Household (28 page)

His words were meant to be comforting, but they were not. They filled her with fear. It seemed to her that the Old Lord was implying that Swithin was in some manner of danger. “I an worried about him. Is he safe?”

“
Of course he is safe, my dear. I beg you will not fret nor turn your thoughts upon him too much. It will not do, you know.
”

“I do know. I am sorry that I told him so much, but I thought you wanted me to do so... and I knew I could trust him.” She was suddenly aware that she was speaking to emptiness. The Old Lord had gone.

Lucy rose and fled to her room, flinging herself on the bed, but she no longer wept. It occurred to her that she was frightened for Swithin, but why? She did not know. And thinking of him, she grew angry, too. He should have believed her! Fear quickly replaced the anger again, and this fear was all the more fearful because it was dense, amorphous and unreasonable. Swithin would go home to his family and his comfortable house. He would forget about her and marry a young woman of good family and... Lucy could think no more, would think no more. She lay watching the clouds floating through the sky, clouds streaked with the rays of the descending sun, and wondered how many more sunsets she would see through that window in a room that was suddenly very lonely.

S
within Blake’s anger had evaporated. Sitting in his late father’s library, he stared gloomily into the darkening garden. He had been there a long time, pondering on the fantasies Lucy had spun for him, more than mere fantasies—a phantasmagorical! Yet she had seemed so earnest, so honest, as if every word that fell from her lips was no more than the truth—but how could it be true? He had always been a realist. How could he credit her tale? How could she expect that he would? A mocking laugh rose in his throat and turned into a sob. He had not lied when he told her he loved her from the first moment he had seen her. A vision of her dainty form and delicate beauty came to him. She was so lovely, and to see her in the darkness with all those strange voices issuing from those shapely lips had seemed arrant trickery to him, this despite the evidence of his senses.

During the time he had been participating in the circle, it had seemed as if his father really had spoken to himself and his mother. She believed it implicitly, but subsequently he had been extremely doubtful. He had been willing to accept Lucy’s chicanery, telling himself that she was the tool of her brother or rather cousin Mark, which was the way they had first been introduced, he recalled now. And whether cousin or brother, Mark was a werewolf?

“No!” he exclaimed explosively. “No!”

How could she have expected him to believe that, to believe everything she told him? There had been such hurt in her eyes when he challenged her preposterous tale. Had it been assumed? No, it was real. He had to think!

Rising, he thrust his hands into his pockets and paced back and forth across the room, trying to understand why she had found it necessary to tell him anything so outrageous. His thoughts were momentarily deflected by the feel of something soft and squishy in his pocket. He found that it was a rather elderly grape and remembered what he had totally forgotten—the disturbance in Lucy’s living room, the rain of fruit!

What had caused him to put that out of his mind?

Had he excised it unconsciously because it eluded explanation?

He stared at the grape and remembered the moving chairs. Purposefully he strode from the library and went into the kitchen where Mrs. Anawalt, the cook, was preparing dinner. As he expected, the housekeeper was there, too, as was one of the housemaids. Tentatively he asked if there had been an earthquake that day. They looked at him with amazement. “Oh, no sir,” they chorused.

Thanking them, he came out and followed where his feet led him which was out of the doors and in the direction of Lucy’s house. The sun was nearly down, and as he reached the street that lay along the graveyard, he remembered something to which he had paid little heed. She had mentioned that her aunt and uncle dwelt in one of the crypts. He remembered the pair and had thought it one of the anomalies of a big family that Lucy should possess an uncle who was her age and an aunt who seemed much younger. The iron gates of the cemetery were still open. On an impulse, he strode inside. Certainly, it would lend credence to her story if he were to see them in the act of emerging from their tombs.

Though he was not familiar with this particular cemetery, he rather thought that the larger monuments lay toward the back of the graveyard. He was nearing the path he thought might lead in the direction when he heard a step behind him.

“Why, Swifty, what are you doing here?”

He turned quickly and much to his surprise saw Bertie Lowndes, whom he had known at Harvard. He had lost sight of him in the last few years. “Hello, Bertie,” he said cordially. “I haven’t had anyone call me that in years.” He stretched out his hand.

