She pressed my hand,
she laid hers upon it, and her eyes glowed, as, looking hastily into
mine, she smiled again, and blushed. She answered my welcome very prettily. I sat down beside her, still
wondering; and she said:

“I must tell you my vision about you; it is so very strange that you
and I should have had, each of the other so vivid a dream, that each
should have seen, I you and you me, looking as we do now, when of
course we both were mere children. I was a child, about six years old,
and I awoke from a confused and troubled dream, and found myself in a
room, unlike my nursery, wainscoted clumsily in some dark wood, and
with cupboards and bedsteads, and chairs, and benches placed about it. The beds were, I thought, all empty, and the room itself without anyone
but myself in it; and I, after looking about me for some time, and
admiring especially an iron candlestick with two branches, which I
should certainly know again, crept under one of the beds to reach the
window; but as I got from under the bed, I heard someone crying; and
looking up, while I was still upon my knees, I saw you—most assuredly
you—as I see you now; a beautiful young lady, with golden hair and
large blue eyes, and lips—your lips—you as you are here. “Your looks won me; I climbed on the bed and put my arms about you, and
I think we both fell asleep. I was aroused by a scream; you were
sitting up screaming. I was frightened, and slipped down upon the
ground, and, it seemed to me, lost consciousness for a moment; and when
I came to myself, I was again in my nursery at home. Your face I have
never forgotten since. I could not be misled by mere resemblance. _You
are_ the lady whom I saw then.”

It was now my turn to relate my corresponding vision, which I did, to
the undisguised wonder of my new acquaintance. “I don’t know which should be most afraid of the other,” she said,
again smiling—“If you were less pretty I think I should be very much
afraid of you, but being as you are, and you and I both so young, I
feel only that I have made your acquaintance twelve years ago, and have
already a right to your intimacy; at all events it does seem as if we
were destined, from our earliest childhood, to be friends. I wonder
whether you feel as strangely drawn towards me as I do to you; I have
never had a friend—shall I find one now?” She sighed, and her fine dark
eyes gazed passionately on me. Now the truth is, I felt rather unaccountably towards the beautiful
stranger. I did feel, as she said, “drawn towards her,” but there was
also something of repulsion. In this ambiguous feeling, however, the
sense of attraction immensely prevailed. She interested and won me; she
was so beautiful and so indescribably engaging. I perceived now something of languor and exhaustion stealing over her,
and hastened to bid her good night. “The doctor thinks,” I added, “that you ought to have a maid to sit up
with you tonight; one of ours is waiting, and you will find her a very
useful and quiet creature.”

“How kind of you, but I could not sleep, I never could with an
attendant in the room. I shan’t require any assistance—and, shall I
confess my weakness, I am haunted with a terror of robbers. Our house
was robbed once, and two servants murdered, so I always lock my door. It has become a habit—and you look so kind I know you will forgive me. I see there is a key in the lock.”

She held me close in her pretty arms for a moment and whispered in my
ear, “Good night, darling, it is very hard to part with you, but good
night; tomorrow, but not early, I shall see you again.”

She sank back on the pillow with a sigh, and her fine eyes followed me
with a fond and melancholy gaze, and she murmured again “Good night,
dear friend.”

Young people like, and even love, on impulse. I was flattered by the
evident, though as yet undeserved, fondness she showed me. I liked the
confidence with which she at once received me. She was determined that
we should be very near friends. Next day came and we met again. I was delighted with my companion; that
is to say, in many respects. Her looks lost nothing in daylight—she was certainly the most beautiful
creature I had ever seen, and the unpleasant remembrance of the face
presented in my early dream, had lost the effect of the first
unexpected recognition. 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. IV. 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.