Читать книгу The Macabre Megapack - Lafcadio Hearn - Страница 9
ОглавлениеTHE VAMPYRE, by Elizabeth Ellet
(1849)
About a century ago, there might have been seen, in a remote part of Scotland, the ruins of a castle, which once belonged to the baronial race Davenat. It stood on a hill of no considerable elevation: but the massive and ancient trees that had escaped the sacrilegious axe, and the clinging ivy, which protected the roofless walls, gave it a venerable aspect. The peasantry told wild stories of the ancient lords of that domain—the family had long been extinct—and of their heroic deeds at home and abroad. When the ruins themselves were levelled to make way for a modern edifice, the superstitious tales connected therewith were gradually dropped, and at length passed from the minds of men; yet one may not be deemed unworthy of preservation.
On a beautiful afternoon in spring, two figures might have been seen on the terrace that overlooked the smooth, sloping lawn in front of the castle. The one was an elderly man, in deep mourning—no other, in short, than the lord of the mansion, Sir Aubrey Davenat, who, since the death of his wife many years before, had worn the sombre dress which was but an emblem of the gloom in his heart.
The Baron was highly respected by his neighbors and acquaintances—few of whom enjoyed his intimacy. He was brave, and generous almost to a fault; and so scrupulous was his regard for truth—so rigidly was his word kept, even when the fulfillment of a promise involved pain or trouble to himself—that his simple assertion was more implicitly relied on than the oath of another. Withal, there was a sternness about him, amounting, at times, to severity. He showed little indulgence towards faults of which he himself was incapable, and those who knew him best stood most in awe of him.
Although Sir Aubrey manifested, by his uniform melancholy, how fondly he clung to the memory of his departed wife, he never made the least allusion to her in conversation. Yet, that his heart was not dead to affection, appeared from his devoted love for his only child—Malvine—the living image of her lost mother.
The other person on the terrace was this cherished daughter. She had just completed her seventeenth year, and was celebrated through all the adjoining districts for her rare and luxuriant beauty. Unconscious of the admiration she commanded, Malvine loved best to cheer the solitude of her only surviving parent, and seemed to feel interest in none but him.
Yes—there was one other with whom she had grown from childhood, whom she loved as a brother, and who was, in truth, of blood kindred to her own, though not of close consanguinity. Edgar was the orphan son of a cousin—twice removed—of Sir Aubrey. Left destitute by the death of both of his parents, he had been taken into his kinsman’s house, and brought up with the same care and tenderness he would have bestowed upon his own son.
Three years before, Edgar had been sent to the continent on his travels, by his kind foster-father. His return was now expected—it had been announced—and it was in the hope of greeting the young cavalier that the father and daughter stood waiting for so long, looking down the broad road that swept around the hill at the foot of the castle.
A light cloud of dust floated above the tall old oaks on the roadside, and the plume of a horseman might be seen at intervals through the foliage.
“He comes!” cried Malvine, turning, with a happy smile, to her father, on whose face was a cheerful expression rarely seen.
The traveller skirted and ascended the hill: the bell at the castle gate sounded, and in a few moments Edgar was folded in the embrace of his noble kinsman.
Less impetuous was the greeting exchanged between the young man and the fair girl, whom he left a child and found now in the bloom of blushing womanhood. The luxuriance of blond hair, that once floated free, was confined by the ribbon worn by Scottish maidens of that day, save one light, neglected ringlet, that fell down her neck almost to the waist; the deep blue eyes that had formerly the wild, unshrinking, though soft boldness of the young fawn, now shot timid glances from their veil of shadowy lashes, or were bent modestly to the ground; the fair cheeks wore an added tint of rose, and the lips a smile that had less of sportiveness, and more of feeling. The charm of gracious youth encircled her as with a sacred spell, forbidding familiar approach.
But as Edgar, with a new-born respect, clasped the hand of his fair cousin, the feeling that sprung to life in his bosom was far warmer than the affection of his boyhood. Admiration—called forth by her surpassing loveliness—was ripening quickly into love.
It was not long ere the secret of his heart was revealed to him; and the rapturous thought came also, that the beautiful girl did not regard him with indifference, and might soon learn to love him. Who else had she, but himself, as companion in her walks, her studies, her gentle tastes? Who else could accompany her as she played the harp, and sang the wild songs of her country? Who else would ride by her side through the forest and bring her flowers, and train her hawks, and read to her tales of ancient lore?
“But whither trends all this?” was the stern question asked by the young man’s conscience. “Shall I lift my eyes to the daughter and sole heir of Davenat? Shall I aspire to her hand?—I, who can cal nothing mine own?—who owe even my sword to her father’s bounty?”
Painfully did the youth brood over these queries; and he answered them as became a man of truth and honor. He resolved to ask permission of his foster-father to go forth again into the world.
This resolution was immediately acted upon. Sir Aubrey listened in surprise to the request, looked earnestly on his young protégé, and asked with mild gravity—what had happened to make him to escape so soon from the house and company of his kinsman.
