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

is any old book or tree in the library that will throw

a light upon the subject. We have rather a good library now, Frank,

for we have all our own books, and all those which belonged to

the Scarp library also. They are in great disorder, for we have

been waiting till you came to arrange them, for we knew that you

delighted in such work.”

 

“There is nothing I should enjoy more than arranging all these

splendid books. What a magnificent library. It is almost a pity to

keep it in a private house.”

 

We proceeded to look for some of those old books of family

history which are occasionally to be found in old county houses.

The library of Scarp, I saw, was very valuable, and as we prosecuted

our search I came across many splendid and rare volumes which I

determined to examine at my leisure, for I had come to Scarp for a

long visit.

 

We searched first in the old folio shelves, and, after some few

disappointments, found at length a large volume, magnificently

printed and bound, which contained views and plans of the house,

illuminations of the armorial bearings of the family of Kirk, and

all the families with whom it was connected, and having the history

of all these families carefully set forth. It was called on the

title-page “The Book of Kirk,” and was full of anecdotes and legends,

and contained a large stock of family tradition. As this was exactly

the book which we required, we searched no further, but, having

carefully dusted the volume, bore it to Mrs. Trevor’s boudoir where

we could look over it quite undisturbed.

 

On looking in the index, we found the name of Fothering

mentioned, and on turning to the page specified, found the arms

of Kirk quartered on those of Fothering. From the text we learned

that one of the daughters of Kirk had, in the year 1573, married

the brother of Fothering against the united wills of her father and

brother, and that after a bitter feud of some ten or twelve years,

the latter, then master of Scarp, had met the brother of Fothering

in a duel and had killed him. Upon receiving the news Fothering had

sworn a great oath to revenge his brother, invoking the most fearful

curses upon himself and his race if he should fail to cut off the

hand that had slain his brother, and to nail it over the gate of

Fothering. The feud then became so bitter that Kirk seems to have

gone quite mad on the subject. When he heard of Fothering’s oath he

knew that he had but little chance of escape, since his enemy was

his master at every weapon; so he determined upon a mode of revenge

which, although costing him his own life, he fondly hoped would

accomplish the eternal destruction of his brother-in-law through

his violated oath. He sent Fothering a letter cursing him and his

race, and praying for the consummation of his own curse invoked

in case of failure. He concluded his missive by a prayer for the

complete destruction, soul, mind, and body, of the first Fothering

who should enter the gate of Scarp, who he hoped would be the

fairest and best of the race. Having despatched this letter he

cut off his right hand and threw it into the centre of a roaring

fire, which he had made for the purpose. When it was entirely

consumed he threw himself upon his sword, and so died.

 

A cold shiver went through me when I read the words “fairest

and best.” All my dream came back in a moment, and I seemed to hear

in my ears again the echo of the fiendish laughter. I looked up at

Mrs. Trevor, and saw that she had become very grave.Her face had

a half-frightened look, as if some wild thought had struck her. I

was more frightened than ever, for nothing increases our alarms so

much as the sympathy of others with regard to them; however, I

tried to conceal my fear. We sat silent for some minutes, and then

Mrs. Trevor rose up saying:

 

“Come with me, and let us look at the portrait.”

 

I remember her saying the and not that portrait, as if some

concealed thought of it had been occupying her mind. The same

dread had assailed her from a coincidence as had grown in me

from a vision. Surely—surely I had good grounds for fear!

 

We went to the bedroom and stood before the picture, which

seemed to gaze upon us with an expression which reflected our own

fears. My companion said to me in slightly excited tones: “Frank,

lift down the picture till we see its back.” I did so, and we

found written in strange old writing on the grimy canvas a name

and a date, which, after a great deal of trouble, we made out to

be “Margaret Kirk, 1572.” It was the name of the lady in the book.

 

Mrs. Trevor turned round and faced me slowly, with a look of

horror on her face.

 

“Frank, I don’t like this at all. There is something very

strange here.”

 

I had it on my tongue to tell her my dream, but was ashamed to

do so. Besides, I feared that it might frighten her too much, as

she was already alarmed.

 

I continued to look at the picture as a relief from my

embarrassment, and was struck with the excessive griminess of the

back in comparison to the freshness of the front. I mentioned my

difficulty to my companion, who thought for a moment, and then

suddenly said—

 

“I see how it is. It has been turned with its face to the wall.”

 

I said no word but hung up the picture again; and we went back

to the boudoir.

