by John Galt
List—list, my child! A Vampyre he!
Heaven keep his demon glance from thee!”
II.
What, mother, doth the pale man there?
With look so full of dark despair?
“Child, child! Those fearful glances shun:
Foul deeds of evil hath he done!
Such is his doom!
Though long since dead,
He cannot rest within the tomb!
Forth he has fled,
to wander round—
A living corpse o’er hallowed ground!
From house to house he takes his way,
A fair bride seeking for his prey:
His chosen bride was lost for aye!”
III.
He smiles on me—
The pale man—see!
And kind his look, those sad and wild!
—“Still look’st there!—alas, my child!
Haste—haste—the danger fly—
The mother’s warning is in vain;
The pale man’s spells the maid enchain;
At midnight, fast she flies
By the light of those fierce eyes—
Now she herself—so runs the tale—
Wanders o’er earth, a Vampyre pale.
* * * *
The following day was spent by Edgar hunting in the forest. His mind was disquieted; not by the struggle to overcome his unhappy love; for so hopeless he deemed it, that no room was left for conflict. But the wild stories of the nurse strangely affected him. Could it then be so? Was it true, that the man he had once loved as a friend, whom he now saw execrated as the betrayer of innocence, was that fearful being she had described? He was inclined to reject so monstrous a belief—though nurtured in the faith of those marvelous tales, long since exploded in the light of civilization and reason.
He met with no success in the sport, but continued to wander on, till the shades of twilight began to fall upon the forest. Then he returned, listlessly, on the way homeward. Suddenly a wild animal, which he took for a doe, bounded from the shelter of some bushes near him, and shot away. Edgar followed the game, now losing sight of her, now catching a glimpse as she sprang through the dense foliage, darting among the branches like an arrow in flight. At length he was forced to give up the pursuit, exhausted with running and clambering. He was in a wild part of the forest, surrounded as it seemed with rocks, the tall bare peaks of which were touched with silver by the moon, just then appearing above the horizon.
Edgar was endeavoring to find the shortest way to the castle, when he was startled by the sound of a man’s voice, as if groaning in pain, and entreating help. Following the sound, he saw a man lying on the ground, and weltering in his blood. The sufferer perceived him, as it appeared, for he redoubled his cries for assistance.
Edgar raised him from the ground, and tried to staunch the blood that still flowed freely from a deep wound in the breast. His humane efforts were in part successful; the wounded man drew a deep breath, opened his eyes, and fixed them upon the youth.
Edgar stared back in sudden horror. “Arthur!” he exclaimed.
“Is it you, Edgar?” asked the sufferer, faintly. “Then all is well. I saved your life—you will not abandon me?”
“Nazarena!” murmured the young man, trembling with the feelings called up by this sudden meeting with one he deemed so fearfully guilty.
“Hush!” cried Arthur; “condemn me not till you know all. Aid me now!”
“Oh, that I could!” faltered Edgar.
“Mistake me not,” said the wounded man, gloomily; “I know that my hours are numbered; my life is ebbing fast. I ask of you no leechcraft, for I fear not death! But swear to me, Edgar—by your own life, which you owe to me—by all that is dear to you on earth—by your soul’s salvation—”
“What must I swear?” interrupted the young man.
“Swear,” was the answer, “not to reveal to any mortal—to man or woman—aught that thou hast known me, or aught thou shalt know—before the first hour of the first day of the coming month! Swear it!”
“Strange!” muttered Edgar, while a cold thrill pervaded his whole frame. But the hands of the dying man grasped both of his—the eyes, glassed with approaching death, were fastened on him—the hollow voice again spoke imploringly—“Swear!”
“Be it so!” answered the youth, and he repeated the words of the oath.
“Yet one more boon!” said Arthur, after a pause, while his strength was fast sinking. “Bear me to the summit of yonder rock, and place me so that the moonlight will shine upon my face.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Edgar, “what means this strange—thou art not—surely—”
“Hold!” cried Arthur, his eyes flashing suddenly, though the next moment a dimness came over them. Feebly raising his hand he pointed towards the rock.
