She confessed that she had experienced a similar shock
on seeing me, and precisely the same faint antipathy
that had mingled with my admiration of her. We
now laughed together over our momentary horrors.
Her Habits—A Saunter
I told you that I was charmed with her in most particulars.
There were some that did not please me so well.
She was above the middle height of women. I shall
begin by describing her.
She was slender, and wonderfully graceful. Except
that her movements were languid—very languid—indeed,
there was nothing in her appearance to indicate an
invalid. Her complexion was rich and brilliant;
her features were small and beautifully formed; her
eyes large, dark, and lustrous; her hair was quite
wonderful, I never saw hair so magnificently thick
and long when it was down about her shoulders; I have
often placed my hands under it, and laughed with wonder
at its weight. It was exquisitely fine and soft,
and in color a rich very dark brown, with something
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!
I said there were particulars which did not please
me. 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 mother, her history,
everything in fact connected with her life, plans,
and people, an ever wakeful reserve. I dare say
I was unreasonable, perhaps I was wrong; I dare say
I ought to have respected the solemn injunction laid
upon my father by the stately lady in black velvet.
But curiosity is a restless and unscrupulous passion,
and no one girl can endure, with patience, that hers
should be baffled by another. What harm could
it do anyone to tell me what I so ardently desired
to know? Had she no trust in my good sense or
honor? Why would she not believe me when I assured
her, so solemnly, that I would not divulge one syllable
of what she told me to any mortal breathing.
There was a coldness, it seemed to me, beyond her
years, in her smiling melancholy persistent refusal
to afford me the least ray of light.
I cannot say we quarreled upon this point, for she
would not quarrel upon any. It was, of course,
very unfair of me to press her, very ill-bred, but
I really could not help it; and I might just as well
have let it alone.
What she did tell me amounted, in my unconscionable
estimation—to nothing.
It was all summed up in three very vague disclosures:
First—Her name was Carmilla.
Second—Her family was very ancient and
noble.
Third—Her home lay in the direction of
the west.
She would not tell me the name of her family, nor
their armorial bearings, nor the name of their estate,
nor even that of the country they lived in.
