



Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the
Internet Archive (The Library of Congress).











Transcriber's Notes:
     1. Page scan source: The Internet Archive
        https://archive.org/details/creatureofnighti00hume_0
        (The Library of Congress.)
     2. Chapter XVII. (Nemesis) is misnumbered as  XV. in this
        edition.






A CREATURE OF THE NIGHT





A CREATURE OF THE NIGHT
_AN ITALIAN ENIGMA_

BY
FERGUS HUME
AUTHOR OF
"THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," "MADAME MIDAS,"
"MISS MEPHISTOPHELES," "MONSIEUR JUDAS"




   Yea, out of the womb of the night
        For evil a rod,
   With vampire wings plumed for a flight
        It cometh abroad,
   The mission to curse and to blight
        Permitted by God.




NEW YORK
JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY
150 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION PLACE






Copyright, 1891,
BY
UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY
--------

_All rights reserved_.






TO
GRAHAM PRICE,
IN REMEMBRANCE OF ITALIAN IDLINGS,
SPRING, 1891.







CONTENTS


CHAPTER.

I.       The Ghoul.
II.      A Boccaccian Adventure.
III.     The Feast of Ghosts.
IV.      The Angello Household.
V.       Lost.
VI.      A Haunted Palace.
VII.     At the Teatro Ezzelino.
VIII.    The Phantom of Lucrezia Borgia.
IX.      Fiore della Casa.
X.       A Voice in the Darkness.
XI.      The Marchese Beltrami.
XII.     Death in Life.
XIII.    "Down among the Dead Men."
XIV.     The New Lazarus.
XV.      Found.
XVI.     An Interrupted Honeymoon.
XVII.    Nemesis.
XVIII.   A Last Word.






CREATURE OF THE NIGHT.




CHAPTER I.
THE GHOUL.


I think it is Lord Beaconsfield who, in one of his brilliant stories,
makes the clever observation that "adventures are to the adventurous,"
and certainly he who seeks for adventures even in this prosaic
nineteenth century will surely succeed in his quest. Fate leads him,
chance guides him, luck assists him, and although the adventure
supplied by this trinity of circumstances may be neither so dangerous
nor so picturesque as in the time of Borgia or Lazun, still it will
probably be interesting, which after all is something to be grateful
for in this eminently commonplace age of facts and figures. Still,
even he who seeks not to prove the truth of Disraeli's aphorism, may,
after the principle of Mahomet's mountain, have the adventure come to
him, without the trouble of looking for it, and this was my case at
Verona in the summer of 18--.

The Cranstons were always a poor family, that is, as regards money,
although they certainly could not complain of a lack of ancestors; and
when it came to my turn to represent the race, I found that my lately
deceased father had left me comparatively nothing. Not having any
fixed income, I therefore could not live without doing something to
earn my bread; and not having any business capacity, I foresaw failure
would be my lot in mercantile enterprise. I was not good-looking
enough to inveigle a wealthy heiress into matrimony; and as, after a
survey of my possessions, I found I had nothing but a few hundred
pounds and an excellent baritone voice, I made up my mind to use the
former in cultivating the latter with a view to an operatic career.

Italy, living on the traditions of the days of Rossini, of Donizetti
and of Bellini, has still the reputation of possessing excellent
singing-masters, so to Italy I went with a hopeful heart and a light
purse, and established myself at Milan, where I took lessons, in
singing, from Maestro Angello. Milan is a detestable city, hot and
arid in summer, cold and humid in winter; and as a year after I
arrived in the land of song the end of spring was unusually
disagreeable, Maestro Angello went to Verona for a change of air, and
thither I followed him with no small pleasure at escaping from that
dreary commercial capital of the north which has all the disagreeables
of Italian life without any of the compensating advantages of romance
and beauty.

But Verona! ah, it was truly delightful, that sleepy town lying so
peacefully on the banks of the rapid Adige, dreaming amid the riotous
present of the splendid past, when Can Grande held his brilliant
court, and received as an honoured guest the great poet Dante, exiled
by ungrateful Florence. The city of the gay rhymer Catullus, merry
lover of Lesbia, who wept more tears over her sparrow than she did
over her poet. The city of Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed lovers as
they were, who were recompensed for their short, unhappy lives by
gaining immortality from the pen of Shakespeare as types of eternal
love and eternal constancy, for the encouragement of all succeeding
youths and maidens of later generations. Yes, indeed, with all these
memories, historical and poetical, Verona was a pleasant place in
which to idle away a summer, so I thanked the kind gods for my good
fortune and enjoyed myself.

Not that I was idle. By no means! Maestro Angello kept me hard at work
at exercises and scales, so I studied industriously most of the day
and wandered about most of the night in the soft, cool moonlight, when
Verona looked much more romantic than in the garish blaze of the
Italian sun.

It was on one of these nights that an adventure happened to me, an
adventure in which I was involved by the merest chance, although I
confess that the vice of curiosity had a good deal to do with my
entanglement therein.

After dining at the hotel I went out for my customary stroll, and
having lighted a pipe as a preventive against the evil odours which
seem inseparable from all Italian towns, I wandered on through the
deserted streets in a listless, aimless fashion, contrasting in my own
mind the magnificent Verona of the past with the dismal Verona of the
present. Taken up with these fantastic dreamings, I did not notice
particularly where I was going, or how quickly the time was passing,
until I found myself on the Ponte Aleardi--that iron bridge which
spans the Adige--and heard the church bells chiming the hour of
eleven.

