Dracula's Guest
tell you when you are to get on with the work.” So the foreman went
away, and his comment to his master was:
“I’d send in the bill, sir, for the work already done. “Pears to me
that money’s a little shaky in that quarter.”
Once or twice Delandre tried to stop Brent on the road, and, at last,
finding that he could not attain his object rode after the carriage,
calling out:
“What has become of my sister, your wife?” Geoffrey lashed his horses
into a gallop, and the other, seeing from his white face and from his
wife’s collapse almost into a faint that his object was attained, rode
away with a scowl and a laugh.
That night when Geoffrey went into the hall he passed over to the great
fireplace, and all at once started back with a smothered cry. Then with
an effort he pulled himself together and went away, returning with a
light. He bent down over the broken hearth-stone to see if the
moonlight falling through the storied window had in any way deceived
him. Then with a groan of anguish he sank to his knees.
There, sure enough, through the crack in the broken stone were
protruding a multitude of threads of golden hair just tinged with grey!
He was disturbed by a noise at the door, and looking round, saw his
wife standing in the doorway. In the desperation of the moment he took
action to prevent discovery, and lighting a match at the lamp, stooped
down and burned away the hair that rose through the broken stone. Then
rising nonchalantly as he could, he pretended surprise at seeing his
wife beside him.
For the next week he lived in an agony; for, whether by accident or
design, he could not find himself alone in the hall for any length of
time. At each visit the hair had grown afresh through the crack, and he
had to watch it carefully lest his terrible secret should be
discovered. He tried to find a receptacle for the body of the murdered
woman outside the house, but someone always interrupted him; and once,
when he was coming out of the private doorway, he was met by his wife,
who began to question him about it, and manifested surprise that she
should not have before noticed the key which he now reluctantly showed
her. Geoffrey dearly and passionately loved his wife, so that any
possibility of her discovering his dread secrets, or even of doubting
him, filled him with anguish; and after a couple of days had passed, he
could not help coming to the conclusion that, at least, she suspected
something.
That very evening she came into the hall after her drive and found him
there sitting moodily by the deserted fireplace. She spoke to him
directly.
“Geoffrey, I have been spoken to by that fellow Delandre, and he says
horrible things. He tells to me that a week ago his sister returned to
his house, the wreck and ruin of her former self, with only her golden
hair as of old, and announced some fell intention. He asked me where
she is—and oh, Geoffrey, she is dead, she is dead! So how can she have
returned? Oh! I am in dread, and I know not where to turn!”
For answer, Geoffrey burst into a torrent of blasphemy which made her
shudder. He cursed Delandre and his sister and all their kind, and in
especial he hurled curse after curse on her golden hair.
“Oh, hush! hush!” she said, and was then silent, for she feared her
husband when she saw the evil effect of his humour. Geoffrey in the
torrent of his anger stood up and moved away from the hearth; but
suddenly stopped as he saw a new look of terror in his wife’s eyes. He
followed their glance, and then he too, shuddered—for there on the
broken hearth-stone lay a golden streak as the point of the hair rose
though the crack.
“Look, look!” she shrieked. “Is it some ghost of the dead! Come
away—come away!” and seizing her husband by the wrist with the frenzy
of madness, she pulled him from the room.
That night she was in a raging fever. The doctor of the district
attended her at once, and special aid was telegraphed for to London.
Geoffrey was in despair, and in his anguish at the danger of his young
wife almost forgot his own crime and its consequences. In the evening
the doctor had to leave to attend to others; but he left Geoffrey in
charge of his wife. His last words were:
“Remember, you must humour her till I come in the morning, or till some
other doctor has her case in hand. What you have to dread is another
attack of emotion. See that she is kept warm. Nothing more can be
done.”
Late in the evening, when the rest of the household had retired,
Geoffrey’s wife got up from her bed and called to her husband.
“Come!” she said. “Come to the old hall! I know where the gold comes
from! I want to see it grow!”
Geoffrey would fain have stopped her, but he feared for her life or
reason on the one hand, and lest in a paroxysm she should shriek out
her terrible suspicion, and seeing that it was useless to try to
prevent her, wrapped a warm rug around her and went with her to the old
hall. When they entered, she turned and shut the door and locked it.
“We want no strangers amongst us three tonight!” she whispered with a
wan smile.
“We three! nay we are but two,” said Geoffrey with a shudder; he feared
to say more.
“Sit here,” said his wife as she put out the light. “Sit here by the
hearth and watch the gold growing. The silver moonlight is jealous!
See, it steals along the floor towards the gold—our gold!” Geoffrey
looked with growing horror, and saw that during the hours that had
passed the golden hair had protruded further through the broken
hearth-stone. He tried to hide it by placing his feet over the broken
place; and his wife, drawing her chair beside him, leant over and laid
her head on his shoulder.
“Now do not stir, dear,” she said; “let us sit still and watch. We
shall find the secret of the growing gold!” He passed his arm round her
and sat silent; and as the moonlight stole along the floor she sank to
sleep.
