Vintage Vampire Stories (4 page)

I was young, you see, and although steady, and, unlike most young gentlemen of my age and position in society, had a strong vein of romance in my character. That hard study and a sense of its inutility had kept it under, had not rendered it one whit less ready to be at a moment's call; and, in addition to all this, I had never yet, in the seclusion of my student life, met with an opportunity of falling in love, so that you will see I was in the very best mood for making the most of the adventure which was about to befall me, and which had so tragic a termination.

My thoughts were full of the ‘White mad folk,' as I reached my own door; and there, to my utter astonishment, I saw drawn up the very carriage of the white house, which had preceded me. Hastily giving my horse to the groom I passed through the hall and was informed by a servant that a gentleman waited in my private consulting room.

Very rarely indeed had my well-strung nerves been so troublesome as upon that occasion; I was so anxious to see this gentleman, and yet so fearful of exposing the interest I had already conceived in his affairs, that my hand absolutely trembled as I turned the handle of the door of the room in which he was seated. The first glance, however, at the aristocratic old gentleman who rose on my entrance, restored all my self-possession, and I was myself once more. In the calm, sweet face of the perfectly dressed gentleman before me there was no trace of the lunacy that had created that strange abode near Kensington; the principal expression in his face was that of ingrained melancholy, and his deep mourning, attire might have suggested to a stranger the reason of that melancholy. He addressed me in perfect English, the entire absence of idiom alone declaring him to be a foreigner.

“I have the pleasure of addressing Doctor Elveston?” he said.

I bowed, and placed a chair in which he re-seated himself, while I myself took possession of another.

“And Doctor Elveston is a clever physician and a man of honour?”

“I hope to be worthy of the former title, sir, while my position ought at least to guarantee the latter.”

“Your public character does, sir,” said the old gentleman, emphatically, and it is because I believe that you will preserve the secret of an unfortunate family that I have chosen you to assist me with your advice.”

My heart was beating rapidly by this time. There was a secret then, and I was about to become the possessor of it. Had it anything to do with the mania for white?

“Anything in my power,” I hastened to reply, “you may depend on; my advice, I fear, may be of little worth, but such as it is-“.

“I beg your pardon, Doctor,” interrupted he, “it is your medical advice that I allude to, and I require it for a young lady—a relative.”

“My dear sir, that is, of course, an every day affair, my professional advice and services belong to the public, and as the public's they are of course yours.”

“Oh, my dear young friend, but mine is not an every day affair, and because it is not is the reason that I have applied to you in particular. It is a grievous case, sir, and one which fills many hearts with a bitterness they are obliged to smother from a world whose sneers are poison.”

The old gentleman spoke in tones of deep feeling, and I could not help feeling sorry for him at the bottom of my very heart.

“If you will confide in me, my dear sir,” I said, “believe that I will prove a friend as faithful and discreet as you could wish.”

He pressed my hand, turned away for a moment to collect his agitated feelings and then he spoke again.

“I shall not attempt to hide my name from you, sir, though I have hitherto carefully concealed it, I am the Duke de Rohan, and circumstances, which it is impossible for me to relate to you, have driven me to England to keep watch and ward over my sister's daughter, the Princess d'Alberville. It is for this young lady I wish your attendance, her health is rapidly failing within the last week.”

“Nothing can be more simple,” I observed, eagerly, “I can go with you at once—this very moment.”

“Dear Doctor, it is unfortunately far from being as simple a matter as you think,” he replied, solemnly, “for my wretched niece is mad.”

“Mad!”

“Alas! yes, frightfully—horribly mad!” and he shuddered as if a cold wind had penetrated his bones.

“Has this unhappy state of mind been of long duration?” I questioned.

“God knows; the first intimation her friends had of it was about two years ago, when it culminated in such a fearful event that horrified them. I cannot explain it to you, however, for the honour of a noble house is deeply concerned; and even the very existence of the unfortunate being I beg of you to keep a secret forever.”

“You must at any rate tell me what you wish me to do,” I observed “and give me as much information as you can to guide me, or I shall be powerless.”

“The sight of one colour has such an effect on the miserable girl that we have found out, by bitter experience, the only way to avoid a repetition of the most fearful tragedies is to keep every hue or shade away from her vision; for, although it is only one colour that affects her, any of the others seems to suggest that
one
to her mind and produce uncontrollable agitation in consequence of this she is virtually imprisoned within the grounds of the house I have provided for her; and every object that meets her eye is white, even the ground, and the very roof of the mansion.”

“How very strange!”

“It will be necessary for you, my dear sir,” the Duke continued, “to attire yourself in a suit of white. I have brought one in the carriage for your use, and if you will now accompany me I shall be grateful.”

Of course I was only too glad to avail myself of the unexpected opportunity of getting into the singular household, and becoming acquainted with the lunatic princess; and in a few moments we were being whirled on our way toward Kensington.

On stopping at the gate of the Duke's residence, I myself became an actor in the scene which had so puzzled me on two previous occasions. My companion produced two suits of white, and proceeded to turn the vehicle into a dressing-room, though not without many apologies for the necessity. I followed his example, and in a few moments we stood inside the gate, and I had an opportunity of more closely surveying the disagreeable enclosure I had seen from the church belfry. And a most disagreeable survey it was; the sun shining brilliantly, rendered the unavoidable contact with the white glare, absolutely painful to the eye; nor was it any escape to stand in the lofty vestibule, save that there the absence of sunshine made the uniformity more bearable.