Bertie shook it. “I suppose not. Once you leave school all the old nicknames go by the boards. What, may I ask, are you doing here after dark? It is not a particularly pleasant place for a stroll.”

Swithin glanced up and saw that it was growing very dark. “Oh, I know someone who lives near here. I thought I would take a short cut.”

“I see.”

“Come to think of it, what are you doing here? I’d heard...” Swithin paused, unable at the moment to remember just what he had heard about Bertie Lowndes. They had never been very close at the university. Bertie had been too inclined to burn his candle at both ends and had belonged to a rather fast set.

“What had you heard?” Bertie asked in an abrupt and even belligerent turn of voice, almost, Swithin thought, as if he were looking for an argument.

“Nothing, old man,” he said quickly. “How have you been faring since leaving Harvard?”

“Well enough. I do not complain. It would be no use.” Bertie shrugged.

“That sounds as if you might have experienced some disappointments,” Swithin said sympathetically. “I hope they were not too severe.”

“Not really. Where are you walking? I might as well go along with you.”

Swithin experienced some little annoyance. It would be no use to go the crypts. Bertie had detained him too long; Juliet and Colin would be gone by now. He blushed, hoping that his old classmate wasn’t a mindreader, but that, too, was in the realm of of the impossible. He said, “I’m bound for a house that is...” He glanced around and was even more annoyed. He was no longer sure where he was. In searching for the right path, he had stepped away from the fence, and now in the increasing darkness, he had lost his bearings. He said, “I don’t actually know where I am. I know I want to go to the gates.”

“I know the way,” Bertie responded. “I will be glad to show you.”

“That would be a real service,” Swithin said gratefully.

“We will go in this direction.” Bertie turned up a graveled path.

Following him, Swithin was vaguely troubled. Someone had told him something about Bertie, but for the life of him, he could not remember what it was. He had never really been a close friend to Bertie Lowndes. He had taken his legal studies at Harvard very seriously. Bertie, he recalled, had never been serious about anything except enjoying himself and in rather strange ways, now that he thought of it. He had formed some kind of a society, and there’d been a scandal of sorts. Again he could not remember quite what. Esoteric studies had come into it. Yes! Bertie had been playing around with the occult. And hadn’t one of his cronies been hurt during a weird ceremony? He had not heard much about it, mainly because the whole matter had been suppressed by the college authorities. The young men involved had been expelled, Bertie among them. Excitedly, he brushed that recollection aside. He could not believe his luck! Bertie
had
been interested in the occult—that was definite—and he might be able to sound him out about Lucy’s strange story.

He looked toward his guide, who was several feet ahead of him, standing near a little stone mausoleum. Swithin stifled a sigh, remembering his mission, but it was much darker now. He joined Bertie, saying, “I have a rather foolish question to ask you.”

“Foolish, Swifty? In what way?”

“I have been hearing some rather fantastic tales of late. It seems that there are people who really think that...” He paused, embarrassed, wondering if it would not be better to dismiss the subject. Undoubtedly Bertie would consider him quite mad, for certainly he could no longer believe in the devils and demons he and his followers unsuccessfully had tried to rise. This, he remembered now, was what the furor had been all about.

“Think what, old man?” Bertie prompted.

“Well, that... ghosts and vampires really exist.”

“Vampires, too? That’s most unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” Swithin flushed. “Well, I expect it is—to be so superstitious in this day and age.”

“Exactly. I would prefer that everyone be as enlightened as... well, you, for instance. I am quite sure that
you
don’t believe in that sort of thing, old man.”

Swithin was even more embarrassed. “You’re no longer interested in the occult, I see.”

“I shouldn’t say that.” Bertie laughed. “But my interest has taken a different turn.”

“That means that you are no longer so deeply involved?”

“Well, yes and no,” Bertie said musingly. “Why are you so interested in ghosts and vampires? We were never very closely allied at Harvard, but I do seem to recall that you were more inclined toward scientific rather than psychic research.”

“That’s true,” Swithin agreed uncomfortably.

“As I said before, I wish, old man, that everyone were like you.”

