Dracula’s Brethren

by Richard Dalby

  Good heavens! What an amount of learning of industry was collected between those four walls. East, west, north, south, ancient, mediæval, and modern; representatives of all time and all countries were there. Oh, shades of Fust, Gutenberg, and Caxton, if, indeed, spirits be permitted to revisit the ‘glimpses of the moon,’ come hither and feast your spiritual eyes on your progeny. In these myriad bindings, many-coloured as the coat of Joseph, is the spirit of past ages preserved. Here you will find the supreme singer of the world, Shakespeare himself, fast bound betwixt these boards, and as securely prisoned as ever the genie was under the seal of Solomon in the Arabian tale. Open yon grim brown folio, and lo! Homer will step forth, followed by all the fresh untrodden generations of the world. Ulysses, with his sea-weary eyes, eagerly straining for the low rocky coast of Ithaca. Helen, with her imperial beauty, standing on the towers of Illium. Achilles, with his angry face set fierce against the walls of windy Troy, over the dead body of his friend. All, all are there, and will appear to thee in their fresh eternal beauty if thou sayest but the word. Truly, the deftest necromancer of the middle ages held not half the airy spirits and fantastic fancies under the spell of his wand as thou dost, oh, Gilbert Harkness.

  Outside, the short November twilight is closing in, and Sir Gilbert finds that the fat black letters are all running into one blurred line under his eager eyes. A knock at the door of his library disturbs him, and it is with a spirit of relief that he pitches the volume on the table and calls, ‘Come in.’ A servant enters with a card, which Sir Gilbert takes to the window, and reads in the failing, grey light: ‘Otto Brankel.’

  ‘Show the gentleman in,’ he says, and then looks at the card again. ‘Brankel? Brankel?’ he murmurs, in a dreamy tone; ‘where have I heard that name? Nuremburg? Leipzig?’

  ‘No! Heidelberg,’ interrupts a voice, and looking up he sees a tall, slender man wrapped in a fur greatcoat, regarding him with a smile.

  ‘Heidelberg,’ repeated Sir Gilbert. ‘Ah, yes; are you not the Professor of Chemistry there?’

  ‘I have that honour,’ replied the visitor, sinking with a complacent sigh into the chair indicated by the baronet. ‘I must apologise for this untimely visit, but I have a letter of introduction to you from Professor Schlaadt, and I was so impatient that I thought I would lose no time, but present it at once.’

  The baronet took the letter, and glancing rapidly over it, shook the Professor warmly by the hand.

  ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Professor,’ he said, eagerly. ‘I have heard a great deal about your learning and research.’

  ‘A mere nothing,’ said the Professor, with a deprecating glance and a wave of his hand; ‘mere scraps of knowledge, picked out of the infinite ocean of learning. You have a wonderful collection of books here. I heard about your library in Germany’; and he cast a keen glance round into all the dark corners of the room.

  ‘Ah, you do not see all,’ said Sir Gilbert, with a grateful smile, as the servant brought in a lamp and placed it on the writing-table; ‘this dim light does not show it to advantage.’

  ‘The fame of it has penetrated to Heidelberg,’ said the Professor, with another glance round.

  ‘Perhaps that is because I have so many of your German works on chemistry,’ returned Sir Gilbert. ‘You know that I am writing a History of Chemistry.’

  ‘Have you any alchemists of the fourteenth century – any of their works I mean?’ asked Brankel, with a faint glow of interest.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ answered the baronet, pointing towards a dark corner of the library, where the Professor’s gaze eagerly followed him. ‘You will find there Rostham von Helme, Gradious, Giraldus.’

  The Professor’s hands were resting lightly on the arms of the chair, but at the last word he gripped them hard. However, he merely observed coldly:

  ‘“Giraldus” is rather a rare book, is it not?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the baronet, slowly. ‘I got it by a curious chance. I—’

  ‘Oh, Governor! Governor!’ cried a clear ringing voice, and a young lady in a riding habit, all splashed with mud, stepped lightly through the window into the room. ‘Such a splendid run. Fiddle-de-dee carried me splendidly, I was in at the death,’ displaying a fox’s brush, ‘so was Jack. I was the only lady; we came home in about half an hour – both nags quite worn out, which I am sure I don’t wonder at. Jack has behaved like a trump all day, so as a reward I have brought him to dinner – come in, Jack.’