My companion led the way up a broad staircase covered with white cloth, and balustraded with carved rails, the effect of which was totally destroyed by their covering of white paint. The very stair-rods were of white enamel, and the corners and landing places served as room for more marble statues, that held enamelled white lamps in their hands, lamps that were shaded by globes of ground glass. At the door of an apartment pertaining, as he informed me, to the Princess d'Alberville, the Duke stopped, and shook my hand. “I leave you to make your own way,” he said, pointing to the door. She has never showed any symptoms of violence while under the calm influence of white; but, nevertheless, we shall be at hand, the least sound will bring you assistance,” and he turned away.

I opened the door without a word, and entered the room, full of curiosity as to what I should see and hear of this mysterious princess. It was a room of vast and magnificent proportions, and, without having beheld such a scene, one can hardly conceive the strange cold look the utter absence of colour gave it. A Turkey carpet that looked like a woven fall of snow; white satin damask on chair, couch, and ottoman; draped satin and snowy lace around the windows, with rod, rings, and bracelets of white enamel. Tables with pedestals of enamel and tops of snowy marble, and paper on the walls of purest white; altogether it was a weird-looking room, and I shook with cold as I entered it.

The principal object of my curiosity was seated in a deep chair with her side toward me, and I had an opportunity of examining her leisurely, as she neither moved or took the slightest notice of my entrance; most probably she was quite unaware of it. She was the most lovely being I had ever beheld, a fair and perfect piece of statuary one might have thought, so immobile and abstracted, nay, so entirely expressionless were her beautiful features. Her dress was pure white, her hair of a pale golden hue, and her eyes dark as midnight. Her hands rested idly on her lap, her gaze seemed intent on the high white wall that shot up outside the window near her; and in the whole room there was neither book, flower, work, or one single
loose
article of ornament, nothing but the heavy, white-covered furniture, and the draping curtains. I advanced directly before her and bowed deeply, and then I calmly drew forward a chair and seated myself. As I did so she moved her eyes from the window and rested them on me, but, for all the interest they evinced, I might as well have been the whitewashed wall outside. She was once more returning her eyes to the blank window, when I took her hand and laid my fingers on her blue-veined wrist. The action seemed to arouse her, for she looked keenly into my face, and then she laughed softly.

“One may guess you are a physician,” she said, in a musical, low voice, and with a slightly foreign accent, that was in my opinion, a great improvement to our harsh language.

“I am,” I replied, with a smile, “your uncle has sent me to see about your health, which alarms him.”

“Poor man!” she said, with a shade of commiseration clouding her beautiful face, “poor uncle!” but I assure you there is nothing the matter with me; nothing but what must be the natural consequence of the life I am leading.”

“Why do you lead one which you know to be injurious then?” I asked, still keeping my fingers on the pulse, that beat as calmly as a sleeping infant's, and was not interested by a single throb though a stranger sat beside her.

“How can I help it?” she asked, calmly meeting my inquisitorial gaze, “do you think a sane person would choose to be imprisoned thus, and to be surrounded by the colour of death ever? Had mine not been a strong mind I would have been mad long ago.”

“Mad!” I could not help ejaculating, in a puzzled tone.

“Yes, mad,” she replied, “could
you
live here, month after month, in a hueless atmosphere and with nothing but
that
to look at,” and she pointed her slender finger toward the white wall, “could you, I ask, and retain your reason?”

“I do not believe I could!” I answered, with sudden vehemence, “then again I repeat why do it?”

“And again I reply, how can I help it?”

I was silent. I was looking in the eyes of the beautiful being before me for a single trace of the madness I had been told of, but I could not find it. It was a lovely girl, pale and delicate from confinement, and with a manner that told of a weariness endured at least patiently. She was about twenty years old, perhaps, and the most perfect creature, I have already said, that I had ever beheld; and so we sat looking into each other's, eyes; what mine expressed I cannot say, but hers were purity, and sweetness itself.

“Who are you?” she asked, suddenly, “tell me something of yourself. It will be at least a change from this white solitude.”

“I am a doctor, as you have guessed; and a rich and fashionable doctor,” I added smilingly.

“To be either is to be also the other,” she remarked, “you need not have used the repetition.”

“Come,” I thought to myself, “there is little appearance of lunacy in that observation.”

“But you doubtless have name, what is it?”

“My name is Elveston—Doctor Elveston.”

“Your christian name?”

“No, my christian name is Charles.”

“Charles,” she repeated dreamily.

“I think it is your turn now,” I remarked, “it is but fair that you should make me acquainted with your name, since I have told you mine.”

“Oh! my name is d'Alberville—Blanche d'Alberville. Perhaps it was in consequence of my christian name that my poor uncle decided upon burying me in white,” she added, with a look round the cold room, “poor old man!”

“Why do you pity him so?” I asked, “he seems to me little to require it. He is strong and rich, and the uncle of Blanche,” I added, with a bow; but the compliment seemed to glide off her as if it had been a liquid, and she were made of glassy marble like one of the statues that stood behind her.

“And you are a physician,” she said, looking wonderingly at me, “and have been in the Duke's company, without discovering it?”

“Discovering what, my dear young lady?”

“That he is mad.”

“Mad!” How often had I already ejaculated that word since I had become interested in this singular household; but this time it must assuredly have expressed the utmost astonishment, for I was never more confounded in my life; and yet a light seemed to be breaking in upon my bewilderment, and I stared in wondering silence at the calm face of the lovely maiden before me.

“Alas, yes!” she replied, sadly, to my look, “my poor uncle is a maniac, but a harmless one to all but me; it is I who suffer all.”