THE SIGHT OF TERROR.—THE DOCTOR’S SUSPICIONS.—THE NIGHT WATCH.
The sight that met the eyes of the father in his daughter’s chamber,
was, indeed, one calculated in every respect to strike him with horror
and misery.
Emma was lying insensible at the side of the bed, and Clara seemed to
be dead, for she was ghastly pale, and there was blood upon her neck.
The father staggered to a seat, but Dr. North at once rushed forward,
and held the light to the eyes of Clara, at the same time, that he
placed his finger on her wrist to note if there was any pulsation.
“Only a fainting fit,” he said.
“But the blood—the—the blood,” cried Sir George.
“That I know nothing about, just at present, but let us see what’s the
matter here.”
He raised Emma from the floor, and found that she too had fainted, but
as she appeared to be perfectly uninjured. She slightly recovered as
he lifted her up, and he resigned her at once to the care of some of
the female servants, who now made their appearance in the chamber, all
terribly alarmed at the shriek that had awakened them.
“This is strange,” said Dr. North, “here is a small puncture upon the
throat of your daughter Clara, that almost looks like the mark of a
tooth.”
“A tooth!”
“Yes, but of course that cannot be.”
“Hear me, oh, hear me,” cried Emma, at this moment. “Horror—horror!”
“What would you say—speak at once, and clear up this mystery if you
can. What has happened?”
“I heard a noise, and came from my own chamber to this. There was some
one bending over the bed. ’Twas I who shrieked.”
“You?”
“Yes, oh yes! ’Twas I. I know not what then happened, for I either
fell or was struck down, and I felt that my senses left me. What has
happened? I too ask; oh, Clara! What was it? what was it?”
“Imagination, most likely,” said the doctor. “You had better go to
your room again, Miss Emma, for you are trembling with cold and
apprehension. Perhaps in the morning, all this affair will assume a
different shape. At present we are all too much flurried to take proper
cognisance of it. There your sister is rapidly recovering. How do you
feel now, Miss Clara?”
“I—I—-am mad!”
“Oh, pho! pho! nonsense!”
“Oh, God help me! How horrifying! How more than dreadful! That awful
face! Those hideous teeth!—I am mad!—I am mad!”
“Why, my dear child, you will drive me mad,” cried Sir George, “if you
talk in such a strain. Oh, let me beg of you not.”
“Don’t heed her,” said Dr. North. “This will soon pass away. Come, Miss
Clara, you must tell me freely, as your medical man, what has happened.
Let us hear the full particulars, and then you know well, that if any
human means can aid you, you shall be aided.”
This calm mode of discourse had evidently a great effect upon her, and
after the silence of a few moments, she spoke much more collectedly
than before, saying,—
“Oh, no—no! I cannot think it a dream.”
“What a dream?”
“You—you shall hear. But do not drag me from my home, and from all I
love, if I am mad; I pray you do not—I implore you!”
“You are quite safe. Why, what a ridiculous girl you are, to be sure.
Nobody wants to drag you from your home, and nobody will attempt such a
thing, I assure you. You have only to tell us all unreservedly, and you
will then be quite safe. If you refuse us your confidence how can we
act for you in any way?”
This argument seemed to be effective, and to reach her understanding
quite, so that after a shudder, and a glance around her of great dread
and dismay, she spoke, saying in a low, faltering voice,—
“Something came; something not quite human, yet having the aspect of a
man. Something that flew at me, and fastened its teeth upon my neck.”
“Teeth! everybody says ‘teeth!’” exclaimed the father.
“Hush!” said the doctor, with an admonitory wave of his hand; “keep
that a secret from her, whatever you do. I implore you, keep quiet on
that head. Well, is that all, Clara?”
“Yes—yes.”
“Then it was a dream, and nothing else, I can assure you. Nothing but a
dream; make yourself comfortable, and think no more of it. I dare say
you will have a quiet sleep now, after this. But you had better let
your sister Emma lay with you, as your nerves are a little shattered.”
“Oh, yes, yes.”
Emma, who truth to tell, was very little better than her sister,
professed her readiness to stay, and the doctor giving Sir George a
nod, as much as to say, “Let no more be said about it just now,” led
the way from the room at once.
When he reached the corridor, where Varney and the two sons were
waiting, he said,—
“We shall none of us after this, I am certain, feel inclined to sleep;
suppose we go down stairs at once and think and talk this matter over
together; there is more in it, perhaps, than meets the eye; I will
follow you in a moment, when I have just seen that my patient is all
right.”
They all proceeded down stairs to the dining-room, and in a few
minutes, the doctor followed; lights were procured, and they sat down,
all looking at the doctor who had taken the lead in the affair, and who
evidently had some very disagreeable, if not very true, ideas upon the
subject matter of the evening’s disturbance.