This inquiry implied a suspicion of ingratitude, or weariness of so lonely a home; and the thought pierced Edgar’s heart. It was better to disclose all his feelings. Better that Sir Aubrey should know and condemn his presumption, than believe him capable of a base forgetfulness of the benefits he had received.
The tale was soon told. The Baron said, at its conclusion—
“Thou know’st, Edgar, I have always loved thee as a son; and were it not that my word is pledged elsewhere, I would myself place my daughter’s hand in thine. Thy lineage is unstained and noble as my own; and thy poverty would not render thee unworthy of Malvine. Thou know’st how long and obstinate has been the feud between our race and the Lords of Marsden, whose domain borders on mine. Lord George—the proudest of all the descendants of that haughty line—sent on his deathbed to entreat my presence. I went—I entered his castle as a foe, deeming that he wished to see me on some matter of business. He offered me his hand and spoke words of reconciliation. He besought me to bestow my daughter on his younger brother, Ruthven, the last representative of the family. Thus the name would be preserved from extinction—for his brother had sworn he would wed no other—and our possessions would be united.
“I had heard naught but good of young Ruthven, who shortly before had set out on his travels. The Marsdens were of a proud, powerful and renowned race. I pledged the hand of Malvine; and from that day she has considered herself the betrothed of the young lord. I learned but the other day from the castellan, that he is expected soon to return home. He will then wed my daughter.”
Edgar looked down for some moments in gloomy silence. At last, with a sudden effort, he said—
“Then I must depart—noble kinsman! Tomorrow—today—”
“Not so!” cried the Baron. “Thy duty, Edgar, is to be a man! Flee not from danger, like a weak, faint-hearted churl! Take the knowledge to thy heart, that she whom thou lovest is happy—her troth being plighted to another; and respect her innocence and truth! She loves thee as a brother: crush down thine ill-fated passion, and be to her a brother, indeed!”
“What do you ask?” faltered Edgar.
“Not more than thou canst accomplish, my true-hearted friend!” answered Sir Aubrey. “Will you deny me this one boon?”
“No!” said the young man; and though the conflict of his soul was evident, so also was the victory he obtained, when, with the dignity of virtuous resolution, he pressed the hand of his benefactor.
After this, Edgar continued to be the joy of the household, though he spent little time alone with Malvine. In the evening circle, he would entertain them with anecdotes of his foreign travel, and the strange countries he had visited. One night, when a storm raved without, and the quiet circle was formed, as usual, in the antique hall, through the crevices of which rushed the wind, flaring the candles, and chilling those who felt it, Malvine observed that Edgar was less cheerful than usual, and that his looks were bent in abstraction upon the ground.
“What aileth my good cousin?” she said, playfully, at length. “You were so merry and full of tales erewhile! Why now are you so grave and silent? ’Tis but ill weather for the season, but there are warm hearts and glowing fires within doors.”
The young man passed his hand across his brow.
“I pray your pardon,” he replied, “that I thus forget myself in gloomy recollections, but the storm conjured up such. It was on such a night, in Italy, that I met with one of those whose like I pray unto Heaven I may never more see!”
“Ha!” exclaimed the Baron, “another adventure! Let us have it, boy! Come, we need some wild tale to enliven this dreary evening!” And Malvine joined her entreaty that he would relate the occurrence.
After a few preliminaries, Edgar proceeded.
“I left Rome when the sickly season was at its height, for an excursion among the mountains of Albania. One day, while riding through a romantic valley, I chanced to overtake a young cavalier whom, at the first glance, I decided to be a countryman of my own.
“I was not mistaken; he was a Scot, of noble birth. We soon became acquainted and as generally happens with those of the same country in a foreign land, warm friends.
“Sir Arthur Dumbrin—that was his name—told me he had lived three years in Italy, and had some weeks before arrived in Rome from Naples. He had lingered there too long; the malaria had planted in his system the seeds of fever, of which he lay for many days ill at Albano. From this illness he had just recovered. This circumstance explained what had at first startled me, producing even a feeling akin to fear—his singular and excessive paleness. His features were fine and well-marked—but his complexion was the hue of death; and there was a look of coldness, or rather of vacancy, in his large black eyes, that sometimes inclined me to believe his mind unsettled by his recent suffering. He invited me to visit him at Albano, where he had just purchased a villa; and called upon me the following day at my lodgings.
“I resided at that time with an elderly woman, of much excellence of character, who had a daughter—Nazarena—of singular loveliness. In the bloom of fifteen, an unspoiled child of nature, the artless innocence that appeared in her face and manners, and in all her actions, was irresistibly engaging. She looked upon all she met as good and true, because she judged others by her own heart, and she thought evil of none. With this cheerful kindliness of disposition, I was surprised to see her shrink back suddenly, with evident and instinctive aversion and terror, when she saw my friend and countryman for the first time. As was natural, I asked the reason of this involuntary repulsion.
“‘His eyes!’ she exclaimed; ‘those terrible eyes! I do not like your friend.’
