by Bram Stoker
“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.”
She sighed deeply, as she said, —
“Heaven help me! I know not, Henry. The dreadful being held on by my hair. I must have it all taken off. I tried to get away, but it dragged me back — a brutal thing it was. Oh, then at that moment, Henry, I felt as if something strange took place in my brain, and that I was going mad! I saw those glazed eyes close to, mine — I felt a hot, pestiferous breath upon my face — help — help!”
“Hush! my Flora, hush! Look at me.”
“I am calm again. It fixed its teeth in my throat. Did I faint away?”
“You did, dear; but let me pray you to refer all this to imagination; or at least the greater part of it.”
“But you saw it.”
“Yes — ”
“All saw it.”
“We all saw some man — a housebreaker — It must have been some housebreaker. What more easy, you know, dear Flora, than to assume some such disguise?”
“Was anything stolen?”
“Not that I know of; but there was an alarm, you know.”
Flora shook her head, as she said, in a low voice, —
“That which came here was more than mortal. Oh, Henry, if it had but killed me, now I had been happy; but I cannot live — I hear it breathing now.”
“Talk of something else, dear Flora,” said the much distressed Henry; “you will make yourself much worse, if you indulge yourself in these strange fancies.”
“Oh, that they were but fancies!”
“They are, believe me.”
“There is a strange confusion in my brain, and sleep comes over me suddenly, when I least expect it. Henry, Henry, what I was, I shall never, never be again.”
“Say not so. All this will pass away like a dream, and leave so faint a trace upon your memory, that the time will come when you will wonder it ever made so deep an impression on your mind.”
“You utter these words, Henry,” she said, “but they do not come from your heart. Ah, no, no, no! Who comes?”
The door was opened by Mrs. Bannerworth, who said, —
“It is only me, my dear. Henry, here is Dr. Chillingworth in the dining-room.”
Henry turned to Flora, saying, —
“You will see him, dear Flora? You know Mr. Chillingworth well.”
“Yes, Henry, yes, I will see him, or whoever you please.”
“Shew Mr. Chillingworth up,” said Henry to the servant.
In a few moments the medical man was in the room, and he at once approached the bedside to speak to Flora, upon whose pale countenance he looked with evident interest, while at the same time it seemed mingled with a painful feeling — at least so his own face indicated.
“Well, Miss Bannerworth,” he said, “what is all this I hear about an ugly dream you have had?”
“A dream?” said Flora, as she fixed her beautiful eyes on his face.
“Yes, as I understand.”
She shuddered, and was silent.
“Was it not a dream, then?” added Mr. Chillingworth.
She wrung her hands, and in a voice of extreme anguish and pathos, said, —
“Would it were a dream — would it were a dream! Oh, if any one could but convince me it was a dream!”
“Well, will you tell me what it was?”
“Yes, sir, it was a vampyre.”
Mr. Chillingworth glanced at Henry, as he said, in reply to Flora’s words, —
“I suppose that is, after all, another name, Flora, for the nightmare?”
“No — no — no!”
“Do you really, then, persist in believing anything so absurd, Miss Bannerworth?”
“What can I say to the evidence of my own senses?” she replied. “I saw it, Henry saw it, George saw, Mr. Marchdale, my mother — all saw it. We could not all be at the same time the victims of the same delusion.”
“How faintly you speak.”
“I am very faint and ill.”
“Indeed. What wound is that on your neck?”
A wild expression came over the face of Flora; a spasmodic action of the muscles, accompanied with a shuddering, as if a sudden chill had come over the whole mass of blood took place, and she said, —
“It is the mark left by the teeth of the vampyre.”
The smile was a forced one upon the face of Mr. Chillingworth.
“Draw up the blind of the window, Mr. Henry,” he said, “and let me examine this puncture to which your sister attaches so extraordinary a meaning.”
The blind was drawn up, and a strong light was thrown into the room. For full two minutes Mr. Chillingworth attentively examined the two small wounds in the neck of Flora. He took a powerful magnifying glass from his pocket, and looked at them through it, and after his examination was concluded, he said, —
“They are very trifling wounds, indeed.”
“But how inflicted?” said Henry.
“By some insect, I should say, which probably — it being the season for many insects — has flown in at the window”
“I know the motive,” said Flor
a “which prompts all these suggestions it is a kind one, and I ought to be the last to quarrel with it; but what I have seen, nothing can make me believe I saw not, unless I am, as once or twice I have thought myself, really mad.”
“How do you now feel in general health?”
“Far from well; and a strange drowsiness at times creeps over me. Even now I feel it.”
She sunk back on the pillows as she spoke and closed her eyes with a deep sigh.
Mr. Chillingworth beckoned Henry to come with him from the room, but the latter had promised that he would remain with Flora; and as Mrs. Bannerworth had left the chamber because she was unable to control her feelings, he rang the bell, and requested that his mother would come.
She did so, and then Henry went down stairs along with the medical man, whose opinion he was certainly eager to be now made acquainted with.
As soon as they were alone in an old-fashioned room which was called the oak closet, Henry turned to Mr. Chillingworth, and said, —
“What, now, is your candid opinion, sir? You have seen my sister, and those strange indubitable evidences of something wrong.”
“I have; and to tell you candidly the truth, Mr. Henry, I am sorely perplexed.”
“I thought you would be.”
“It is not often that a medical man likes to say so much, nor is it, indeed, often prudent that he should do so, but in this case I own I am much puzzled. It is contrary to all my notions upon all such subjects.”
“Those wounds, what do you think of them?”
“I know not what to think. I am completely puzzled as regards them.”
“But, but do they not really bear the appearance of being bites?”
“They really do.”
“And so far, then, they are actually in favour of the dreadful supposition which poor Flora entertains.”
“So far they certainly are. I have no doubt in the world of their being bites; but we not must jump to a conclusion that the teeth which inflicted them were human. It is a strange case, and one which I feel assured must give you all much uneasiness, as, indeed, it gave me; but, as I said before, I will not let my judgment give in to the fearful and degrading superstition which all the circumstances connected with this strange story would seem to justify.”
“It is a degrading superstition.”