“You have changed.”

“Oh, yes, I have changed. Indeed, I have changed.” Bertie laughed.

“Well, I suppose that’s all to the good. Disregard my question, please.” Swithin looked around him at a vista of old trees. Near them were moon-illumined gravestones, and a short distance away he saw another mausoleum. It seemed to him that they had penetrated deeper into the cemetery. It was very quiet here, preternaturally quiet. He did not even hear the usual chorus of crickets and frogs, which was odd. Generally they were everywhere. He wondered if Bertie were as knowledgeable about the lay of the cemetery as he had professed. “Where are we?” he inquired.

“To quote the late Mr. Poe, we have arrived upon the ‘nightly shore’,” Bertie laughed.

Swithin also laughed. “That’s not quite an answer.”

“But it’s all you need to know, old man.” Bertie stepped close to him, and Swithin, seeing his face in the light from a three-quarter moon, was taken aback. Bertie did not look at all well. There were deep circles under his eyes, and surely he was much thinner than when he had attended Harvard. In fact he looked as if he were suffering from consumption... consumption! Swithin suddenly recalled what he had heard about Bertie.

“Good God!” he exclaimed and saw Bertie take a quick step back. “Do you know what I thought? It shows you that you can never credit rumor!”

“What manner of rumor would that be, old man?”

“I heard that you had contracted some manner of pernicious anemia and... and...”

“And died from it?” Bertie inquired.

“Yes.” Swithin nodded. “That’s what I heard.”

“It was true, old man.” Bertie smiled widely. “You were asking me about vampires, I think?”

Swithin, staring at Bertie’s gleaming fangs, was filled with a horror that lived up to all the descriptions he had ever heard of it, turning him icy cold. Coupled with that was a terror which invaded every pore of his body. He wanted to turn and run, but he could not move. He was, as it were, rooted to the spot. In that moment, Bertie’s hand fastened on his arm. His grip was strong and hurtful. Swithin tried to pull away but the hand that held him could have been fashioned from iron. “You...” he mouthed. “You are...”

“Quite, old man. I do not know why you were wandering through this graveyard, but for me, your presence is most fortuitous. The search for sustenance is often wearying and can take the better part of a night. Of course, I would prefer a female.” To Swithin’s increased horror, Bertie licked his lips with the tip of a pale tongue. “But on the other hand,” he continued blithely, “the idea of having you among our ranks is quite to my taste. You were always so tediously industrious at the university. Several of my professors pointed you out as the ideal student, calm, rational and brilliant. I hardly think that any of these qualities will sustain you at this moment which, I fear, will be your last. But I expect you will employ them to even better...”

“Bertie, darling, good evening! And Swithin! I wasn’t aware that you knew each other.” Juliet, in a white gown worn over one of her largest crinolines, stepped up to them. She was followed by Colin who was in evening dress.

“Bertie,” he exclaimed. “Swithin, good to see you again. My father told me I might find you here.”

Swithin found his voice. “Good evening,” he managed to say.

Despite the friendliness of their greetings, Bertie Lowndes did not appear to welcome the sight of either. Still grasping Swithin’s arm so tightly that the circulation felt as if it were shut off, he said coldly, “What are you doing here?”

“Darling, Bertie, is that the way to speak to us? Why are you being such an old grouch?” Juliet laid her hand lightly on Swithin’s other arm.

“Go away!” Bertie said shrilly. “You have no right here. This man is mine!”

“Unless I am deeply mistaken about his proclivities, I hardly think Swithin will agree with you,” Juliet quipped.

“You have no right to interfere,” Bertie retorted menacingly.

Colin stepped closer. “This man is practically a member of our family, Bertie.”

“Curse your damned family!” Bertie finally loosened his hold on Swithin’s arm.

“You are too late, my dear, by some seventy-five years. That has already been accomplished, and now you really must go. It’s damp out here, and I am sure Swithin’s not feeling at all well.” Juliet smiled sweetly.

“There are rules,” Bertie said chokingly.

“Darling, don’t be tiresome. We are two to your one. Get along with you, there’s a good boy,” Juliet spoke dismissively.