Search


At first, I entertained the desperate idea that Carmilla was not, in fact, gone. Perhaps the uproar of the house had frighted her and she had hid herself beneath the bed, or in the armoire, or had climbed out of one of the windows. My parents and I searched the room thoroughly, placing our hands into every space large enough to conceal a girl. Mother even opened the drawers of the dresser.

It was all to no purpose. Our perplexity and agitation increased. We examined the windows, but they were not only closed, but locked from the inside. I implored of Carmilla, if she had concealed herself, to play this cruel trick no longer — to come out and to end our anxieties. It was all useless.

My mind began to turn to wilder and wilder fancies. Had I only imagined bidding Carmilla good night before I retired? Did Orchard Slope have any secret passages of which I was unaware?

In great agitation, my parents and I began to search the rest of the house, lighting every lamp and candle we had to hand. We went together in a body, none of us wanting to be left alone. In every room, we called her name.

"Anne!"

"Carmilla!"

The garret and the cellar were the most terrible of all. Though I kept my back pressed resolutely to Mother's, still I could barely stand to peek out between my fingers enough to search.

By the time we had scoured every room, opened every trunk and cupboard, sounded every basin and tub, dawn was peeking rosy-gold over the eastern horizon. We were none of us in any fit state to eat anything, but forced ourselves to take a brace and worry down some tea while we waited for the sky to lighten.

"I suppose I must check the rainwater hogshead," Father said, looking pale. "And the barn. Diana, will you search the orchard?"

"Only if Mother comes with me," I said, trembling from tip to toe.

Mother clasped my hand and agreed, but when we had performed our allotted tasks, we were no nearer finding Carmilla than we had been at the start.

"I'll go for Mr. Allan," Father said, rubbing his hand forcefully across the back of his neck. "We may have to drag the pond."

My hands flew to my mouth in horror. The image of my dearest Carmilla, white and lifeless, floating in the murky depths of the Lake of Shining Waters was instantly seared into my brain, as indelible as if it had been etched there with a steel point.

Father went inside to dress and Mother went to the barn to saddle the old brown mare.

I stood alone in the yard, disconsolate, not sure whether to scream or sob. Whatever I chose, I thought I must do it inside, as the morning was cold and my nightdress thin and soaked with perspiration. Resolved at least to dress myself, I turned toward toward Orchard Slope.

Carmilla stood in the doorway.

I stared. Her white nightdress was pristine, and all her bright hair coming down was a river of fire over her paler skin.

I ran to her in an ecstasy of joy; I kissed and embraced her again and again. I ran to the dinner bell and rang it vehemently, to bring my parents to the spot and relieve their anxiety.

"Dear Carmilla, what has become of you all this time? We have been in agonies of anxiety about you," I exclaimed. "Where have you been? How did you come back?"

"Last night has been a night of wonders," she said.

"For mercy's sake, explain all you can."

"I went to sleep as usual in my bed, with my doors locked," she said. "My sleep was uninterrupted, and, so far as I know, dreamless; but I woke just now in the garret, on the dusty cushions behind the door. I went back to the spare room and found that the door had been forced, and all the house quiet."

By this time, my parents had arrived. My mother clutched Carmilla to her breast and my father offered up a prayer of thanksgiving for her safe return.

In a trice, both Carmilla and I found ourselves ensconced in the kitchen with quilts draped around our shoulders, seated before cups of tea that my mother refilled after nearly every sip.

My father took a turn up and down the room, thinking. I saw Carmilla's eye follow him for a moment with a sly, dark glance.

Finally, he left off his pacing and came to sit at the table, where he took Carmilla's hand very kindly.

"Will you forgive me, my dear, if I risk a conjecture, and ask a question?" he said.

"Who can have a better right?" she said. "Ask what you please, and I will tell you everything. But my story is simply one of bewilderment and darkness. I know absolutely nothing. Put any question you please, but you know, of course, the limitations my guardian has placed me under."

"Of course," Father conceded, smiling as if he would put her at her ease. "I do not mean to ask you anything of your past, except the very recent past. Now, the marvel of last night consists in your having been removed from your bed and your room, without being wakened, and this removal having occurred apparently while the windows were still secured, and the door locked upon the inside. I will tell you my theory and ask you a question."

Carmilla nodded her assent.

"Now, my question is this. Have you ever been suspected of walking in your sleep?"

"Never, since I was very young indeed."

"But you did walk in your sleep when you were young?"

"Yes; I know I did. I have been told so often by my old matron."

My father smiled and nodded.

"Well, what has happened is this: You got up in your sleep, unlocked the door, and walked in your sleep to one room or another. Do you see, now, what I mean?"

"I do, but not all," she answered.

"But Father," I interjected, "how do you account for her finding herself in the garrett, which we had searched so carefully?"

"She came there after we had searched it, still in her sleep, and at last awoke spontaneously, and was as much surprised to find herself where she was as any one else. I wish all mysteries were as easily and innocently explained as yours, Anne," he said, laughing. "And so we may congratulate ourselves on the certainty that the most natural explanation is one that involves no drugging, no tampering with locks, no burglars, or poisoners, or witches — nothing that need alarm Anne or anyone else, for our safety."

"How very clever you are, Mr. Barry," Carmilla said, bestowing upon my father her most charming smile. "I'm terribly sorry for alarming you all. I wish nothing more than that I might be able to repay you for your kindness and concern toward me."

"We're only glad that you're safe, Anne," said Mother. "Though goodness knows you must be tired, with such a restless sleep."

Mother's eye fell on me, and there was nothing I could do to conceal my own weariness.

"That goes for you, as well, Diana," she said. "Both of you must go straight back to bed and get a good, honest sleep."

I rose from the table and wrapped my arms around my father. He kissed my hair and patted me consolingly on the back. "There's nothing to fear," her assured me. "Mother and I will be right here if you need us. Rest, darling."

And so Carmilla returned to her own bed and me to mine.

But it must be said, in fairness, that sleep eluded me. All that day and into the next night, I lay abed, thinking, and watching the painted gray-green eyes that watched me in return.