 

On the way I began to think that my fears were too wildly

improbable to bear to be spoken about. It was so hard to believe

in the horrors of darkness when the sunlight was falling brightly

around me. The same idea seemed to have struck Mrs. Trevor, for

she said, when we entered the room:

 

“Frank, it strikes me that we are both rather silly to let our

imaginations carry us away so. The story is merely a tradition,

and we know how report distorts even the most innocent facts. It

is true that the Fothering family was formerly connected with the

Kirks, and that the picture is that of the Miss Kirk who married

against her father’s will; it is likely that he quarrelled with her

for so doing, and had her picture turned to the wall—a common trick

of angry fathers at all times—but that is all. There can be nothing

beyond that. Let us not think any more upon the subject, as it is

one likely to lead us into absurdities. However, the picture is a

really beautiful one—independent of its being such a likeness of

Diana, and I will have it placed in the dining-room.”

 

The change was effected that afternoon, but she did not again

allude to the subject. She appeared, when talking to me, to be a

little constrained in manner—a very unusual thing with her, and

seemed to fear that I would renew the forbidden topic. I think

that she did not wish to let her imagination lead her astray, and

was distrustful of herself. However, the feeling of constraint

wore off before night—but she did not renew the subject.

 

I slept well that night, without dreams of any kind; and next

morning—the third to-morrow promised in the dream—when I came down

to breakfast, I was told that I would see Miss Fothering before

that evening.

 

I could not help blushing, and stammered out some commonplace

remark, and then glancing up, feeling very sheepish, I saw my

hostess looking at me with her kindly smile intensified. She said:

 

“Do you know, Frank, I felt quite frightened yesterday when we

were looking at the picture; but I have been thinking the matter

over since, and have come to the conclusion that my folly was

perfectly unfounded. I am sure you agree with me. In fact, I look

now upon our fright as a good joke, and will tell it to Diana when

she arrives.”

 

Once again I was about to tell my dream; but again was

restrained by shame. I knew, of course, that Mrs. Trevor would

not laugh at me or even think little of me for my fears, for

she was too well-bred, and kind-hearted, and sympathetic to do

anything of the kind, and, besides, the fear was one which we

had shared in common.

 

But how could I confess my fright at what might appear to

others to be a ridiculous dream, when she had conquered the

fear that had been common to us both, and which had arisen

from a really strange conjuncture of facts. She appeared to

look on the matter so lightly that I could not do otherwise.

And I did it honestly for the time.

 

III. The Third To-morrow

 

In the afternoon I was out in the garden lying in the shadow of

an immense beech, when I saw Mrs. Trevor approaching. I had been

reading Shelley’s “Stanzas Written in Dejection,” and my heart

was full of melancholy and a vague yearning after human sympathy.

I had thought of Mrs. Trevor’s love for me, but even that did not

seem sufficient. I wanted the love of some one more nearly of my

own level, some equal spirit, for I looked on her, of course, as I

would have regarded my mother. Somehow my thoughts kept returning

to Miss Fothering till I could almost see her before me in my

memory of the portrait. I had begun to ask myself the question:

“Are you in love?” when I heard the voice of my hostess as she

drew near.

 

“Ha! Frank, I thought I would find you here. I want you to

come to my boudoir.”

 

“What for?” I inquired, as I rose from the grass and picked

up my volume of Shelley.

 

“Di has come ever so long ago; and I want to introduce you

and have a chat before dinner,” said she, as we went towards

the house.

 

“But won’t you let me change my dress? I am not in correct

costume for the afternoon.”

 

I felt somewhat afraid of the unknown beauty when the

introduction was imminent. Perhaps it was because I had come

to believe too firmly in Mrs. Trevor’s prediction.

 

“Nonsense, Frank, just as if any woman worth thinking about

cares how a man is dressed.”

 

We entered the boudoir and found a young lady seated by a

window that overlooked the croquet-ground. She turned round as

we came in, so Mrs. Trevor introduced us, and we were soon

engaged in a lively conversation. I observed her, as may be

supposed, with more than curiosity, and shortly found that she

was worth looking at. She was very beautiful, and her beauty

lay not only in her features but in her expression. At first

her appearance did not seem to me so perfect as it afterwards

did, on account of her wonderful resemblance to the portrait

with whose beauty I was already acquainted. But it was not

long before I came to experience the difference between the

portrait and the reality. No matter how well it may be painted

a picture falls far short of its prototype. There is something

in a real face which cannot exist on canvas—some difference

far greater than that contained in the contrast between the

one expression, however beautiful of the picture, and the

moving features and varying expression of the reality. There

is something living and