The Chain of Destiny by Bram Stoker (read full novel TXT) 📖
- Author: Bram Stoker
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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
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