Her Habits
I shall begin by describing her.
She was above the middle height of women. She was slender, and wonderfully graceful. Her complexion was pale as june lilies, her chin pointed, her eyes variegated like opals, green in some lights and moods and gray in others.
Her hair was quite wonderful. Never before had I beheld a crown of such a striking color, like a burning torch. It was magnificently thick and long and curled prettily at the ends. Over her ears and forehead, it fell in tiny, enticing curls that beckoned me to caress them. It seemed to me like a halo of fire shot through with threads of gold. I loved to let it down, tumbling with its own weight, as, in her room, she lay back in her chair talking in her sweet low voice, I used to fold and braid it, and spread it out and play with it. Heavens! If I had but known all!
On the morning after Carmilla came to us, my father set out for town. He returned around noon with Dr. Blair, who examined our guest and pronounced her in perfect health, if somewhat wan.
"Be sure to feed her up, Mrs. Barry," he warned. "I'll want to see a bit more color in those cheeks."
Father and Mother thanked Dr. Blair and took his advice to heart. Over the next week, they showered our visitor with sweets and savories, pressing cakes on her at every opportunity and supplying us with sumptuous picnics that we devoured in the orchard and on the shore of the pond, where the water was a glory of many shifting hues — the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tinting for which no name has ever been found.
It was there, in the fringing groves of fir and maple, that Carmilla revealed her true nature to me, thrilling me with all the workings of her active mind.
"What do you call this place?" Carmilla asked, drinking in the loveliness of the view.
"Barry's Pond," I replied.
Carmilla wrinkled her pretty nose. "Oh, I don't like that name," she declared. "I shall call it — let me see — the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill. When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill."
I thought perhaps that I might know what she meant, though her manner was strange. Indeed, my whole body seemed to vibrate with the delight of our stimulating conversation. My companion was indeed the most fascinating creature I had ever encountered, and I was quite willing to let her rename all the familiar features of my world, imbuing them with her peculiar magic.
There were some particulars about her which did not please me. I will tell you of them.
I have told you that her confidence won me the first night I saw her; but I found that she exercised with respect to herself, her guardian, her history, everything in fact connected with her life, plans, and people, an ever wakeful reserve.
I dare say I pressed her on the issue of her history, being quite overcome with an ardent curiosity. I swore that I would not divulge one syllable of what she told me to any mortal breathing. But still, she would tell me only three things, which were only enough to whet my appetite to know her better.
First: Her name was Carmilla, though she allowed that in her youth she used to imagine it was Geraldine.
Second: Her family was very ancient and noble.
Third: Her home lay in the direction of the west.
She would tell me no more, though she promised that I would know all in the fullness of time. Still, I pressed her, feeling myself aggrieved that she would not entrust me with her most closely-held secrets. When I began to pout, she would weave beautiful tales of faerie realms and courtly lovers, of daring exploits and heroic rescues. Though I longed to know more of her own history, I found myself quite enchanted by her stories and loved nothing better than to lie with my head in her lap, or hers in mine, weaving romances on the shimmering shores of the Lake of Shining Waters.
She used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me to her, and laying her cheek to mine, murmur with her lips near my ear, "Dearest, your little heart is wounded because I cannot tell you all. If your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. I live in your warm life, and you shall die — die, sweetly die — into mine. I cannot help it; as I draw near to you, you, in your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit."
And when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely in her trembling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently glow upon my cheek.
Sometimes, I felt that I did not understand all that she said. Why should she fear that I would draw near to others? Indeed, I had no need of them when Carmilla was near. When she had been with us two weeks, I realized that not only had I not seen any of my schoolmates in all that time, but that I had not missed them either. I wanted only Carmilla and our idyll on the shore, her murmured words like a lullaby in my ear, soothing my resistance into a trance, from which I only seemed to recover myself when she withdrew her arms. I experienced a strange tumultuous excitement during these interludes, but could not put a name to what I felt. I was only conscious of a love growing into adoration.
