MISS LAKE PASSES A FEARFUL NIGHT.—THE IMPOSTOR PUNISHED.
The landlord of the London Hotel made every possible exertion to keep a
profound secret the events of the night, but people will talk when even
they have not anything particular to say, so that we cannot wonder at
their doing so when they have.
In fact the story of the vampyre at the London Hotel got known pretty
well half over London in the course of the day succeeding that second
attempt upon the life blood of the young lady, who had become the
object of attack from the monster.
Mr. Lake was in a strange frame of mind as regarded the whole affair.
He did not yet know whether to really believe it or not—whether to
ascribe it, after all, to a dream, or, as Mrs. Lake hinted, for she
was a woman fond of scheming herself, so always ready to suggest its
existence in others—a mere plan upon the part of the young girl to get
rid of the projected alliance with young Master Lake, and possibly
evoke the sympathy of all who heard her story.
This view of the matter however, although it did not make much
impression upon Mr. Lake, suggested a something to him, that he thought
would chime in well with his other plans and projects.
“If,” he said “I could but instil a little courage into my son he might
now, at all events make a favourable impression upon his cousin.”
Full of this idea, he summoned the young gentleman to a conference
with him, and having carefully closed the door, he said in a low
confidential tone,—
“Of course you have heard all about this—this vampyre business?”
“Yes, governor, to be sure I have. Who could fail of hearing all about
it? Why, nobody in the house will talk about anything else. I’m afraid
to go to bed, I can tell you; that is to say, for fear I should do
anything rash, you know, that’s all.”
“I understand you, and it’s no use blinking the fact to me, that you
are a coward.”
“I am a coward, I—oh, you are very much mistaken. I’m a long way off
that. I’m only always desirous of getting out of the way when anything
happens, for fear of doing a rash act; it’s excess of courage you
know—that’s what alarms me.”
“Well, there are cases in which there would be no harm resulting, were
you ever so rash.”
“Ah! only show me one, and then you’ll see.”
“Very well, your cousin, you know—and you know she is your cousin—won’t
have you. Now, unless you are married to her, all our nicely got up
plans are liable to be blasted by any accident, or by any breath of
treachery that may come across them. But if you were the husband of
your cousin, policy, habit, and, indeed, everything would combine to
induce Lord Lake and her to smother up the affair. You comprehend.”
“But what am I to do, if she won’t have me?”
“I will tell you. You must awaken her gratitude by rescuing her from
all these foolish terrors about vampyres, and when once a woman feels
and knows that a man has done a brave act in her behalf, the principal
entrance to her heart is open to him.”
“Oh, but—I—I—the vampyre; that’s rather unpleasant.”
“Come, now, you are not such a fool, as really to believe that it’s,
after all, anything but a mere dream. Don’t tell me. Vampyres, indeed!
At all events you can vapour as much as you like upon that subject
without any danger occurring.”
“Yes, yes—you may think so.”
“I know so. Listen to me.”
The son did listen, and the father added:
“You must volunteer to watch alone by your cousin’s door for this
vampyre, and of course nothing will think of coming. It’s too
ridiculous altogether, that it is; so, you see, you run no risk at all.
You comprehend that?”
“Well, but if I run no risk, I don’t see what’s the use of doing it,
you know; for if all is quiet, how can she be grateful to me for having
rescued her from nothing at all?”
“Very well put, very well indeed. But as there will be nothing really
to rescue her from, suppose we make something that will just suit our
own purposes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, you know my great grey travelling cloak—what is to hinder you
having that with you, and whenever you are quite certain that your
cousin is fast asleep, you can put that on over your face partially,
and go into the room, and pretend to be the vampyre, and when she is
in a paroxysm of terror do you dash out the light, and then in your
natural voice, cry out, ‘Ah, wretch, I have you, I have you. How dare
you invade the sanctity of this chamber?’ and all that sort of thing,
you know, and you can knock about the chairs as much as you like, so
as to induce the belief that you are engaged in a deadly struggle, and
then you call for lights, and you are there, and the vampyre gone.”
“Well, I rather like that, and if I were quite sure—”
“Of what?”
“That there was no real vampyre, you know, why I wouldn’t mind it.”
“Pshaw!”
“Well, well, I’ll do it, I’ll do it, I tell you. I see all the
importance of getting her for my wife. Ahem! and if I do,” he added to
himself aside, “I’ll take deuced good care you don’t get hold of the
money, for after we are married, I shall just tell Lord Lake all about
it.”
