Vintage Vampire Stories

by Robert Eighteen-Bisang

  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.

  I was young, you see, and although steady, and, unlike most young gentlemen of my age and positio
n in society, had a strong vein of romance in my character. That hard study and a sense of its inutility had kept it under, had not rendered it one whit less ready to be at a moment’s call; and, in addition to all this, I had never yet, in the seclusion of my student life, met with an opportunity of falling in love, so that you will see I was in the very best mood for making the most of the adventure which was about to befall me, and which had so tragic a termination.

  My thoughts were full of the ‘White mad folk,’ as I reached my own door; and there, to my utter astonishment, I saw drawn up the very carriage of the white house, which had preceded me. Hastily giving my horse to the groom I passed through the hall and was informed by a servant that a gentleman waited in my private consulting room.

  Very rarely indeed had my well-strung nerves been so troublesome as upon that occasion; I was so anxious to see this gentleman, and yet so fearful of exposing the interest I had already conceived in his affairs, that my hand absolutely trembled as I turned the handle of the door of the room in which he was seated. The first glance, however, at the aristocratic old gentleman who rose on my entrance, restored all my self-possession, and I was myself once more. In the calm, sweet face of the perfectly dressed gentleman before me there was no trace of the lunacy that had created that strange abode near Kensington; the principal expression in his face was that of ingrained melancholy, and his deep mourning, attire might have suggested to a stranger the reason of that melancholy. He addressed me in perfect English, the entire absence of idiom alone declaring him to be a foreigner.

  “I have the pleasure of addressing Doctor Elveston?” he said.

  I bowed, and placed a chair in which he re-seated himself, while I myself took possession of another.

  “And Doctor Elveston is a clever physician and a man of honour?”

  “I hope to be worthy of the former title, sir, while my position ought at least to guarantee the latter.”

  “Your public character does, sir,” said the old gentleman, emphatically, and it is because I believe that you will preserve the secret of an unfortunate family that I have chosen you to assist me with your advice.”

  My heart was beating rapidly by this time. There was a secret then, and I was about to become the possessor of it. Had it anything to do with the mania for white?

  “Anything in my power,” I hastened to reply, “you may depend on; my advice, I fear, may be of little worth, but such as it is-“.

  “I beg your pardon, Doctor,” interrupted he, “it is your medical advice that I allude to, and I require it for a young lady—a relative.”

  “My dear sir, that is, of course, an every day affair, my professional advice and services belong to the public, and as the public’s they are of course yours.”

  “Oh, my dear young friend, but mine is not an every day affair, and because it is not is the reason that I have applied to you in particular. It is a grievous case, sir, and one which fills many hearts with a bitterness they are obliged to smother from a world whose sneers are poison.”

  The old gentleman spoke in tones of deep feeling, and I could not help feeling sorry for him at the bottom of my very heart.

  “If you will confide in me, my dear sir,” I said, “believe that I will prove a friend as faithful and discreet as you could wish.”

  He pressed my hand, turned away for a moment to collect his agitated feelings and then he spoke again.

  “I shall not attempt to hide my name from you, sir, though I have hitherto carefully concealed it, I am the Duke de Rohan, and circumstances, which it is impossible for me to relate to you, have driven me to England to keep watch and ward over my sister’s daughter, the Princess d’Alberville. It is for this young lady I wish your attendance, her health is rapidly failing within the last week.”

  “Nothing can be more simple,” I observed, eagerly, “I can go with you at once—this very moment.”

  “Dear Doctor, it is unfortunately far from being as simple a matter as you think,” he replied, solemnly, “for my wretched niece is mad.”

  “Mad!”

  “Alas! yes, frightfully—horribly mad!” and he shuddered as if a cold wind had penetrated his bones.

  “Has this unhappy state of mind been of long duration?” I questioned.

  “God knows; the first intimation her friends had of it was about two years ago, when it culminated in such a fearful event that horrified them. I cannot explain it to you, however, for the honour of a noble house is deeply concerned; and even the very existence of the unfortunate being I beg of you to keep a secret forever.”

  “You must at any rate tell me what you wish me to do,” I observed “and give me as much information as you can to guide me, or I shall be powerless.”