Sometimes after an hour of apathy, my strange and beautiful companion would take my hand and hold it with a fond pressure, renewed again and again; blushing softly, gazing in my face with languid and burning eyes, and breathing so fast that her dress rose and fell with the tumultuous respiration. It was like the ardor of a lover; and with gloating eyes she drew me to her, and her hot lips traveled along my cheek in kisses; and she would whisper, almost in sobs, "You are mine, you shall be mine, you and I are one for ever." Then she would throw herself back upon the grass, with her small hands over her eyes, leaving me trembling.
When I tried to explain these episodes to myself, I found that I had not the words for them. Perhaps it was the strange fact of our ancient but unconventional acquaintance that fostered such an extraordinary intimacy after such a short time. I began to wonder whether perhaps we had known one another in a distant realm, beyond the mists of time, or if we were perhaps twins separated at our birth. I went so far as to ask Mrs. Lynde, visiting one day for tea, whether she recalled the circumstances of my birth, and was dismayed to find that she did. I had little interest in the particulars of a February blizzard and the general consensus in Avonlea that I looked exactly like my mother at a similar age. How cruelly she dashed my hopes and with what verve!
I then began to entertain other possibilities. Perhaps there was indeed an element of disguise in Carmilla's presentation. Was she, perchance, some boyish lover, come to prosecute his suit in masquerade, with the assistance of a clever old adventuress? That would certainly explain the mysterious disappearance of my friend's guardian on the night she came to us, as well as the passion with which Carmilla declared her love for me. But there were many things against this hypothesis, as I duly discovered, highly interesting as it was to my vanity.
Between these passionate moments there were long intervals of commonplace, of gaiety, of brooding melancholy, during which, except that I detected her eyes so full of melancholy fire, following me, she might have been any ordinary friend.
In some respects her habits were odd. She used to rise very late, generally not till one o'clock, she would then take a cup of tea, but eat nothing. Then we would go out into the world and roam over the fields and forests of Avonlea. Though her languor kept us close to Orchard Slope at first, she seemed to gain in strength as the days passed, though she ate but little of what was offered to her. Soon, she had grown hale enough for us to venture further afield to all the spots I had known since the days of my earliest childhood. She rechristened them all: the Dryad's Bubble, Lover's Lane, the Haunted Wood, the White Way of Delight. The very landscape seemed newborn to me, exploring it hand-in-hand with my dearest friend.
On the first Sunday she was in residence at Orchard Slope, Carmilla was too ill to attend church. I thought little of it at the time, but began to notice that she never seemed to pray, neither before lying down to sleep, nor when Father said grace over our meals. I began to suspect that she might be a Methodist.
Mrs. Lynde disapproved of Carmilla's ways. I overheard her tell Mother that it was a scandal to let a girl lie abed all morning and to contribute nothing to the household. She was very harsh in her language, calling my friend skinny and homely, so that my face burned with indignation and I nearly flew from my listening-place in the pantry to defend Carmilla's honour. But Mother admonished Mrs. Lynde, reminding her that Carmilla was still convalescing, and that it was their Christian duty to show compassion toward a child who had evidently had little opportunity for a proper bringing-up. Mrs. Lynde was not wholly persuaded on this point, but ungraciously allowed that the question of schedules and responsibilities might be deferred until school convened in September, and that we might be permitted to pass the summer in a state of freedom and innocence.
Alas, such was not to be.
In the third week of Carmilla's sojourn at Orchard Slope, we received word that a terrible tragedy had befallen our little village. My dear friend Ruby Gillis was dead.
Ah, fair Ruby! She of the golden hair and dancing smiles! How should it be that she should leave us so?
I was sorely afflicted by these melancholy tidings. When last I had seen Ruby, she seemed to me the picture of health, with her red, red cheeks and her blue eyes bright as twin stars in her alabaster face. I wept bitter tears over her untimely demise, such that not even Carmilla's sweet caresses could distract me from my despair.
