The Chain of Destiny, Bram Stoker [best romantic novels to read txt] 📗

The Chain of Destiny

 

By Bram Stoker

 

I. A Warning

 

It was so late in the evening when I arrived at Scarp that I had

but little opportunity of observing the external appearance of the

house; but, as far as I could judge in the dim twilight, it was a

very stately edifice of seemingly great age, built of white stone.

When I passed the porch, however, I could observe its internal

beauties much more closely, for a large wood fire burned in the

hall and all the rooms and passages were lighted. The hall was

almost baronial in its size, and opened on to a staircase of dark

oak so wide and so generous in its slope that a carriage might

almost have been driven up it. The rooms were large and lofty,

with their walls, like those of the staircase, panelled with oak

black from age. This sombre material would have made the house

intensely gloomy but for the enormous width and height of both

rooms and passages. As it was, the effect was a homely combination

of size and warmth. The windows were set in deep embrasures, and,

on the ground story, reached from quite level with the floor to

almost the ceiling. The fireplaces were quite in the old style,

large and surrounded with massive oak carvings, representing on

each some scene from Biblical history, and at the side of each

fireplace rose a pair of massive carved iron fire-dogs. It was

altogether just such a house as would have delighted the heart

of Washington Irving or Nathaniel Hawthorne.

 

The house had been lately restored; but in effecting the

restoration comfort had not been forgotten, and any modern

improvement which tended to increase the homelike appearance

of the rooms had been added. The old diamond-paned casements,

which had remained probably from the Elizabethan age, had

given place to more useful plate glass; and, in like manner,

many other changes had taken place. But so judiciously had

every change been effected that nothing of the new clashed

with the old, but the harmony of all the parts seemed

complete.

 

I thought it no wonder that Mrs. Trevor had fallen in love with

Scarp the first time she had seen it. Mrs. Trevor’s liking the place

was tantamount to her husband’s buying it, for he was so wealthy

that he could get almost anything money could purchase. He was

himself a man of good taste, but still he felt his inferiority to

his wife in this respect so much that he never dreamt of differing

in opinion from her on any matter of choice or judgment. Mrs. Trevor

had, without exception, the best taste of any one whom I ever knew,

and, strange to say, her taste was not confined to any branch of

art. She did not write, or paint, or sing; but still her judgment

in writing, painting, or music, was unquestioned by her friends.

It seemed as if nature had denied to her the power of execution in

any separate branch of art, in order to make her perfect in her

appreciation of what was beautiful and true in all. She was perfect

in the art of harmonising—the art of every-day life. Her husband

used to say, with a far-fetched joke, that her star must have been

in the House of Libra, because everything which she said and

did showed such a nicety of balance.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Trevor were the most model couple I ever

knew—they really seemed not twain, but one. They appeared

to have adopted something of the French idea of man and

wife—that they should not be the less like friends because

they were linked together by indissoluble bonds—that they

should share their pleasures as well as their sorrows. The

former outbalanced the latter, for both husband and wife

were of that happy temperament which can take pleasure from

everything, and find consolation even in the chastening

rod of affliction.

 

Still, through their web of peaceful happiness ran a thread

of care. One that cropped up in strange places, and disappeared

again, but which left a quiet tone over the whole fabric—they

had no child.

 

“They had their share of sorrow, for when time was ripe

The still affection of the heart became an outward

breathing type,

That into stillness passed again,

But left a want unknown before.”

 

There was something simple and holy in their patient endurance of

their lonely life—for lonely a house must ever be without children

to those who love truly. Theirs was not the eager, disappointed

longing of those whose union had proved fruitless. It was the

simple, patient, hopeless resignation of those who find that a

common sorrow draws them more closely together than many common

joys. I myself could note the warmth of their hearts and their

strong philoprogenitive feeling in their manner towards me.

 

From the time when I lay sick in college when Mrs. Trevor

appeared to my fever-dimmed eyes like an angel of mercy, I felt

myself growing in their hearts. Who can imagine my gratitude

to the lady who, merely because she heard of my sickness and

desolation from a college friend, came and nursed me night and

day till the fever left me. When I was sufficiently strong to

be moved she had me brought away to the country, where good air,

care, and attention soon made me stronger than ever. From that

time I became a constant visitor at the Trevors’ house; and

as month after month rolled by I felt that I was growing in their

affections. For four summers I spent my long vacation in their

house, and each year I could feel Mr. Trevor’s shake of the hand

grow heartier, and his wife’s kiss on my forehead—for so she

always saluted me—grow more tender and motherly.