Trembling, the young man lifted the expiring Baron, and bore him to the spot pointed out. But once spoke he after being placed there—“Remember the oath!” Then a quick convulsion passed over his features—he breathed gaspingly—and the next instant lay cold and motionless at the feet of his companion.
Filled with emotion he could neither control nor account for, Edgar hastened from the spot, and with all speed out of the wood. The moon rose higher, pouring a light more vivid, like a mantle of snow, upon the stark rock where lay the corpse. It seemed as if her silvery beams were concentrated upon the still form and upturned face. As the orb rose to her meridian, life returned by slow degrees to the upheaving breast. Arthur opened his eyes, and rose to his feet in full strength once more.
“Ha-ha!” he shouted in wild exultation—while in the darkness beneath his feet gleamed unearthly phantom faces—“who will slay the dead?”
* * * *
When Edgar arrived at the castle, pale, breathless, and exhausted, he heard news little calculated to revive his spirits. A messenger had announced the return of his fair cousins’ affianced husband from abroad; and bore his greeting, which he intended to offer in person. Sir Aubrey himself, with looks of pleasure, announced this intelligence to him, and talked of the preparations he intended making for the reception of his son-in-law. But if this information, and the scene he had witnessed so lately, caused the young man a sleepless night, how was it next day with him, when the old Castellan, who had lodged in the small village two miles distant, brought to him the startling news he had learned there! The daughter of Baron Leslie, a rich noble who lived in an adjoining district, had fled from her home with a strange man, and had been found murdered in the wood. Her father, with his neighbors and servants, who discovered the hapless girl, found also the murderer, sitting by the body, from which, horrible to relate, he had just sucked the blood! He was a Vampyre! The bereaved father himself struck down the foe, while the others bore away the corpse of his victim.
“Then he was killed,” said Edgar faintly.
“Ah, sir!” cried the Castellan, “though slain one hour, he will walk abroad the next, ever intent on his foul deeds. No! the only hope is that he may fail to do the will of the witches who hold him in their service! Then his power on earth will be at an end.”
It would be vain to attempt a description of the effect of such rumors as these upon the sensitive mind of Edgar—associated, as they were, with what he himself had seen. His gloom and despondency were observed by his kinsman, who attributed them, unfortunately, to a different cause.
* * * *
Three weeks passed before another messenger announced that Lord Ruthven would be on the succeeding day at the castle. He came accordingly. Sir Aubrey himself received him with a warm welcome, and introduced him to his young kinsman. The first look Edgar cast upon him was like a death pang, curdling the blood in his heart. Lord Ruthven and Arthur were the same persons!
In the midst of his anguish and horror Edgar perceived that Malvine, at first sight of her lover, shuddered and shrank back, with the same instinctive aversion that had been shown by the ill-fated Nazarena. But she regained her sel
f-possession by an effort, and spoke cordially to the man she had consented to receive as her husband.
The most fearful apprehensions that had reached the soul of Edgar fell short of the reality! Following Ruthven to the windows, to which he had turned at a pause in the conversation, Edgar whispered in his ear—
“Traitor! —Accursed! What dost thou here! Begone—”
The young lord turned, and gazed on him with looks of surprise.
“I know thee well!” said the agitated youth. “Begone, or—”
“What meaneth this?” asked Sir Aubrey, coming forward.
“This young man,” answered Lord Ruthven, with a smile, “seems to mistake me for someone whose company pleases him not.”
“Edgar!” repeated the Baron in displeasure, “is it thus thy word is kept?”
“Oh, you know not,” cried the young man in agony, “you know not whom you have received—”
“Thine oath!” hissed a voice close in his ear.
Ruthven’s lips moved not. Edgar cast a fearful glance around him, groaned aloud, and covering his face with his hands, rushed from the hall.