“Donna Ursula, her mother, also confessed to me that the strange, cold look—the soulless look, as she called it—of the Baron, filled her with a secret dread whenever she saw him.
“It was not long, however, before they became quite accustomed to the corpse-like paleness of my friend, and he won greatly upon their regard when some time afterwards, at the imminent hazard of his life, he rescued me from robbers, who fell upon me while I was riding over the mountain. I had given myself up for lost, after ineffectual resistance, when Arthur suddenly sprang from behind a rock, and drawing his weapon, soon put the robbers to flight. From this day, both Ursula and her daughter treated him with confidence; and he occasionally bantered me by saying he had turned me out of my place in the heart of the charming Nazarena.
“I had never cherished any feeling stronger than friendship for the sweet girl; and could readily forgive the preference she now showed to my friend. But I feared for her; the more so as I was not pleased with the Baron’s demeanor towards her or the principles he avowed. The regard I felt for him, however, and gratitude towards the preserver of my life, prevented me from expressing my displeasure openly. I was silent, though I knew his views with regard to women were unbecoming a nobleman and a Scot! Bitterly have I since rued that unworthy silence.
“To be brief—the fair Nazarena fled from the house of her mother. Vain was the search of the wretched parent the next day for her lost child; and heart-rending was the question—‘Who was the betrayer?’ Alas! I knew but too well—yet dared not name him!
“After three days, some peasants discovered the corpse of a female in the neighboring wood. It was Nazarena. On the neck of the helpless girl was a small puncture, scarcely visible indeed; but there was otherwise no wound on the body. A fine stiletto lay on the ground near her. I shuddered with horror when her eyes fell on this instrument of death. I knew it instantly: it was the weapon Arthur wore constantly about his person. I communicated my knowledge to the authorities; officers were dispatched to arrest the criminal; but he had disappeared. I have never heard aught of him.”
“Heaven guard you, young man!” exclaimed the aged nurse of Malvine; “your friend was a Vampyre!”
“A Vampyre!” repeated Edgar, “and what is that, I pray?”
“Holy Maria!” cried the nurse, lifting up both her hands; “the man is a Scot, and knows not what a Vampyre is!”
“P’shaw! Nursery fables!” cried Sir Aubrey, half vexed, half laughing.
“A Vampyre,” continued the old woman, forgetting respect in her interest, “is a dead person, who, on account of his sins, can find no repose in the grave, but is bound to the service of witches and sorcerers. Every year, on Walpurgis night, he is forced to attend the Witches’ Sabbath, and swear a fearful oath to deliver to them a guiltless victim before the month is at an end. He marks out some tender maiden or tender youth as his victim, whom he kills and sucks the blood. If he fails to fulfill the oath, he falls himself a prey—and the witches deliver him to Satan as his forever and ever!”
“Strange,” Edgar muttered. “It was in May that the terrible event occurred of which I spoke.”
“Yes—yes!” cried the nurse eagerly; “I am not so mistaken!” And turning to her young mistress she besought her to sing the legend of the Vampyre which she had once learned of a wandering harper.
Malvine was ever ready to gratify her favorite attendant, who had been, in truth, a mother to her; and when her harp was brought, sang after a prelude—
The Legend
I.
Mother—behold
The pale man there—
With haughty air,
And look so cold!
“—Child—child beware
The pale man there!
Turn thee away
Or thou’rt his prey!
Ah! Many a maiden, young and fair,
Hath fallen his victim, in the snare!
Hath drunken death
From his poisonous breath:
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 self-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 was 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”—
“Take the madman away!” thundered Sir Aubrey, in a rage.
Several of the attendants lay hold of Edgar. Struggling as if for his life, his eyes flashing, his hands stretched towards Ruthven, he repeated—“He is”—
The clock on the tower struck one.
“A Vampyre!” shouted the young man.
There was a gleam of lightning filling the chapel with a glare that eclipsed the torchlight, and a burst of thunder that shook the whole castle from its massive foundations. Many averred afterwards that the face of Lord Ruthven, livid and ghastly in that intense light—wore such a look of fierce despair as never was seen on mortal countenance before. When the thunder ceased, he had disappeared, and the bride lay in a swoon on the steps of the altar.
When the first stunning moment of consternation and horror had passed, the proud baron turned to embrace his young kinsman, whose warning had saved his daughter. But Edgar heard not his thanks. The agony, the terror he had suffered, had driven reason from her throne!
A year elapsed before the young man was restored to consciousness, but peace returned no more to his breast! He went to Rome, where he entered a convent of the strictest order, and in a few years was released by death from the melancholy that had made life a burden.
Malvine mourned sincerely for her friend and cousins’ suffering, and wished also to become the inmate of a cloister; but the entreaties of her father prevailed with her to relinquish the thought of thus retiring from the world. After some time she was induced to listen to the suit of the real Lord of Marsden, who had arrived at his castle shortly after the tragic occurrences related. She had never cause to regret her marriage with him.