  “The sight of one colour has such an effect on the miserable girl that we have found out, by bitter experience, the only way to avoid a repetition of the most fearful tragedies is to keep every hue or shade away from her vision; for, although it is only one colour that affects her, any of the others seems to suggest that one to her mind and produce uncontrollable agitation in consequence of this she is virtually imprisoned within the grounds of the house I have provided for her; and every object that meets her eye is white, even the ground, and the very roof of the mansion.”

  “How very strange!”

  “It will be necessary for you, my dear sir,” the Duke continued, “to attire yourself in a suit of white. I have brought one in the carriage for your use, and if you will now accompany me I shall be grateful.”

  Of course I was only too glad to avail myself of the unexpected opportunity of getting into the singular household, and becoming acquainted with the lunatic princess; and in a few moments we were being whirled on our way toward Kensington.

  On stopping at the gate of the Duke’s residence, I myself became an actor in the scene which had so puzzled me on two previous occasions. My companion produced two suits of white, and proceeded to turn the vehicle into a dressing-room, though not without many apologies for the necessity. I followed his example, and in a few moments we stood inside the gate, and I had an opportunity of more closely surveying the disagreeable enclosure I had seen from the church belfry. And a most disagreeable survey it was; the sun shining brilliantly, rendered the unavoidable contact with the white glare, absolutely painful to the eye; nor was it any escape to stand in the lofty vestibule, save that there the absence of sunshine made the uniformity more bearable.

  My companion led the way up a broad staircase covered with white cloth, and balustraded with carved rails, the effect of which was totally destroyed by their covering of white paint. The very stair-rods were of white enamel, and the corners and landing places served as room for more marble statues, that held enamelled white lamps in their hands, lamps that were shaded by globes of ground glass. At the door of an apartment pertaining, as he informed me, to the Princess d’Alberville, the Duke stopped, and shook my hand. “I leave you to make your own way,” he said, pointing to the door. She has never showed any symptoms of violence while under the calm influence of white; but, nevertheless, we shall be at hand, the least sound will bring you assistance,” and he turned away.

  I opened the door without a word, and entered the room, full of curiosity as to what I should see and hear of this mysterious princess. It was a room of vast and magnificent proportions, and, without having beheld such a scene, one can hardly conceive the strange cold look the utter absence of colour gave it. A Turkey carpet that looked like a woven fall of snow; white satin damask on chair, couch, and ottoman; draped satin and snowy lace around the windows, with rod, rings, and bracelets of white enamel. Tables with pedestals of enamel and tops of snowy marble, and paper on the walls of purest white; altogether it was a weird-looking room, and I shook with cold as I entered it.

  The principal object of my curiosity was seated in a deep chair with her side toward me, and I had an opportunity of examining her leisurely, as she neither moved or took the slightest notice of my entrance; most probably she was qu
ite unaware of it. She was the most lovely being I had ever beheld, a fair and perfect piece of statuary one might have thought, so immobile and abstracted, nay, so entirely expressionless were her beautiful features. Her dress was pure white, her hair of a pale golden hue, and her eyes dark as midnight. Her hands rested idly on her lap, her gaze seemed intent on the high white wall that shot up outside the window near her; and in the whole room there was neither book, flower, work, or one single loose article of ornament, nothing but the heavy, white-covered furniture, and the draping curtains. I advanced directly before her and bowed deeply, and then I calmly drew forward a chair and seated myself. As I did so she moved her eyes from the window and rested them on me, but, for all the interest they evinced, I might as well have been the whitewashed wall outside. She was once more returning her eyes to the blank window, when I took her hand and laid my fingers on her blue-veined wrist. The action seemed to arouse her, for she looked keenly into my face, and then she laughed softly.

  “One may guess you are a physician,” she said, in a musical, low voice, and with a slightly foreign accent, that was in my opinion, a great improvement to our harsh language.

  “I am,” I replied, with a smile, “your uncle has sent me to see about your health, which alarms him.”

  “Poor man!” she said, with a shade of commiseration clouding her beautiful face, “poor uncle!” but I assure you there is nothing the matter with me; nothing but what must be the natural consequence of the life I am leading.”

  “Why do you lead one which you know to be injurious then?” I asked, still keeping my fingers on the pulse, that beat as calmly as a sleeping infant’s, and was not interested by a single throb though a stranger sat beside her.