“Pardon the discourtesy of my kinsman,” said the Baron to Lord Ruthven. “It is but too easy to see the cause of his wild behavior. He cherishes a passion for my daughter, which, till now he has seemed to combat successfully. But he shall not be permitted to disturb our happiness. If he lacks firmness to control his feelings, he shall leave the castle till your marriage is concluded.”
Ruthven bowed with a smile of assent; and they proceeded to discourse of other matters. They were interrupted by the blast of a trumpet without; and after a few moments, a messenger from the capital was announced.
He brought the sovereign’s commands to the young lord—that he should immediately repair to his presence, as he wished to entrust him with dispatches to the monarch of England. Especial haste was enjoined.
Lord Ruthven hastily glanced at the credentials of the messenger, and handed them to the Baron.
“You will perceive, my lord,” he said, “that I cannot decline so imperative a duty as that of obedience to the king’s command. I am especially disturbed thereby, and must grieve sincerely, unless”—and his countenance brightened—“you consent that the marriage shall take place tonight. All minor matters are already settled between us; why should not the coming day find your daughter the bride of Ruthven?”
“There is no reason, in good truth,” answered Aubrey.
“You pardon the boldness of my petition?” cried the noble. “Win the consent of the beauteous Malvine, and I will presently ride to my castle—give the necessary orders for the journey on the morrow—and return at nightfall to claim my bride!”
The Baron made no opposition to this arrangement; and his will was law to his fair daughter. His word was pledged for both. Ruthven took leave for the brief period of his intended absence, after entreating his friend to present on his part a brilliant ring to his betrothed.
Lord Ruthven passed hastily through the great gallery, on his way to the court of the castle, where his horse stood already saddled. A wild-looking figure, with pale and haggard face, stood in his way.
“One word!” he said, imploringly.
Ruthven answered him not, but beckoning haughtily, turned and led the way to his chamber. They were alone.
Edgar threw himself at the feet of his companion.
“Yield thy prey for once!” he cried in agony—“Spare the innocent blood! Have mercy—have mercy!”
“Bid the rolling earth may stay her course!” muttered the mysterious stranger, a gloomy frown gathering on his brow. “Reverse the doom pronounced and I will thank thee on bended knee! Faugh! How frail a thing is human will!”
“Then it shall be done!” shrieked Edgar, springing to his feet in desperation. “The oath shall be broken! Happen what may to me, my beloved must be saved! What worse than her death, can befall me?”
“Would’st know?” again hissed the voice in his ear—“Thou shalt confess with horror that it is worse a thousand-fold!”
The eyes of the youth were fastened, as by a spell, on those of the fearful being who stood before him.
“Know it—then!” whispered the serpent-like voice; “go—if thou wilt—betray me!—load thy soul with the guilt of perjury—win my bride for my own! My doom will be upon thee! Years—years may pass—but the curse will be fulfilled! In pangs unutterable shalt thou render up thy soul! Thou shalt hear the dread sentence—no mercy for the perjured! Then—wandering in the darkness—thou shalt re-enter thine house of clay, and roam the earth a living corpse—condemned by a doom it cannot resist—to feed on the blood dearest to thee! Steeped in horror, sleepless, unspeakable, thou shalt prey, one after another, on thy household victims—wife—son—daughter—hear their frenzied supplications—see their last agonies—drain, compelled, though shuddering, the last drop that warms their hearts! Still driven by the inevitable fate, thou shalt wander forth—appalling, shunned by all—still seeking new victims—enacting new horrors—till, thy stay on earth expired, thou shalt descend to the abyss, and see the very fiends shrink from thee, as one more foul and accursed than they! Ha! Thou tremblest! Thy frame stiffens with affright! ’Tis mine own history I have told! Go—break thy oath—and be—like me!”
As Ruthven strode from the apartment, the appalled youth sank lifeless upon the floor.
* * * *
It was late in the evening: all the servants in the castle were busied in preparations for the approaching nuptials. A magnificent banquet was set out in the great hall; and the castle chapel was sumptuously decorated and brilliantly illuminated.
