The Blood of the Vampire

by Florence Marryat

  “You must do as you think right, Pullen, but I am not going to help you to break your word!”

  “Tell me where the Red House is! Tell me whereabouts Hally takes her daily walks!” urged Captain Pullen.

  “I shall tell you nothing—you must find out for yourself!”

  “Well! you are damned particular!” exclaimed his cousin, “one would think this little half-caste was a princess of the Blood Royal. What is she, when all’s said and done? The daughter of a mulatto and a man who made himself so detested that he was murdered by his own servants—the bastard of a——”

  “Stop!” cried Pennell so vehemently that the passers-by turned their heads to look at him. “I don’t believe it, and if it is true I do not wish to hear it! Miss Brandt may be all that you say—I am not in a position to contradict your assertions—but to me she represents only a friendless and unprotected woman who has a right to our sympathy and respect.”

  “A friendless woman!” sneered Captain Pullen, “yes! and a doosid good-looking one into the bargain, eh, my dear fellow, and much of your sympathy and respect she would command if she were ugly and humpbacked. O! I know you, Pennell! It’s no use your coming the benevolent Samaritan over me! You have an eye for a jimper[128] waist and a trim ancle as well as most men. But I fancy your interest is rather thrown away in this quarter. Miss Brandt has a thorny path before her. She is a young lady who will have her own way and with the glorious example of the Baroness the way is not likely to be too carefully chosen. To tell the truth, old boy, I ran away because I was afraid of falling into the trap. The girl wishes intensely to be married, and she is not a girl whom men will marry, and so—we need go no further. Only, I should not be surprised if, notwithstanding her fortune and her beauty, we should find Miss Harriet Brandt figuring before long, amongst the free lances of London.”

  “And you would have done your best to send her there!” replied Anthony Pennell indignantly, as he stopped on the doorstep of his Piccadilly chambers. “But I am glad to say that your folly has been frustrated this time, and Miss Brandt sees you as you are! Good-night!” and without further discussion he turned on his heel and walked upstairs.

  “By Jove!” thought Ralph, as he too went on his way, “I believe old Anthony is smitten with the girl himself, though he has only seen her once! That was the most remarkable thing about her—the ease with which she seemed to attract, looking so innocent all the while, and the deadly strength with which she resisted one’s efforts to get free again. Perhaps it is as well after all that I should not meet her. I don’t believe I could trust myself, only speaking of her seems to have revived the old sensation of being drawn against my will— hypnotised I suppose the scientists would call it—to be near her, to touch her, to embrace her, until all power of resistance is gone. But I do hope old Anthony is not going to be hypnotised. He’s too good for that.”

  Meanwhile Pennell, having reached his rooms, lighted the gas, threw himself into an armchair, and rested his head upon his hands.

  “Poor little girl!” he murmured to himself, “Poor little girl!”

  Anthony Pennell was a Socialist in the best and truest sense of the word. He loved his fellow creatures, both high and low, better than he loved himself. He wanted all to share alike—to be equally happy, equally comfortable—to help and be helped, to rest and depend upon one another. He knew that the dream was only a dream— that it would never be fulfilled in his time, nor any other; that some men would be rich and some poor as long as the world lasts, and that what one man can do to alleviate the misery and privation and suffering with which we are surrounded is very little. What little Pennell could do, however, to prove that his theories were not mere talk, he did. He made a large income by his popular writings and the greater part of it went to relieve the wants of his humbler friends, not through governors and secretaries and the heads of charitable Societies, but from his own hand to theirs. But his Socialism went further and higher than this. Money was not the only thing which his fellow creatures required—they wanted love, sympathy, kindness, and consideration—and these he gave also, wherever he found that there was need. He set his face pertinaciously against all scandal and back-biting and waged a perpetual warfare against the tyranny of men over women; the ill-treatment of children; and the barbarities practised upon dumb animals and all living things. He was a liberal minded man, with a heart large enough and tender enough to belong to a woman—with a horror of cruelty and a great com­passion for everything that was incapable of defending itself.