The next day, we attended the funeral, along with nearly all the other inhabitants of Avonlea. I wished to introduce Carmilla to Jane and Josie, but the crowd was so large and pressed so closely in the confines of the Gillis house that I could not find them.
Never before have I beheld such a romantic tableau as Ruby Gillis's funeral. Even Mrs. Lynde was heard to say that Ruby was the handsomest corpse she had ever laid eyes on. Alas, poor Ruby! She lay in the white velvet casket her father had insisted on having for her, dressed all in white as if she were a bride, with her death-pale skin and the golden nimbus of her hair wreathed 'round with delicate flowers. One of her sisters collapsed into hysterical paroxysms of grief, wailing and clutching at the casket so that some of the women had to carry her from the room.
All the while, Carmilla stood at my side, her slim, white hand pressed to mine. When Mr. Allan began to pray, she did not join in, which seemed curious enough. More curious still was her reaction to the funeral hymn. When the gathering began to sing "Safe in the Arms of Jesus," Carmilla suddenly vanished, pushing through the crowd with great agitation. I followed her to the veranda, where she sat rocking with her fingers in her ears.
"Dearest!" I exclaimed. "Whatever is the matter?"
She said brusquely, "Don't you perceive how discordant that is?"
"I think it very sweet, on the contrary," I answered, vexed at the interruption, and very uncomfortable, lest the other mourners should overhear.
"It pierces my ears," said Carmilla, almost angrily, and stopping her ears with her tiny fingers.
She revived a little when the singing was over, but insisted that we hang back in the funeral procession, following along in the wake of the others as they carried sweet Ruby to the graveyard. That is how we came to hear Mrs. Sloane and Mrs. Harmon Andrews discussing the matter in hushed tones.
Mrs. Sloane leaned close to Mrs. Harmon and said in a harsh, carrying whisper, "They say she fancied she saw a ghost a fortnight ago, and has been dying ever since, till yesterday, when she expired."
"Fiddlesticks," said Mrs. Harmon. "Ruby Gillis has been dying of galloping consumption for a year at least."
Mrs. Sloane frowned and lowered her voice further, such that I had to hasten my step to keep within hearing range. "True enough, but I heard Dr. Blair tell Mr. Allan that he was quite sure Ruby had another year before it caught up with her. Why should she decline so quickly?"
"That is curious, indeed," mused Mrs. Harmon. "And Ruby isn't the only girl ill this summer. The Pyes say that both Josie and Gertie have been confined to bed these past two weeks. Why, my own poor Jane is home in bed this very minute, though Dr. Blair assures us it is nothing but a summer cold."
They moved off then, but their words had impressed me deeply.
"I hope there is no plague or fever coming," I said as Carmilla and I walked home to Orchard Slope after the burial. "I heard one of Ruby's sisters say that Ruby thought something seized her by the throat as she lay in her bed, and nearly strangled her. Father says such horrible fancies do accompany some forms of fever. She looked well enough the last time I saw her; I can scarcely realize that she is gone!"
"Well, her funeral is over," Carmilla said in a cool tone that shocked me with its indifference. "It has made me nervous. Sit down here, beside me; sit close; hold my hand; press it hard-hard-harder."
We sat in the lee of a fallen log in the Haunted Wood, all green and mossy and secluded.
Carmilla's face underwent a change that alarmed and even terrified me for a moment. It darkened, and became horribly livid; her teeth and hands were clenched, and she frowned and compressed her lips, while she stared down upon the ground at her feet, and trembled all over with a continued shudder as irrepressible as ague. All her energies seemed strained to suppress a fit, with which she was then breathlessly tugging; and at length a low convulsive cry of suffering broke from her, and gradually the hysteria subsided.
"There! That comes of strangling people with hymns!" she said at last. "Hold me, hold me still. It is passing away."
Perhaps this was the delicate health of which her guardian had spoken. Certainly she had seemed unwell, though I could hardly call it an ordinary illness. But the fit passed away like a summer cloud and afterward she became unusually animated and chatty, and so we got home.