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  It was the dead of night when the poor, old woman was awakened by a stifling smoke, and starting up she dimly perceived by the obscured light, that the bed by which she had slept instead of watched, was empty! Tottering with fear and rage, confused and scarce awake, the bewildered woman followed the first instinct of self-preservation, and hurried down the stairs and out of the cottage door. Recalled to sense by the free air, she looked up and saw the flames bursting from the casements of the upper rooms. A recollection of her ill-fated daughter then thronged upon her brain, and over-powered her feeble strength. With cries of impotent terror, she tottered a few paces and fell senseless to the earth, just as a post chaise, driving furiously, appeared in sight on the brow of the hill. Then it stopped and Lindsay, who probably feared that the sound of his carriage might startle his Mary, sprung out to be greeted with—oh, sight of horror! the cottage which contained her, bursting into flames. He rushed madly down the hill, followed scarcely less rapidly by Dr. Burton, and came in front of the blazing building in time to hear a maniac laugh which rung to the silent sky, and to see—merciful God!—the form of his wretched wife standing at the casement, holding in one arm the body of her dead infant and with the other wildly brandishing a blazing billet of wood! There she stood one moment, her white dress already on fire, her beautiful face and flowing hair distinctly visible by the eddying flames, looking like the spirit of fire presiding over her native element. The next instant and the light material of the cottage gave way, and with a single crash, roof, walls, and floors fell in, burying her in the bursting volume of fire, from which the words still seemed to sound—

  “No grave for us, my child! no grave for us!”

  The terrible catastrophe was too clearly understood. The madness of the ill-fated Mary on one theme which had only slumbered, was aroused in full force by the sight of death, but with the cunning peculiar to monomania, she had concealed her purpose until she was unwatched, then with her own desperate hand, she had seized a brand from the chimney and like a second Mynha, fired her own funeral pyre. Her first, last, and strongest wish was awfully granted, for her no grave was dug—no earth closed over her mortal clay—the woe-worn spirit passed in madness to its maker and its earthly tenement found a burial by fire.

  THE 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 woma
n, 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!