  He was always writing in defence of the People, calling the attention of those in authority to their misfortunes; their evil chances; their lack of opportunity; and their patience under tribulation. For this purpose and in order to know them thoroughly he had gone and lived amongst them; shared their filthy dens in Whitechapel, partaken of their unappetising food in Stratford, and watched them at their labour in Homerton. His figures and his kindly face were well-known in some of the worst and most degraded parts of London, and he could pass anywhere without fear of a hand being lifted up against him, or an oath called after him in salutation. Anthony Pennell was, in fact, a general lover—a lover of Mankind.

  And that is why he leant his head upon his hand as he ejaculated with reference to Harriet Brandt, “Poor little girl.”

  It seemed so terrible in his eyes that just because she was friend­less and an orphan, just because her parents had been, perhaps unworthy, just because she had a dark stream mingling with her blood, just because she needed the more sympathy and kindness, the more protection and courtesy, she should be considered fit prey for the sensualist—a fit subject to wipe men’s feet upon!

  What difference did it make to Harriet Brandt herself, that she was marked with an hereditary taint? Did it render her less beautiful, less attractive, less graceful and accomplished? Were the sins of the fathers ever to be visited upon the children?—was no sympathetic fellow-creature to be found to say, “If it is so, let us forget it! It is not your fault nor mine! Our duty is to make each other’s lives as happy as possible and trust the rest to God.”

  He hoped, as he sat there, that before long Harriet Brandt would find a friend for life who would never remind her of anything out­side her own loveliness and lovable qualities.

  Presently he rose with a sigh, and going to his bookcase drew thence an uncut copy of his last work, “God and the People.” It had been a tremendous success, having already reached the tenth edition. It dealt largely, as its title indicated, with his favourite theory but it was light and amusing also, full of strong nervous language and bristling every here and there with wit—not strained epigrams such as no Society conversation-alists ever tossed backward and for­ward to each other—but honest, mirth-provoking humour, arising from the humorous side of Pennell’s own character, which ever had a good-humoured jest for the oddities and comicalities of everyday life.

  He regarded the volume for a moment as though he were con­sidering if it were an offering worthy of its destination, and then he took up a pen and transcribed upon the fly leaf the name of Harriet Brandt—only her name, nothing more.

  “She seems intelligent,” he thought, “and she may like to read it. Who knows, if there is any fear of the sad destiny which Ralph prophesies for her, whether I may not be happy enough to turn her ideas into a worthier and more wholesome direction. With an independent fortune how much good might she not accomplish amongst those less happily situated than herself! But the other idea—No, I will not entertain it for a moment! She is too good, too pure, too beautiful for so horrible a fate! Poor little girl! Poor, poor little girl!”

  - CHAPTER XV -

  The holiday season being now over and the less fashionable people returned to Town, Harriet Brandt’s curiosity was much excited by the number of visitors who called at the Red House but were never shewn into the drawing-room. As many as a dozen might arrive in the course of an afternoon and were taken by Miss Wynward straight upstairs to the room where Madame Gobe
lli and Mr. Milliken so often shut themselves up together. These mysterious visitors were not objects of charity either, but well-dressed men and women, some of whom came in their own carriages and all of whom appeared to be of the higher class of society. The Baroness had left off going to the factory also, and stayed at home every day, apparently with the sole reason of being at hand to receive her visitors.

  Harriet could not understand it at all, and after having watched two fashionably attired ladies accompanied by a gentleman ascend the staircase to Madame Gobelli’s room one afternoon, she ventured to sound Miss Wynward on the subject.

  “Who were the ladies who went upstairs just now?” she asked.

  “Friends of the Baroness, Miss Brandt!” was the curt reply.