During the day Mr. Lake had sought an opportunity of speaking to Mr.
Black.
“My dear sir,” he said to him, “you don’t seem well at all, and I shall
insist that you do not trouble yourself to watch to-night by the door
of the young lady, who has had so disagreeable a visitor.”
“I am certainly not quite well,” said Mr. Black. “The fact is, my
health will not bear anything like a shock; a family occurrence has so
shattered my nerves.”
“My dear sir, say no more; you shall have no more trouble about us. My
son who loves his cousin, and is quite jealous of anybody defending
her but himself, will watch alone by her door. He has great courage
when once his spirit is up, and it is now.”
“I’m glad to hear it; it takes some time to get it up!”
“Why, a—a—yes, sometimes.”
“I must be on the look out myself to-night, or the cowardly fellow
will spoil all,” thought Mr. Lake; “any unusual noise in the house,
I suppose, will be almost sufficient to induce him to faint away.
Confound his cowardice, it mars all.”
Mr. Lake was not by any means so clear in his own mind as he pretended
to be of the fact of the vampyre being only a delusion and a creation
of the brain of his niece; so when the evening came, he did all that
was in his power to keep the courage of his son to the mark.
He even took care that he should have a glass of something strong and
hot, for he knew by personal experience that while they lasted, the
fumes of hot alcohol did something for a weak heart.
But what pleased Mr. Lake most of all was the ease with which he had
thus managed matters with Mr. Miller and his clerk, who he had no
doubt, would fabricate such a story as would convince the single minded
Annetta of his claims to be her father.
“Then,” thought the old Lake, “we can surely among us badger her into
marrying my son. Oh, it will be all right. Let no plot henceforward
hope to succeed if this one does not. It must, and it shall; it shall,
and it must.”
It’s all very well of any one to say that a scheme shall succeed;
“But how light a breath of air will chase away,
The darkly woven fancies of a thousand plots.”
Mr. Lake stood upon a precipice which he little saw, or the terrific
height of it would have driven him distracted.
Miss Lake was in a great state of mental depression; if anything, more
than another was calculated to thoroughly break down the spirits of a
young and innocent girl, it certainly would be such circumstances as
those which now surrounded her, and deprived too, as she was, of that
aid and sympathy she would have received at the hands of a father or a
mother, it was only a wonder that she did not sink under the affliction
most completely.
She made no objection to young Lake watching by the outside of her
door. Indeed, she was weeping and depressed, so that she could scarcely
know what proposal was made to her.
“I shall not sleep,” she said. “God knows what will become of me.”
“Do not despair, all may be well; it was a very sad thing that my
brother Lord Lake ever found out that you were not his daughter. I’m
sure I would have given freely all I possessed to have averted any such
news, for it has attacked both his happiness and yours.”
The young girl made no reply to this, but the look she gave him was
quite sufficient to show him how much she doubted the sincerity of the
professions of friendship and affection for her that fell from his
lips. There was a something in his hollow, heartless character which,
young and innocent and unknowing in the ways of the world even as that
young girl was, she saw through, and he felt that she did so.
This was the most provoking thing of all that his heartlessness and
selfishness should be transparent to one so young as she was.
But the night came at last, and with it the fidgetty fears of young
Lake increased mightily. He was all of a shake, as Slop the waiter
said, like a lot of jelly.
It was only by repeated doses of brandy-and-water that he kept himself
from declaring off the adventure altogether, so that by eleven o’clock
at night he was in a terrible state between fear and intoxication; and
as any two impulses will each do its best to defeat the other, he was
prevented from getting entirely drunk by his fears, and from getting
entirely afraid by the liquor.
But at last he did actually take his place by the door of the chamber
occupied by his cousin, and then with a table before him on which were
lights, brandy-and-water, and cigars, he prepared to go through what to
him was a terrible ordeal.
“You—you—really think,” he whispered to his father, who came to promise
him that he would not undress himself, but remain in his own room
within call, “you really think there is no vampyre?”
“Tut, tut.”
“Well, but really now, really—”
“Have I not told you before? Come, come, nonsense, there’s the old grey
travelling cloak, put it under the table, and now I shall leave you;
it’s about half-past eleven, and you have nothing in the world to do
but just to enjoy yourself, you know. Good night.”