“Well, doctor,” said Sir George, “we rely upon you to give us your
opinion upon this business, and some insight into its meaning.”
“In the first place then,” said the doctor, “I don’t understand it.”
“Well, that’s coming to the point.”
“Stop a bit; it was no dream.”
“You think not.”
“Certainly not a dream, two people don’t dream of the same thing at the
same time; I don’t of course deny the possibility of such a thing, but
it is too remarkable a coincidence to believe all at once; but Emma
avows that she saw a somebody in her sister’s room.”
“Ah,” said Sir George; “she did, I had in my confusion forgotten that
horrible confirmation of Clara’s story. She did so, and before Clara
was well recovered too, so she could not have put the idea into her
head. Good God! what am I to think? For the love of Heaven some of you
tell me what are your opinions upon this horrible affair, which looks
so romantically unreal, and yet so horribly real.”
All except the doctor looked at each other in surprise.
“Well,” he said, “I will tell you what the thing suggests; not what it
is, mind you, for the affair to me is too out of the way of natural
causes to induce me to come to a positive conclusion. Before I speak,
however, I should like to have your opinion, Mr. Smith; I am convinced
it will be valuable.”
“Really I have formed none,” replied Varney; “I am only exceedingly
surprised that somebody should have fastened me in my bed-room. I know
that that circumstance gave me a terrible fright, for when I heard all
the outcry and confusion, I thought the house was on fire.”
“Ah! the locking of us in our rooms, too,” said the doctor, “there’s
another bit of reality. Who did that?”
“It puzzles me beyond all comprehension,” said Sir George; “how the
doors could be locked I cannot imagine; for as I told you the keys are
in a drawer in my library.”
“At all events, the doors could not lock themselves, with or without
keys,” said Charles; “and that circumstance shows sufficiently
evidently that some one has been at work in the business whom we have
still to discover.”
“True,” said Mr. Smith.
“Well, gentlemen,” added the doctor, “I will tell you what I suggest;
and that is contained in a letter, written a long while ago by a
distant relation of mine, likewise a surgeon. Mind, I do not of course
pledge myself at the present time, for the truth and accuracy of a man
who was dead long before I was born; he might too have been a very
superstitious man.”
“But what did he suggest?”
“He did more than suggest; he wrote for a medical publication of that
day an account, only of course suppressing names, of the appearance of
a vampyre.”
“A what?”
“A vampyre!”
“I have heard of such horrors,” said Mr. Smith, “but really at the
present day, no one can think of believing such things. Vampyres
indeed! No—that is too great a claim upon one’s credulity. These
existences, or supposed existences, have gone the same way as the
ghosts, and so on.”
“One would think so, but you shall hear.”
Sir George Crofton and his sons looked curious, and thought that the
doctor was going to draw upon his memory in the matter to which he
alluded, but he took from his pocket a memorandum book, and from it
extracted some printed papers.
“The communication was so curious,” he said, “that I cut it out of the
old volume in which it appeared, and kept it ever since.”
“Pray,” said Mr. Smith, “what was the name of your distant relation,
the medical man?”
“Chillingworth.”
“Oh, indeed; an odd name rather, I don’t recollect ever hearing of it.”
“No, sir, it is not likely you should. Dr. Chillingworth has been dead
many years, and no one else of his name is at present in the medical
profession to my knowledge. But you shall hear, at all events, what he
says about it.”
The doctor then opened the folded paper, and read as follows:—
“Notwithstanding the incredulity that has been shown regarding
vampyres, I am in a condition from my own knowledge to own the
existence of one, I think he is dead now. His name was Varney, at least
that was the name he went by, and he came strangely enough under my
observation, in connection with some dear friends of mine named B——”
“Is that all?” said Mr. Smith.
“Not quite,” replied Dr. North, “He goes on to say that but for
touching the feeling of living persons, he could and would unfold
some curious particulars respecting vampyres, and that if he lived
long enough he will perhaps do so, by which I suppose he meant if he
outlived the parties whose feelings he was afraid of hurting by any
premature disclosures.”
“And—and,” faltered Sir George, “do you draw a conclusion from all
that, that my daughter has been visited by one of these persons—surely
not.”
“May be, Sir George; I draw no conclusions at all, I merely throw out
the matter for your consideration. It is always worth while considering
these matters in any possible aspect. That is all.”
“A most horrible aspect,” said Sir George.
“Truly dreadful,” said Mr. Smith.
“This shall be settled,” said Charles, “Edwin and I will take upon
ourselves to-morrow night to set this question completely at rest.”
At this moment there was a loud cry of “Help, help, help,” in the voice
of Emma, and they all rushed up stairs with great speed.
“Oh, this way, this way,” she cried, meeting them at the head of the
stairs. “Come to Clara.”
They followed her, and when they reached the room, they found to their
horror and surprise that Clara was dead!