  “But why do they not come down to the drawing-room then? What does Madame Gobelli do with them in that little room upstairs? I was passing one day just after some one had entered and I heard the key turned in the lock. What is all the secrecy about?”

  “There is no secrecy on my part, Miss Brandt. You know the position I hold here. When I have shewn the visitors upstairs, according to my Lady’s directions, my duty is done!”

  “But you must know why they come to see her!”

  “I know nothing. If you are curious on the subject you must ask the Baroness.”

  But Harriet did not like to do that. The Baroness had become less affectionate to her of late—her fancy was already on the wane—she no longer called the attention of strangers to her young friend as the “daughter of the house”—and Harriet felt the change, though she could scarcely have defined where it exactly lay. She had begun to feel less at home in her hostess’s presence, and her high spirit chafed at the alteration in her manner. She realised, as many had done before her, that she had out-stayed her welcome. But her curi­osity respecting the people who visited Madame Gobelli upstairs was none the less. She confided it to Bobby—poor Bobby who grew whiter and more languid every day—but her playful threat to invade the sacred precincts and find out what the Baroness and her friends were engaged upon was received by the youth with horror. He trembled as he begged her not to think of such a thing.

  “Hally, you mustn’t, indeed you mustn’t! You don’t know—you have no idea—what might not happen to you if you offended Mamma by breaking in upon her privacy. O! don’t, pray don’t! She can be so terrible at times—I do not know what she might not do or say!”

  “My dear Bobby, I was only in fun! I have not the least idea of doing anything so rude. Only, if you think that I am frightened of your Mamma or any other woman, you are very much mistaken. It’s all nonsense! No one person can harm another in this world!”

  “O! yes, they can—if they have help,” replied the boy, shaking his head.

  “Help! what help? The help of Mr. Milliken, I suppose! I would rather fight him than the Baroness any day—but I fear neither of them.”

  “O! Hally, you are wrong,” said the lad, “you must be careful, indeed you must—for my sake!”

  “Why! you silly Bobby, you are actually trembling! However, I promise you I will do nothing rash! And I shall not be here much longer now! Your Mamma is getting tired of me, I can see that plainly enough! She has hardly spoken a word to me for the last two days. I am going to ask Mr. Pennell to advise me where to find another home!”

  “No! no!” cried the lad, clinging to her, “you shall not leave us! Mr. Pennell shall not take you away! I will kill him first!”

  He was getting terribly jealous of Anthony Pennell, but Harriet laughed at his complaints and reproaches as the emanations of a love-sick school boy. She was flattered by his feverish longing for her society and his outspoken admiration of her beauty, but she did not suppose for one moment that Bobby was capable of a lasting or dangerous sentiment.

  Mr. Pennell had become a familiar figure at the Red House by this time. His first visit had been speedily succeeded by another, at which he had presented Harriet Brandt with the copy of his book— an attention which, had he known it, flattered her vanity more than any praises of her beauty could have done. A plain woman likes to be told that she is good-looking, a handsome one that she is clever. Harriet Brandt was not unintelligent, on the contrary she had inherited a very fair amount of brains from her scientific father—but no one ever seemed to have found it out until Anthony Pennell came her way. She was a little tired of being told that she had lovely eyes and the most fascinating smile, she knew all that by heart and craved for something new. Mr. Pennell had supplied the novelty by talking to her as if her intellect were on a level with his own—as if she were perfectly able to understand and sympathise with his quixotic plans for the alleviation of the woes of all mankind—with his Arcadian dreams of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity,—and might help them also, if she chose, not with money only but by raising her own voice in the Cause of the People. Harriet had never been treated so by anyone before and her ardent, impetuous, passionate nature which had a large amount of gratitude in its composition, fixed itself upon her new friend with a vehemence which neither of them would find it easy to overcome—or to disentangle themselves from. Her love (eager to repair the void left by the desertion of Captain Pullen) had poured itself, by means of looks and sighs and little timid, tender touches upon Anthony Pennell like a mountain torrent that had burst its bounds, and he had been responsive—he had opened his arms to receive the flood, actuated not only by the admiration which he had conceived for her from the first, but by the intense yearning pity which her loneliness and friendlessness had evoked in his generous compassionate nature. In fact they were desperately in love with each other and Harriet was expecting, each time he came, to hear Anthony Pennell say that he could no longer live without her. And Bobby looked on from a little distance—and suffered. The next time that Mr. Pennell came to see her, Harriet confided to him the mystery of the upstairs room and asked his opinion as to what it could possibly mean.

