morning, and much vexed at the publicity which the affair had already obtained, he set spurs to his horse, determined that he would speak to no one else upon so uncomfortable a theme. Several attempts were made to stop him, but he only waved his hand and trotted on, nor did he pause in his speed till he reached the door of Mr. Chillingworth, the medical man whom he intended to consult.

  Henry knew that at such a time he would be at home, which was the case, and he was soon closeted with the man of drugs. Henry begged his patient hearing, which being accorded, he related to him at full length what had happened, not omitting, to the best of his remembrance, any one particular. When he had concluded his narration, the doctor shifted his position several times, and then said,—

  "That's all?"

  "Yes—and enough too."

  "More than enough, I should say, my young friend. You astonish me."

  "Can you form any supposition, sir, on the subject?"

  "Not just now. What is your own idea?"

  "I cannot be said to have one about it. It is too absurd to tell you that my brother George is impressed with a belief a vampyre has visited the house."

  "I never in all my life heard a more circumstantial narrative in favour of so hideous a superstition."

  "Well, but you cannot believe—"

  "Believe what?"

  "That the dead can come to life again, and by such a process keep up vitality."

  "Do you take me for a fool?"

  "Certainly not."

  "Then why do you ask me such questions?"

  "But the glaring facts of the case."

  "I don't care if they were ten times more glaring, I won't believe it. I would rather believe you were all mad, the whole family of you—that at the full of the moon you all were a little cracked."

  "And so would I."

  "You go home now, and I will call and see your sister in the course of two hours. Something may turn up yet, to throw some new light upon this strange subject."

  With this understanding Henry went home, and he took care to ride as fast as before, in order to avoid questions, so that he got back to his old ancestral home without going through the disagreeable ordeal of having to explain to any one what had disturbed the peace of it.

  When Henry reached his home, he found that the evening was rapidly coming on, and before he could permit himself to think upon any other subject, he inquired how his terrified sister had passed the hours during his absence.

  He found that but little improvement had taken place in her, and that she had occasionally slept, but to awaken and speak incoherently, as if the shock she had received had had some serious affect upon her nerves. He repaired at once to her room, and, finding that she was awake, he leaned over her, and spoke tenderly to her.

  "Flora," he said, "dear Flora, you are better now?"

  "Harry, is that you?"

  "Yes, dear."

  "Oh, tell me what has happened?"

  "Have you not a recollection, Flora?"

  "Yes, yes, Henry; but what was it? They none of them will tell me what it was, Henry."

  "Be calm, dear. No doubt some attempt to rob the house."

  "Think you so?"

  "Yes; the bay window was peculiarly adapted for such a purpose; but now that you are removed here to this room, you will be able to rest in peace."

  "I shall die of terror, Henry. Even now those eyes are glaring on me so hidiously. Oh, it is fearful—it is very fearful, Henry. Do you not pity me, and no one will promise to remain with me at night."

  "Indeed, Flora, you are mistaken, for I intend to sit by your bedside armed, and so preserve you from all harm."

  She clutched his hand eagerly, as she said,—

  "You will, Henry. You will, and not think it too much trouble, dear Henry."

  "It can be no trouble, Flora."

  "Then I shall rest in peace, for I know that the dreadful vampyre cannot come to me when you are by-"

  "The what, Flora!"

  "The vampyre, Henry. It was a vampyre."

  "Good God, who told you so?"

  "No one. I have read of them in the book of travels in Norway, which Mr. Marchdale lent us all."

  "Alas, alas!" groaned Henry. "Discard, I pray you, such a thought from your mind."

  "Can we discard thoughts. What power have we but from that mind, which is ourselves?"

  "True, true."

  "Hark, what noise is that? I thought I heard a noise. Henry, when you go, ring for some one first. Was there not a noise?"

  "The accidental shutting of some door, dear."

  "Was it that?"

  "It was."

  "Then I am relieved. Henry, I sometimes fancy I am in the tomb, and that some one is feasting on my flesh. They do say, too, that those who in life have been bled by a vampyre, become themselves vampyres, and have the same horrible taste for blood as those before them. Is it not horrible?"

  "You only vex yourself by such thoughts, Flora. Mr. Chillingworth is coming to see you."

  "Can he minister to a mind diseased?"

  "But yours is not, Flora. Your mind is healthful, and so, although his power extends not so far, we will thank Heaven, dear Flora, that you need it not."