The Chain of Destiny by Bram Stoker (non fiction books to read .txt) 📕

in the tavern down in the

village, composed of very respectable men, sir—very respectable

men, indeed—and they asked me to be their chairman. I spoke to the

master about it, and he gave me leave to accept their proposal.

I accepted it as they made a point of it; and from my position I

have of course a fine opportunity of making inquiries. It was at

the club, sir, that I was, last night, so that I was not here to

attend on you, which I hope that you will excuse.”

 

Parks’s air of mingled pride and condescension, as he made

the announcement of the club, was very fine, and the effect was

heightened by the confiding frankness with which he spoke. I

asked him if he could find no clue to any of the legends which

must have existed about such an old place. He answered with a

very slight reluctance—

 

“Well, sir, there was one woman in the village who was

awfully old and doting, and she evidently knew something about

Scarp, for when she heard the name she mumbled out something

about ‘awful stories,’ and ‘times of horror,’ and such like

things, but I couldn’t make her understand what it was I wanted

to know, or keep her up to the point.”

 

“And have you tried often, Parks? Why do you not try again?”

 

“She is dead, sir!”

 

I had felt inclined to laugh at Parks when he was telling me

of the old woman. The way in which he gloated over the words

“awful stories,” and “times of horror,” was beyond the power of

description; it should have been heard and seen to have been

properly appreciated. His voice became deep and mysterious, and

he almost smacked his lips at the thought of so much pabulum for

nightmares. But when he calmly told me that the woman was dead,

a sense of blankness, mingled with awe, came upon me. Here, the

last link between myself and the mysterious past was broken,

never to be mended. All the rich stores of legend and tradition

that had arisen from strange conjunctures of circumstances, and

from the belief and imagination of long lines of villagers, loyal

to their suzerain lord, were lost forever. I felt quite sad and

disappointed; and no attempt was made either by Parks or myself

to continue the conversation. Mr. Trevor came presently into my

room, and having greeted each other warmly we went together to

breakfast.

 

At breakfast Mrs. Trevor asked me what I thought of the

girl’s portrait in my bedroom. We had often had discussions as

to characters in faces for we were both physiognomists, and she

asked the question as if she were really curious to hear my

opinion. I told her that I had only seen it for a short time,

and so would rather not attempt to give a final opinion without

a more careful study; but from what I had seen of it I had been

favourably impressed.

 

“Well, Frank, after breakfast go and look at it again carefully,

and then tell me exactly what you think about it.”

 

After breakfast I did as directed and returned to the breakfast

room, where Mrs. Trevor was still sitting.

 

“Well, Frank, what is your opinion—mind, correctly. I want it

for a particular reason.”

 

I told her what I thought of the girl’s character; which, if

there be any truth in physiognomy, must have been a very fine one.

 

“Then you like the face?”

 

I answered—

 

“It is a great pity that we have none such now-a-days. They

seem to have died out with Sir Joshua and Greuze. If I could meet

such a girl as I believe the prototype of that portrait to have

been I would never be happy till I had made her my wife.”

 

To my intense astonishment my hostess jumped up and clapped her

hands. I asked her why she did it, and she laughed as she replied

in a mocking tone imitating my own voice—

 

“But suppose for a moment that your kind intentions should be

frustrated. ‘One man may lead a horse to the pond’s brink.’ ‘The

best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men.’ Eh?”

 

“Well,” said I, “there may be some point in the observation.

I suppose there must be since you have made it. But for my part I

don’t see it.”

 

“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Frank, that that portrait might have

been painted for Diana Fothering.”

 

I felt a blush stealing over my face. She observed it and took

my hand between hers as we sat down on the sofa, and said to me

tenderly—

 

“Frank, my dear boy, I intend to jest with you no more on the

subject. I have a conviction that you will like Diana, which has

been strengthened by your admiration for her portrait, and from

what I know of human nature I am sure that she will like you.

Charley and I both wish to see you married, and we would not think

of a wife for you who was not in every way eligible. I have never

in my life met a girl like Di; and if you and she fancy each other

it will be Charley’s pleasure and my own to enable you to marry—as

far as means are concerned. Now, don’t speak. You must know

perfectly well how much we both love you. We have always regarded

you as our son, and we intend to treat you as our only child when

it pleases God to separate us. There now, think the matter over,

after you have seen Diana. But, mind me, unless you love each other

well and truly, we would far rather not see you married. At all

events, whatever may happen you have our best wishes and prayers

for your happiness. God bless you, Frank, my dear, dear boy.”