  “Perhaps they are people connected with the boot trade,” suggested Anthony jestingly, “does Madame keep a stock of boots and shoes up there do you think?”

  “O! no! Mr. Pennell, you must not joke about it! This is something serious! Poor Bobby grew as white as a sheet when I proposed to make a raid upon the room some day and discover the mystery, and said that his mother was a terrible woman and able to do me great harm if I offended her!”

  “I quite agree with Bobby in his estimate of his Mamma being a terrible woman,” replied Mr. Pennell, “but it is all nonsense about her being able to harm you! I should soon see about that!”

  “What would you do?” asked Harriet, with downcast eyes.

  “What would I not do to save you from anything disagreeable, let alone anything dangerous. But the Baroness is too fond of you, surely, to do you any harm!”

  Harriet pursed up her lips.

  “I am not so sure about her being fond of me, Mr. Pennell! She used to profess to be, I know, but lately her manner has very much altered. She will pass half a day without speaking a word to me, and they have cut off wine and champagne and everything nice from the dinner table. I declare the meals here are sometimes not fit to eat. And I believe they grudge me the little I consider worthy my attention.”

  “But why do you stay here if you fancy you are not welcome?” asked Pennell, earnestly, “you are not dependent on these people or their hospitality.”

  “But where am I to go?” said the girl. “I know no one in London, and Miss Wynward says that I am too young to live at an hotel by myself!”

  “Miss Wynward is quite right! You are far too young and too beautiful. You don’t know what wicked men and women there are in the world who would delight in fleecing an innocent lamb like you. But I can soon find you a home where you could stay in respect­ability and comfort, until—until——”

  “Until what,’” asked Harriet, with apparent ingenuousness, for she knew well enough what was coming.

  They were seated on one of those little couches made expressly for conversation, wher
e a couple can sit back to back with their faces turned to one another. Harriet half raised her slumbrous black eyes as she put the question and met the fire in his own. He stretched out his arms and caught her round the waist.

  “Hally! Hally! you know—there is no need for me to tell you! Will you come home to me, dearest? Don’t ever say that you are friendless again! Here is your friend and your lover and your devoted slave for ever! My darling—my beautiful Hally, say you will be my wife—and make me the very happiest man in all the world!”

  She did not shrink from his warm wooing—that was not her nature! Her eyes waked up and flashed fire responsive to his own; she let her head rest on his shoulder and turned her lips upwards eagerly to meet his kiss, she cooed her love into his ear and clasped him tightly round the neck as if she would never let him go.

  “I love you—I love you,” she kept on murmuring, “I have loved you from the very first!”

  “O! Hally, how happy it makes me to hear you say so,” he replied, “how few women have the honesty and courage to avow their love as you do. My sweet child of the sun! The women in this cold country have no idea of the joy that a mutual love like ours has the power to bestow. We will love each other for ever and ever my Hally, and when our bodies are withered by age our spirits shall still go loving on.”

  He—the man whose whole thoughts thitherto had been so devoted to the task of ameliorating the condition of his fellow-creatures that he had had no time to think of dalliance, succumbed as fully to its pleasures now as the girl whose life had simply been a ripening process for the seed which had burst forth into flower. They were equally passionate—equally loving—equally unreserved—and they were soon absorbed in their own feelings and noticed nothing that was taking place around them.