  A young gentleman in a hunting costume, likewise splashed with mud, in reply to this invitation also came in through the window. He was advancing with a smile towards Sir Gilbert when the young lady suddenly caught sight of the Professor, who had risen at her entry and was standing somewhat in the shade.

  ‘Visitor, dad?’ she said, carelessly, shifting the folds of her riding-habit, which was lying on her arm. ‘Introduce me, dear.’

  ‘My daughter – Philippa – Professor Brankel,’ said Sir Gilbert, in a vexed tone. ‘I do wish, Philippa, you would come in at the door like a Christian and not by the window like a—’

  ‘Pagan; eh, dad?’ said Philippa, with a laugh.

  She was looking at the Professor, and his eyes seemed to have a magnetic attraction for her. The German had stepped out of the shade, and the light of the lamp was striking full on his face, which the girl regarded curiously. It was a remarkable face – a white complexion with jet black hair, brushed back from a high forehead; dark, bushy eyebrows, with a Mephistophelian curve over light and brilliant eyes, a thin hooked nose, and a nervous cruel mouth unclothed by moustache or beard. Such was the appearance of the famous German Professor of Chemistry. Philippa appeared fascinated by this weird countenance staring at her with flashing eyes. And yet she was not a girl given to superstition – rather the opposite – having a bold audacious nature which did not know fear. But there was something in the steady burning gaze of the German that mastered her at once.

  She was a tall slender girl, very beautiful, with masses of dark hair coiled under a coquettish hat set daintily on her well-shaped head. Her eyes flashed with a mixture of fun and mischief, while her rather large mouth displayed a row of very white teeth when she smiled. She looked charming in her dark blue riding-habit and white gloves, with a linen collar at her throat caught by a dainty brooch. She was an extremely self-possessed and self-willed young woman. Her mother died when she was quite a baby, and being neglected by her father, who was too busy with his library to attend to her, the education she received was of a loose and somewhat desultory kind. Sometimes she would learn, and astonish everybody with the rapidity of her progress. At other times she would refuse to open a single book, and alternately teased and delighted her friends by her fantastic moods. She was a splendid rider, and most of her childhood’s days were spent in scampering about the country with her Shetland pony and Jack.

  Jack, otherwise Lord Dulchester, was the eldest son of the Earl of Chesham, whose estate was next to that of Sir Gilbert Harkness. Jack and Philippa were always together, and the wild young lady followed Jack into whatever scrapes he chose to lead her. She copied Jack’s manners and speech, and consequently became proficient in slang. But the longest lane has a turning, and at length Sir Gilbert awoke to the fact that something must be done with his erratic offspring. He wrote to his married sister in London, and she promptly suggested a French boarding-school. So one morning Miss Philippa was violently seized and sent into exile; at the same time her companion in mischief, went to Eton. When Miss Harkness returned from her Gallic exile, she found Jack unaltered, and he found her as jolly as ever (so he put it). Their positions, however, were changed, and instead of Philippa following Jack, Jack followed Philippa. He admired her as being the only girl who could ride straight across country, and discuss horses in a proper way. Besides he had known her such a long time that he had had plenty of opportunity of seeing any faults in her, and he had seen none. Having come to the conclusion that she was ‘the jolliest girl he had ever met,’ h
e rode over one morning and promptly asked her to marry him. Philippa as promptly refused, politely telling him not to be an idiot. But Lord Dulchester persisted, and ultimately, Miss Harkness – who was really in love – accepted him, and they were engaged. All the county ladies talked of her as ‘that misguided girl,’ and lamented that Sir Gilbert had not married again in order to give one of the female sex an opportunity to initiate Philippa into the intricacies of good breeding. They were horrified at her fast ways and strong expressions, which even her French education could not eradicate. It was rumoured that she had actually smoked a whole cigarette, and Philippa had laughingly acknowledged the fact to a lady who questioned her about it. When she secured in Lord Dulchester the matrimonial prize of the county, you may be sure the ladies loved her none the more. They accepted her as an unpleasant fact, and hoped that she would improve in time. The male sex liked Philippa because she was handsome, and said witty things about her neighbours; but it was generally acknowledged that she had a wild eye in her head, and would need breaking in, a task which they did not think Lord Dulchester capable of.