 

There were tears in her eyes as she spoke. When she had finished

she leaned over, drew down my head and kissed my forehead very, very

tenderly, and then got up softly and left the room. I felt inclined

to cry myself. Her words to me were tender, and sensible, and

womanly, but I cannot attempt to describe the infinite tenderness

and gentleness of her voice and manner. I prayed for every blessing

on her in my secret heart, and the swelling of my throat did not

prevent my prayers finding voice. There may have been women in the

world like Mrs. Trevor, but if there had been I had never met any

of them, except herself.

 

As may be imagined, I was most anxious to see Miss Fothering, and

or the remainder of the day she was constantly in my thoughts. That

evening a letter came from the younger Miss Fothering apologising

for her not being able to keep her promise with reference to her

visit, on account of the unexpected arrival of her aunt, with whom

she was obliged to go to Paris for some months. That night I slept

in my new room, and had neither dream nor vision. I awoke in the

morning half ashamed of having ever paid any attention to such a

silly circumstance as a strange dream in my first night in an old

house.

 

After breakfast next morning, as I was going along the corridor,

I saw the door of my old bedroom open, and went in to have another

look at the portrait. Whilst I was looking at it I began to wonder

how it could be that it was so like Miss Fothering as Mrs. Trevor

said it was. The more I thought of this the more it puzzled me,

till suddenly the dream came back—the face in the picture, and the

figure in the bed, the phantoms out in the night, and the ominous

words—“The fairest and the best.” As I thought of these things all

the possibilities of the lost legends of the old house thronged so

quickly into my mind that I began to feel a buzzing in my ears and

my head began to swim, so that I was obliged to sit down.

 

“Could it be possible,” I asked myself, “that some old curse

hangs over the race that once dwelt within these walls, and can

she be of that race? Such things have been before now!”

 

The idea was a terrible one for me, for it made to me a

reality that which I had come to look upon as merely the dream

of a distempered imagination. If the thought had come to me in

the darkness and stillness of the night it would have been awful.

How happy I was that it had come by daylight, when the sun was

shining brightly, and the air was cheerful with the trilling of

the song birds, and the lively, strident cawing from the old

rookery.

 

I stayed in the room for some little time longer, thinking over

the scene, and, as is natural, when I had got over the remnants of

my fear, my reason began to question the genuineness of the dream.

I began to look for the internal evidence of the

untruth to facts; but, after thinking earnestly for some time the

only fact that seemed to me of any importance was the confirmatory

one of the younger Miss Fothering’s apology. In the dream the

frightened girl had been alone, and the mere fact of two girls

coming on a visit had seemed a sort of disproof of its truth. But,

just as if things were conspiring to force on the truth of the

dream, one of the sisters was not to come, and the other was she

who resembled the portrait whose prototype I had seen sleeping in

a vision. I could hardly imagine that I had only dreamt.

 

I determined to ask Mrs. Trevor if she could explain in any way

Miss Fothering’s resemblance to the portrait, and so went at once

to seek her.

 

I found her in the large drawingroom alone, and, after a few

casual remarks, I broached the subject on which I had come to

seek for information. She had not said anything further to me

about marrying since our conversation on the previous day, but

when I mentioned Miss Fothering’s name I could see a glad look

on her face which gave me great pleasure. She made none of those

vulgar commonplace remarks which many women find it necessary to

make when talking to a man about a girl for whom he is supposed

to have an affection, but by her manner she put me entirely at my

ease, as I sat fidgeting on the sofa, pulling purposelessly the

woolly tufts of an antimacassar, painfully conscious that my

cheeks were red, and my voice slightly forced and unnatural.

 

She merely said, “Of course, Frank, I am ready if you want

to talk about Miss Fothering, or any other subject.” She then put

a marker in her book and laid it aside, and, folding her arms,

looked at me with a grave, kind, expectant smile.

 

I asked her if she knew anything about the family history of

Miss Fothering. She answered—

 

“Not further than I have already told you. Her father’s is a

fine old family, although reduced in circumstances.”

 

“Has it ever been connected with any family in this county?

With the former owners of Scarp, for instance?”

 

“Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”

 

“I want to find out how she comes to be so like that portrait.”

 

“I never thought of that. It may be that there was some remote

connection between her family and the Kirks who formerly owned

Scarp. I will ask her when she comes. Or stay. Let us go and look

if there