The moon was shining in the darkly blue sky amid the brilliant stars,
and the leaden waters of the river shone like a band of steel in
the pale, silvery light. On either side of the stream lowered dark
masses of houses, from the windows of which gleamed here and there
orange-coloured lights, while against the clear sky arose the tall
steeples of the churches and the serrated outlines of full-foliaged
trees. It was wonderfully beautiful, and the soft wind blowing through
the night, rippled the swift waters to lines of ever-vanishing white;
so leaning over the balustrade of the bridge, I dreamed and smoked,
and smoked and dreamed, until the chiming of the half-hour warned me
to return to my hotel.

The night, however, was so beautiful and cool, that I could not but
think of my hot sleeping-chamber with repugnance, and feeling
disinclined for rest, I made up my mind to stroll onward for some
time. I might have visited that fraudulent tomb of Juliet in the
moonlight, but as I had already seen it by day, and could not feel
enthusiastic about such a palpable deception, I refused to be further
victimised, and crossed over the bridge to the left shore of the
river.

It was somewhat solitary, there, but I was not afraid of robbers, as I
had but little money and no jewellery on me, and moreover I felt that,
should occasion arise, I could use my fists sufficiently well to
protect myself. Being thus at ease regarding my personal safety, I
lighted a cigar which luckily happened to be in my pocket, and
wandered on until I came within sight, of the cemetery.

Now I firmly believe that every one has in him a vein of superstition
which is developed in accordance with his surroundings. Place a man at
midday in a bustling city, and he scoffs at the idea of the
supernatural; but let him find himself at midnight alone on a solitary
moor, with the shadows of moonlight on every side, and all his
inherent superstition will start to life, peopling the surrounding
solitude with unseen phantoms, more terrible than those of the Arabian
Nights. Whether it was the time of night, or the proximity of the
burial-ground, I do not know, but I felt my breast fill with vague
fears, and hastened to leave the uncanny spot as quickly as possible.

Fate, however, was against me, for in my blind speed, instead of
crossing the bridge, I turned to the left, and unexpectedly found
myself in the vicinity of another burial-ground. It was apparently
much older than the one I had first seen, and there was a ruined wall
around it, overtopped by tall, melancholy cypresses, looming black and
funereal against the midnight sky. By this time I had recovered my
nerve, and feeling somewhat ashamed of my former ignominious flight, I
determined to punish myself by entering this antique abode of the
dead, and examining it thoroughly.

With this idea I climbed over a portion of the broken wall, and in the
shadow of the cypress-trees--shadow dense as the darkness of Egypt--I
viewed the mournful scene before me, with mingled feelings of
curiosity and dread.

It was evidently very old, for even under the softening light of the
moon, the near tombs looked discoloured and time-worn. I saw the soft
swell of the green turf, betokening graves, upon which grew the grass
long and rank; the milky gleam of slender white columns, broken at the
top to typify the short lives of those who slept below; and while
yonder, in frowning grey stone, stood a solemn pyramid, built in
imitation of those Egyptian monsters by the Nile, here, near at hand,
a miniature temple of white marble, delicate and fragile in
construction, hinted at the graceful architecture of Greece. Among
these myriad tombs arose the slender, lance-shaped cypress-trees, and
their dark forms alternating with gleaming crosses of white marble,
sombre pyramids, classic temples, and innumerable lines of tall
columns, gave to this singular scene the aspect of a visionary city of
the dead, which had become visible to mortal eyes by the enchantments
of the moon.

Fascinated by the weirdness of this solitude, I let my cigar fall to
the ground, and, hidden in the gloom of the cypress-trees, stared long
and earnestly at this last abode of the old Veronese, when suddenly my
hair bristled at the roots, a cold sweat broke out on my forehead, and
a nervous shudder made my frame tremble as if with ague.

The cause of this sudden fear was that, while wrapt in contemplation
of this desolate necropolis, I heard a laugh, a low, wicked laugh,
which seemed to come from the bowels of the earth. It was now nearly
midnight, that hour when the dead are said to come forth and wander
among the living, whose nightly sleep so strangely mocks the semblance
of that still repose which chains these spectres to their tombs during
the day. This idea pierced my brain like a knife, and for the moment,
under the influence of the hour, the ghastly scene, the evil laugh, I
believed that I was about to witness this terrible resurrection. I
tried to turn and fly, but my limbs were paralyzed, and like a statue
of stone I stood there rooted to the earth, feeling as if I were under
the influence of some horrible nightmare.

Again I heard that wicked laugh, and this time it seemed to come from
a tomb near me, a square block of gray stone, in the centre of which
was an iron door, evidently the entrance to some vault. Beside this
portal stood a life-sized figure in white marble of the Angel of
Death, guarding the entrance with a flaming sword, the undulating
blade of which seemed, to my startled eye, to waver against the
blackness of the door. All round this strange tomb the grass grew long
and thick, but, half veiled by the tangled herbage, star-shaped
flowers glimmered in the moonlight.

In another moment I would have fled, when for the third time I heard
the evil laugh, the iron door of the tomb slowly opened, and a dark
figure appeared on the threshold. The sight was so terrifying that I
tried to mutter a prayer, feeling at the time as firm a belief in the
visitation of the dead as any old woman; but my throat was so dry that
I could do nothing but remain silent in my hiding-place and stare at
this ghoul, vampire