With unspeakable anguish Edgar heard of the hasty bridal that was to take place, and marked the stir of preparation. Unable, at length, to bear the anguish of his fearful secret, he summoned one of the attendants of his cousin, and demanded an instant interview. The servant went to her apartment, and presently returned with the message that the Lady Malvine was in the hands of her tire-woman, and prayed her cousin to excuse her not seeing him.
“To her father—then!” muttered Edgar; and following the servant who bore his request for a word in private with the Baron, found him in the great hall. Sir Aubrey’s brow darkened as he looked on his pale kinsman, and heard his petition that he should desist from the preparations for his daughter’s wedding with a man destitute of honor or feeling—who had lured to destruction many innocent maidens, and committed many crimes—
“I never thought thee, Edgar,” said Sir Aubrey, with severity—“so weak—so enslaved to thy mad passion—as to stoop to calumny against a brave man—which, in sooth, degrades only thyself! Deemed I not that grief had crazed thee—held I not sacred the honor of thy race and the peace of my household—kept I not my hospitality inviolable—truly I would acquaint Ruthven with thy false accusations.”
“Alas!” cried the youth, “the truth will appear—too late! Yet”—and a blessed thought flashed on him—“the truth may be proven—if—under any pretense—the bridal may be delayed till the first hour after midnight—which is the beginning of the new month!”
“I shall not be delayed!” cried the father. “Aubrey Davenat has pledged his word—and it shall never be broken!”
“Then I will dare the worst to save her!” exclaimed the heart-stricken young man. “Know—that Ruthven is—”
“Thine oath!” hissed the voice once more in his ear. Edgar turned quickly, and saw the deathly visage of Ruthven close behind him. He strove to speak; the words died on his lips in incoherent murmurs—and he fell upon the ground in frightful convulsions.
“Poor boy!” said Ruthven, sympathizingly, “what ails him?”
“He raves!” answered the Baron, in displeasure; and calling some of his attendants, he bade them carry the young man to his own apartment, and keep him there for the night.
Ruthven apologized for his late arrival—for it was already midnight—by saying that he had found at home letters of importance, which he w
as forced to answer immediately.
“I pray now,” he concluded, “to give notice to my fair bride that I await her; and pardon my haste, for I would have her mine own before the next hour strikes.”
The arrival of the bridegroom, and his impatience, was notified to the Lady Malvine; but there was some delay before she appeared. Sir Aubrey received and embraced her—bestowing his paternal benediction upon her fair young head. In her spotless bridal robes—the veil floating like a cloud over her slight form—pearls adorning the brow that rivalled their whiteness, she looked like an angel rather than a mortal maiden. Her cheek was pale, and there was something of pensiveness, if not of sadness, in her deep blue eyes; but it only imparted a new charm to her matchless beauty.
Her maidens stood around her; and at her right hand, Lord Ruthven, wearing a rich robe of purple velvet embroidered with gold; his belt and sword handle flashing with jewels. His countenance wore an unusual expression of exultation, mingled with impatient glances at the delay of those who composed the bridal procession.
At length, taking the hand of his bride, he led the way to the chapel.
Slowly and solemnly passed the procession, from the hall across the lighted gallery, to the sacred place. Clouds of incense floated above the altar—the organ’s music swelled—and the choir sang a sacred melody as they entered. All was silent as they stood before the altar; and the priest in his snowy robes began the service.
What form is that, rushing forward with wildly torn hair, and bloodshot rolling eyes? What shriek of mortal anguish pierces the ears of all present? Edgar had escaped from his guards. With a loud cry of “Hold—hold!” he threw himself between the bride and the bridegroom, clasping Malvine’s robe convulsively, as he sank at her feet.
The Baron, furious at the interruption, ordered the young man to be carried out forcibly. Ruthven dragged him from the altar’s foot, whispering—“Thine oath!”—into his ear.
“Fiend! Accursed!” cried the youth, releasing himself from his hold by a desperate effort; “The innocent shall not be thy prey! Heaven will approve the breaking of such an oath! Know—know all of ye”—glancing wildly round the room—this being is”—