Carmilla

Chapter 8

At sight of the room, perfectly undisturbed except for our violent

entrance, we began to cool a little, and soon recovered our senses
sufficiently to dismiss the men. It had struck Mademoiselle that
possibly Carmilla had been wakened by the uproar at her door, and in her
first panic had jumped from her bed, and hid herself in a press, or
behind a curtain, from which she could not, of course, emerge until the
majordomo and his myrmidons had withdrawn. We now recommenced our
search, and began to call her name again.

It was all to no purpose. Our perplexity and agitation increased. We
examined the windows, but they were secured. 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. I was by this time
convinced that she was not in the room, nor in the dressing room, the
door of which was still locked on this side. She could not have passed
it. I was utterly puzzled. Had Carmilla discovered one of those secret
passages which the old housekeeper said were known to exist in the
schloss, although the tradition of their exact situation had been lost?
A little time would, no doubt, explain all--utterly perplexed as, for
the present, we were.

It was past four o'clock, and I preferred passing the remaining hours of
darkness in Madame's room. Daylight brought no solution of the
difficulty.

The whole household, with my father at its head, was in a state of
agitation next morning. Every part of the chateau was searched. The
grounds were explored. No trace of the missing lady could be discovered.
The stream was about to be dragged; my father was in distraction; what a
tale to have to tell the poor girl's mother on her return. I, too, was
almost beside myself, though my grief was quite of a different kind.

The morning was passed in alarm and excitement. It was now one o'clock,
and still no tidings. I ran up to Carmilla's room, and found her
standing at her dressing table. I was astounded. I could not believe my
eyes. She beckoned me to her with her pretty finger, in silence. Her
face expressed extreme fear.

I ran to her in an ecstasy of joy; I kissed and embraced her again and
again. I ran to the bell and rang it vehemently, to bring others to the
spot who might at once relieve my father's 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."

"It was past two last night," she said, "when I went to sleep as usual
in my bed, with my doors locked, that of the dressing room, and that
opening upon the gallery. My sleep was uninterrupted, and, so far as I
know, dreamless; but I woke just now on the sofa in the dressing room
there, and I found the door between the rooms open, and the other door
forced. How could all this have happened without my being wakened? It
must have been accompanied with a great deal of noise, and I am
particularly easily wakened; and how could I have been carried out of my
bed without my sleep having been interrupted, I whom the slightest stir
startles?"

By this time, Madame, Mademoiselle, my father, and a number of the
servants were in the room. Carmilla was, of course, overwhelmed with
inquiries, congratulations, and welcomes. She had but one story to tell,
and seemed the least able of all the party to suggest any way of
accounting for what had happened.

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.

When my father had sent the servants away, Mademoiselle having gone in
search of a little bottle of valerian and salvolatile, and there being
no one now in the room with Carmilla, except my father, Madame, and
myself, he came to her thoughtfully, took her hand very kindly, led her
to the sofa, and sat down beside her.

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

"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 mamma has placed me under."

"Perfectly, my dear child. I need not approach the topics on which she
desires our silence. 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 two doors locked upon the inside. I will tell you my
theory and ask you a question."

Carmilla was leaning on her hand dejectedly; Madame and I were
listening breathlessly.

"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 nurse."

My father smiled and nodded.

"Well, what has happened is this. You got up in your sleep, unlocked the
door, not leaving the key, as usual, in the lock, but taking it out and
locking it on the outside; you again took the key out, and carried it
away with you to some one of the five-and-twenty rooms on this floor, or
perhaps upstairs or downstairs. There are so many rooms and closets, so
much heavy furniture, and such accumulations of lumber, that it would
require a week to search this old house thoroughly. Do you see, now,
what I mean?"

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

"And how, papa, do you account for her finding herself on the sofa in
the dressing room, which we had searched so carefully?"

"She came there after you 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, Carmilla," he said, laughing. "And so we
may congratulate ourselves on the certainty that the most natural
explanation of the occurrence is one that involves no drugging, no
tampering with locks, no burglars, or poisoners, or witches--nothing
that need alarm Carmilla, or anyone else, for our safety."

Carmilla was looking charmingly. Nothing could be more beautiful than
her tints. Her beauty was, I think, enhanced by that graceful languor
that was peculiar to her. I think my father was silently contrasting her
looks with mine, for he said: "I wish my poor Laura was looking more like herself"; and he sighed.

So our alarms were happily ended, and Carmilla restored to her friends.