He feared to wake her; and so sat silent and miserable as the hours
stole away.
Before his horror-struck eyes the golden-hair from the broken stone
grew and grew; and as it increased, so his heart got colder and colder,
till at last he had not power to stir, and sat with eyes full of terror
watching his doom.
In the morning when the London doctor came, neither Geoffrey nor his
wife could be found. Search was made in all the rooms, but without
avail. As a last resource the great door of the old hall was broken
open, and those who entered saw a grim and sorry sight.
There by the deserted hearth Geoffrey Brent and his young wife sat cold
and white and dead. Her face was peaceful, and her eyes were closed in
sleep; but his face was a sight that made all who saw it shudder, for
there was on it a look of unutterable horror. The eyes were open and
stared glassily at his feet, which were twined with tresses of golden
hair, streaked with grey, which came through the broken hearth-stone.
The Gipsy Prophecy
“I really think,” said the Doctor, “that, at any rate, one of us should
go and try whether or not the thing is an imposture.”
“Good!” said Considine. “After dinner we will take our cigars and
stroll over to the camp.”
Accordingly, when the dinner was over, and the _La Tour_ finished,
Joshua Considine and his friend, Dr Burleigh, went over to the east
side of the moor, where the gipsy encampment lay. As they were leaving,
Mary Considine, who had walked as far as the end of the garden where it
opened into the laneway, called after her husband:
“Mind, Joshua, you are to give them a fair chance, but don’t give them
any clue to a fortune—and don’t you get flirting with any of the gipsy
maidens—and take care to keep Gerald out of harm.”
For answer Considine held up his hand, as if taking a stage oath, and
whistled the air of the old song, “The Gipsy Countess.” Gerald joined
in the strain, and then, breaking into merry laughter, the two men
passed along the laneway to the common, turning now and then to wave
their hands to Mary, who leaned over the gate, in the twilight, looking
after them.
It was a lovely evening in the summer; the very air was full of rest
and quiet happiness, as though an outward type of the peacefulness and
joy which made a heaven of the home of the young married folk.
Considine’s life had not been an eventful one. The only disturbing
element which he had ever known was in his wooing of Mary Winston, and
the long-continued objection of her ambitious parents, who expected a
brilliant match for their only daughter. When Mr. and Mrs. Winston had
discovered the attachment of the young barrister, they had tried to
keep the young people apart by sending their daughter away for a long
round of visits, having made her promise not to correspond with her
lover during her absence. Love, however, had stood the test. Neither
absence nor neglect seemed to cool the passion of the young man, and
jealousy seemed a thing unknown to his sanguine nature; so, after a
long period of waiting, the parents had given in, and the young folk
were married.
They had been living in the cottage a few months, and were just
beginning to feel at home. Gerald Burleigh, Joshua’s old college chum,
and himself a sometime victim of Mary’s beauty, had arrived a week
before, to stay with them for as long a time as he could tear himself
away from his work in London.
When her husband had quite disappeared Mary went into the house, and,
sitting down at the piano, gave an hour to Mendelssohn.
It was but a short walk across the common, and before the cigars
required renewing the two men had reached the gipsy camp. The place was
as picturesque as gipsy camps—when in villages and when business is
good—usually are. There were some few persons round the fire, investing
their money in prophecy, and a large number of others, poorer or more
parsimonious, who stayed just outside the bounds but near enough to see
all that went on.
As the two gentlemen approached, the villagers, who knew Joshua, made
way a little, and a pretty, keen-eyed gipsy girl tripped up and asked
to tell their fortunes. Joshua held out his hand, but the girl, without
seeming to see it, stared at his face in a very odd manner. Gerald
nudged him:
“You must cross her hand with silver,” he said. “It is one of the most
important parts of the mystery.” Joshua took from his pocket a
half-crown and held it out to her, but, without looking at it, she
answered:
“You have to cross the gipsy’s hand with gold.”
Gerald laughed. “You are at a premium as a subject,” he said. Joshua
was of the kind of man—the universal kind—who can tolerate being stared
at by a pretty girl; so, with some little deliberation, he answered:
“All right; here you are, my pretty girl; but you must give me a real
good fortune for it,” and he handed her a half sovereign, which she
took, saying:
“It is not for me to give good fortune or bad, but only to read what
the Stars have said.” She took his right hand and turned it palm
upward; but the instant her eyes met it she dropped it as though it had
been red hot, and, with a startled look, glided swiftly away. Lifting
the curtain of the large tent, which occupied the centre of the camp,
she disappeared within.
“Sold again!” said the cynical Gerald. Joshua stood a little amazed,
and not altogether satisfied. They both watched the large tent. In a
few moments there emerged from the opening not the young girl, but a
stately looking woman of middle age and commanding presence.
The instant she appeared the whole camp seemed to stand still. The
clamour of tongues, the laughter and noise of the work were, for a
second or two, arrested, and every man or woman who sat, or crouched,
or lay, stood up and faced the imperial looking gipsy.
“The Queen, of course,” murmured Gerald. “We are in luck tonight.” The