  That gentleman was a tawny-haired, clean-limbed son of Anak, who stood six feet, and could ride, shoot, and box better than any man in the county.

  He was good-looking; had a title, but no brains; and he adored Philippa.

  Miss Harkness withdrew her eyes from the remarkable face before her with an uneasy laugh, and introduced Lord Dulchester.

  ‘You will stay to dinner, I hope, Professor?’ said Sir Gilbert.

  The Professor bowed, whilst Philippa hurried away to change her dress.

  Jack followed soon to make himself a little decent, for the dress in which a man has done a hard day’s hunting is certainly not the most presentable for dining.

  The Professor, left alone with Sir Gilbert, looked round and thought:

  ‘I wonder where the “Giraldus” can be?’

  IV

  In the Drawing-Room.

  ‘Do you, believe, sir, in metempsychosis?

  Of course you don’t, but I can tell you, sir,

  He was a serpent ere he was a man.’

  THERE is no more charming hour in the whole day than the dinner hour, especially after a hard day’s hunting. At least so Lord Dulchester thought. In spite of his splashed dress (which he had made as presentable as he could), he felt a sweet, lazy kind of happiness as he sat down at the dinner-table.

  The white cloth, the hothouse flowers, the gleaming and antique silver and delicate china, all assembled under the soft light of rose-coloured lamps, made up a very pleasant picture, and Lord Dulchester felt at peace with all mankind. Beside him sat Philippa, dark and handsome in her dinner dress, vivaciously discussing the day’s sport.

  At the head of the table sat Sir Gilbert, holding an animated conversation on books with the Professor, who was seated near him.

  Dulchester had taken a great dislike to the German and set him down in his own mind as a charlatan, although what reason he had for so doing Heaven only knows.

  Perhaps the silvery fluency of the foreigner’s conversation, together with the mesmeric glances of his wonderful eyes, helped him to the conclusion.

  At any rate, the presence of the Professor was to him the one discordant element of the evening.

  ‘I must apologise for my dress, Sir Gilbert,’ he said. ‘I wanted to go home and change it, but Phil would not let me.’

  ‘Of course not,’ retorted that young lady with a laugh, ‘you would not have returned till midnight. And I am sure you need not apologize so much,’ she went on, merrily; ‘you have done the same thing many times before, and on each occasion you have excused yourself in the same manner. Why don’t you practise what you preach?’

  ‘Because you won’t let me,’ said Jack with a laugh, pouring himself out a glass of wine.

  ‘You had good sport today?’ asked the Professor, fixing his piercing eyes on Jack.

  ‘Slashing,’ replied that young man enthusiastically, setting down his glass, which was half way to his mouth, in order to give more freedom to his eloquence. ‘You should have seen the spin the fox led us. We caught him this side of Masterton’s Mill. There was one beautiful hedge and ditch which half the field refused, but Miss Harkness cleared it like a bird, and I followed. I think we were neck and neck, Phil, across the next field,’ he added, addressing that young lady who was listening with flashing eyes.

  ‘Rather,’ she answered, vivaciously; ‘and, by Jove! Jack, what a smash old Squire Damer came.’

  ‘Right into the middle of the ditch.’

  ‘He would insist on giving me the lead, and I did laugh when I saw him flying through the air like a fat goose.’

  ‘Serve him right,’ growled Jack, who did not think anyone had a right to give Miss Harkness a lead but himself. ‘He’s too old for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, yes. You will knock off hunting when you reach his age, eh, Jack?’ said Philippa, sarcastically.

  ‘Well, I won’t ride so many stone, at any rate,’ retorted Jack, evasively, applying himself vigorously to his dinner to prevent the possibility of a reply.

  Philippa laughed, and then began talking about some newly-imported mare with miraculous powers of endurance and speed ascribed to her.

  Jack responded enthusiastically, and their conversation became so ‘horsey’ as to be unintelligible, except to a Newmarket trainer, or to one of Whyte-Melville’s heroes.