 

Their liking for me had now grown so much that in their heart

of hearts—and it was a sanctum common to them both—they secretly

loved me as a son. Their love was returned manifold by the lonely

boy, whose devotion to the kindest friends of his youth and his

trouble had increased with his growth into manhood. Even in my

own heart I was ashamed to confess how I loved them both—how I

worshipped Mrs. Trevor as I adored the mother whom I had lost so

young, and whose eyes shone sometimes even then upon me, like

stars, in my sleep.

 

It is strange how timorous we are when our affections are

concerned. Merely because I had never told her how I loved her as

a mother, because she had never told me how she loved me as a son,

I used sometimes to think of her with a sort of lurking suspicion

that I was trusting too much to my imagination. Sometimes even I

would try to avoid thinking of her altogether, till my yearning

would grow too strong to be repelled, and then I would think of

her long and silently, and would love her more and more. My life

was so lonely that I clung to her as the only thing I had to love.

Of course I loved her husband, too, but I never thought about

him in the same way; for men are less demonstrative about their

affections to each other, and even acknowledge them to themselves

less.

 

Mrs. Trevor was an excellent hostess. She always let her

guests see that they were welcome, and, unless in the case of

casual visitors, that they were expected. She was, as may be

imagined, very popular with all classes; but what is more rare,

she was equally popular with both sexes. To be popular with her

own sex is the touchstone of a woman’s worth. To the houses of

the peasantry she came, they said, like an angel, and brought

comfort wherever she came. She knew the proper way to deal with

the poor; she always helped them materially, but never offended

their feelings in so doing. Young people all adored her.

 

My curiosity had been aroused as to the sort of place Scarp

was; for, in order to give me a surprise, they would not tell me

anything about it, but said that I must wait and judge it for

myself. I had looked forward to my visit with both expectation

and curiosity.

 

When I entered the hall, Mrs. Trevor came out to welcome me

and kissed me on the forehead, after her usual manner. Several

of the old servants came near, smiling and bowing, and wishing

welcome to “Master Frank.” I shook hands with several of them,

whilst their mistress looked on with a pleased smile.

 

As we went into a snug parlour, where a table was laid out with

the materials for a comfortable supper, Mrs. Trevor said to me:

 

“I am glad you came so soon, Frank. We have no one here at

present, so you will be quite alone with us for a few days; and

you will be quite alone with me this evening, for Charley is

gone to a dinner-party at Westholm.”

 

I told her that I was glad that there was no one else at Scarp,

for that I would rather be with her and her husband than any one

else in the world. She smiled as she said:

 

“Frank, if any one else said that, I would put it down as a mere

compliment; but I know you always speak the truth. It is all very

well to be alone with an old couple like Charley and me for two or

three days; but just you wait till Thursday, and you will look on

the intervening days as quite wasted.”

 

“Why?” I inquired.

 

“Because, Frank, there is a girl coming to stay with me

then, with whom I intend you to fall in love.”

 

I answered jocosely:

 

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Trevor, very much for your kind intentions—

but suppose for a moment that they should be impracticable. ‘One

man may lead a horse to the pond’s brink.’ ‘The best laid schemes

o’ mice an’ men.’ Eh?”

 

“Frank, don’t be silly. I do not want to make you fall in love

against your inclination; but I hope and I believe that you will.”

 

“Well, I’m sure I hope you won’t be disappointed; but I

never yet heard a person praised that I did not experience a

disappointment when I came to know him or her.”

 

“Frank, did I praise any one?”

 

“Well, I am vain enough to think that your saying that you knew

I would fall in love with her was a sort of indirect praise.”

 

“Dear, me, Frank, how modest you have grown. ‘A sort of indirect

praise!’ Your humility is quite touching.”

 

“May I ask who the lady is, as I am supposed to be an interested

party?”

 

“I do not know that I ought to tell you on account of your having

expressed any doubt as to her merits. Besides, I might weaken the

effect of the introduction. If I stimulate your curiosity it will be

a point in my favour.”

 

“Oh, very well; I suppose I must only wait?”

 

“Ah, well, Frank, I will tell you. It is not fair to keep you

waiting. She is a Miss Fothering.”

 

“Fothering? Fothering? I think I know that name. I remember

hearing it somewhere, a long