Those books she showed me years
ago, and those folk-tales of vampires and ghouls--they burned into my
infantile mind like acid. They haunted me day and night in my youth, and
caused me to hate you worse than death itself. "But in Heaven's name, Father, I've outgrown those things as I have
outgrown my clothes. I'm a man now; do you understand that? A man, with
a man's sense of logic." "Yes, I understand." Henry Duryea threw his cigar into the fireplace,
and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "We shall forget Cecilia," he said. "As I told you in my letter, I have
rented a lodge in Maine where we can go to be alone for the rest of the
summer. We'll get in some fishing and hiking and perhaps some hunting. But first, Arthur, I must be sure in my own mind that you are sure in
yours. I must be sure you won't bar your door against me at night, and
sleep with a loaded revolver at your elbow. I must be sure that you're
not afraid of going up there alone with me, and dying----"

His voice ended abruptly, as if an age-long dread had taken hold of it. His son's face was waxen, with sweat standing out like pearls on his
brow. He said nothing, but his eyes were filled with questions which his
lips could not put into words. His own hand touched his father's, and
tightened over it. Henry Duryea drew his hand away. "I'm sorry," he said, and his eyes looked straight over Arthur's lowered
head. "This thing must be thrashed out now. I believe you when you say
that you discredit Cecilia's stories, but for a sake greater than sanity
I must tell you the truth behind the legend--and believe me, Arthur;
there is a truth!" *       *       *       *       *

He climbed to his feet and walked to the window which looked out over
the street below. For a moment he gazed into space, silent. Then he
turned and looked down at his son. "You have heard only your aunt's version of the legend, Arthur. Doubtless it was warped into a thing far more hideous than it actually
was--if that is possible! Doubtless she spoke to you of the
Inquisitorial stake in Carcassonne where one of my ancestors perished. Also she may have mentioned that book, _Vampyrs_, which a former Duryea
is supposed to have written. Then certainly she told you about your two
younger brothers--my own poor, motherless children--who were sucked
bloodless in their cradles...."

Arthur Duryea passed a hand across his aching eyes. Those words, so
often repeated by that witch of an aunt, stirred up the same visions
which had made his childhood nights sleepless with terror. He could
hardly bear to hear them again--and from the very man to whom they were
accredited. "Listen, Arthur," the elder Duryea went on quickly, his voice low with
the pain it gave him. "You must know that true basis to your aunt's
hatred. You must know of that curse--that curse of vampirism which is
supposed to have followed the Duryeas through five centuries of French
history, but which we can dispel as pure superstition, so often
connected with ancient families. But I must tell you that this part of
the legend is true:

"Your two young brothers actually died in their cradles, bloodless. And
I stood trial in France for their murder, and my name was smirched
throughout all of Europe with such an inhuman damnation that it drove
your aunt and you to America, and has left me childless, hated, and
ostracized from society the world over. "I must tell you that on that terrible night in Duryea Castle I had been
working late on historic volumes of Crespet and Prinn, and on that
loathsome tome, _Vampyrs_. I must tell you of the soreness that was in
my throat and of the heaviness of the blood which coursed through my
veins.... And of that _presence_, which was neither man nor animal, but
which I knew was some place near me, yet neither within the castle nor
outside of it, and which was closer to me than my heart and more
terrible to me than the touch of the grave....

"I was at the desk in my library, my head swimming in a delirium which
left me senseless until dawn. There were nightmares that frightened
me--frightened _me_, Arthur, a grown man who had dissected countless
cadavers in morgues and medical schools. I know that my tongue was
swollen in my mouth and that brine moistened my lips, and that a
rottenness pervaded my body like a fever. "I can make no recollection of sanity or of consciousness. That night
remains vivid, unforgettable, yet somehow completely in shadows. When I
had fallen asleep--if in God's name it _was_ sleep--I was slumped across
my desk. But when I awoke in the morning I was lying face down on my
couch. So you see, Arthur, I _had_ moved during that night, _and I had
never known it_! "What I'd done and where I'd gone during those dark hours will always
remain an impenetrable mystery. But I do know this. On the morrow I was
torn from my sleep by the shrieks of maids and butlers, and by that mad
wailing of your aunt. I stumbled through the open door of my study, and
in the nursery I saw those two babies there--lifeless, white and dry
like mummies, and with twin holes in their necks that were caked black
with their own blood....

"Oh, I don't blame you for your incredulousness, Arthur. I cannot
believe it yet myself, nor shall I ever believe it. The belief of it
would drive me to suicide; and still the doubting of it drives me mad
with horror. "All of France was doubtful, and even the savants who defended my name
at the trial found that they could not explain it nor disbelieve it. The
case was quieted by the Republic, for it might have shaken science to
its very foundation and split the pedestals of religion and logic. I was
released from the charge of murder; but the actual murder has hung about
me like a stench. "The coroners who examined those tiny cadavers found them both dry of
all their blood, but could find no blood on the floor of the nursery nor
in the cradles. Something from hell stalked the halls of Duryea that
night--and I should blow my brains out if I dared to think deeply of who
that was. You, too, my son, would have been dead and bloodless if you
hadn't been sleeping in a separate room with your door barred on the
inside. "You were a timid child, Arthur. You were only seven years old, but you
were filled with the folk-lore of those mad Lombards and the decadent
poetry of your aunt. On that same night, while I was some place between
heaven and hell, you, also, heard the padded footsteps on the stone
corridor and heard the tugging at your door handle, for in the morning
you complained of a chill and of terrible nightmares which frightened
you in your sleep.... I only thank God that your door was barred!" *       *       *       *       *

Henry Duryea's voice choked into a sob which brought the stinging tears
back into his eyes. He paused to wipe his face, and to dig his fingers
into his palm. "You understand, Arthur, that for twenty years, under my sworn oath at
the Palace of Justice, I could neither see you nor write to you.