  Meanwhile, the two scholars were holding an equally mystical conversation in the higher branches of knowledge on the other side of the table.

  At last the Professor, by skilful generalship, led the conversation round to the subject dearest to his heart.

  ‘You were going to tell me where you got the “Giraldus,” he said, carelessly playing with his glass.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ answered Sir Gilbert, leaning back in his chair. ‘It was a most curious chance. I was greatly in want of his works, but had not the least idea where to get them. I went up to London, to see my agent about looking through the Continental libraries for them, when one day I found out an old bookstall, kept by a man named Black.’

  ‘Yes?’ interrogatively.

  ‘Well, he had it,’ replied Sir Gilbert, nodding his head, ‘that is, only the second volume. He said it had been brought from Germany by his son, who had lately died. But it is only the second volume. I wish I knew where the first is.’

  ‘I can satisfy your curiosity,’ said the German, bending forward; ‘the first volume is in the library at Heidelberg.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Sir Gilbert looked amazed. ‘How did the two volumes come to be separated?’

  ‘The son of the bookstall keeper whom you mention,’ said the Professor, nervously twisting a ring on his finger, ‘was a student at the Heidelberg University. Being a great admirer of the works of Giraldus, and leaving Heidelberg hurriedly, he carried with him to England the second volume only. I found the first in his lodgings, by chance.’

  ‘Were you looking for it?’ asked Sir Gilbert.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Brankel. ‘I wanted to illustrate a certain point to my class, which I was unable to do satisfactorily without the aid of Giraldus.’

  ‘I must send this second volume back to Heidelberg,’ said the bookworm in a vexed tone, ‘as it was taken from there.’

  ‘I don’t see it,’ replied the Professor, calmly. ‘Giraldus is a very obscure alchemist, and if you send the value of the book to the University, I dare say you can have the first volume also. By-the-bye, Sir Gilbert, I think I omitted to tell you that I intend to stay in England for at least six months, and any assistance I can afford you I shall be most happy.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ answered the baronet, eagerly. ‘I shall be delighted to avail myself of it. Where are you staying?’

  ‘At present at an hotel in Launceston,’ answered the German; ‘but I have taken a house near you, which I am about to fit up. I shall be established in it in about a week, and then you may expect to see me pretty frequently in
your library.’

  ‘I shall be glad,’ said Sir Gilbert; ‘but where is the house you have taken?’

  ‘It is called Wolfden,’ replied the Professor.

  ‘Wolfden?’ exclaimed Philippa, catching the name. ‘Are you going to live there, Professor?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ he asked, rather amused at her sudden entry into the conversation.

  ‘It is such a gloomy place,’ she answered, with a little nervous laugh, for those serpent eyes were fixed upon her, ‘and has not been inhabited for the last twenty years, except by the ghost of the former proprietor, who hanged himself.’

  ‘Ghost? Bah,’ said the Professor with a sneer, which wrinkled up the corners of his thin mouth. ‘I’m not afraid of that. This is the nineteenth century.’

  ‘Well, ghosts or no ghosts, I wouldn’t live there,’ replied Philippa gaily, as she rose, ‘it’s extremely damp, and bad for the health.’ And with a bow she swept out of the door, which the Professor held open, for which civility he was rewarded by a frown from Lord Dulchester, who considered that as his special province.

  The two savants began to discuss chemistry over their wine, so Dulchester, after moodily toying with his glass for some minutes, rose and went off to the drawing-room in search of Miss Harkness.

  He found that young lady seated by the fire, staring dreamily into the heart of the red coals.

  He came forward, and, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, looked down on her with a smile.

  ‘Dreaming, Phil?’ he asked, softly, as he looked into her face, ringed round with the flare of the fire.

  ‘I was thinking of the Professor, Jack,’ she said, abstractedly, leaning back and folding her hands. ‘Is he not a strange man?’

  ‘I don’t like him,’ retorted Jack, bluntly.

  ‘Nor do I,’ she answered, ‘but he has a remarkable face – like Mephistopheles’. I don’t read much poetry, but when I saw his eyes I could not help thinking they were like the witch’s in Christabel – like a serpent’s.’