II. A Guest

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu · 2026-03-31

I’m about to share something so strange that you’ll need to trust me completely to believe it. But I assure you, it’s true, and I witnessed it all firsthand.

It was a lovely summer evening when my father invited me, as he often did, to take a stroll along the beautiful forest path in front of our castle.

“General Spielsdorf won’t be able to visit us as soon as I had hoped,” he said as we walked.

He was supposed to come for a few weeks, and we had been expecting him the next day. He was bringing his niece and ward, Mademoiselle Rheinfeldt, whom I had never met but had heard described as a delightful young woman. I had been looking forward to spending many happy days in her company. My disappointment was deeper than any young lady in a bustling town could imagine. This visit, and the new friendship it promised, had been the centerpiece of my daydreams for weeks.

“When will he arrive?” I asked.

“Not until autumn. Probably not for another two months,” he replied. “And I’m actually relieved that you never got to know Mademoiselle Rheinfeldt.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, both embarrassed and curious.

“Because the poor girl has passed away,” he said. “I completely forgot to mention it, but you weren’t in the room when I received the General’s letter this evening.”

I was taken aback. General Spielsdorf had mentioned in his first letter, several weeks earlier, that she hadn’t been well, but there was nothing to suggest she was in any real danger.

“Here’s the General’s letter,” he said, handing it to me. “I fear he’s in deep sorrow; the letter seems to have been written in a state of distraction.”

We settled onto a rough bench beneath a cluster of magnificent lime trees. The sun was setting, casting a melancholy glow over the horizon, and the stream that flowed beside our home, passing under the old steep bridge I had mentioned, wound through groups of noble trees almost at our feet, reflecting the fading crimson of the sky. General Spielsdorf’s letter was so extraordinary, so intense, and at times so contradictory, that I read it twice—once silently and then aloud to my father—and still couldn’t make sense of it, except to assume that grief had clouded his mind.

It read: “I have lost my darling daughter, for I loved her as such. In the last days of dear Bertha’s illness, I couldn’t write to you. Before that, I had no idea of her danger. I’ve lost her, and now I learn everything too late. She died in the peace of innocence, with the glorious hope of a blessed future. The fiend who betrayed our misguided hospitality is responsible for it all. I thought I was welcoming innocence, joy, and a charming companion for my beloved Bertha. What a fool I’ve been!

I thank God my child died without suspecting the cause of her suffering. She left this world without even guessing the nature of her illness or the cursed passion of the one who caused all this misery. I will dedicate my remaining days to tracking down and destroying this monster. I’ve been told I might have hope of achieving this righteous and merciful goal. Right now, there’s hardly a glimmer of light to guide me. I curse my foolish disbelief, my pathetic pretense of superiority, my blindness, my stubbornness—all too late. I can’t write or speak clearly now. I am distraught. As soon as I recover a bit, I plan to devote myself to an inquiry that may lead me as far as Vienna. Some time in autumn, two months from now, or sooner if I’m still alive, I will see you—if you’ll allow it. Then I’ll tell you everything I can’t bear to write down now. Farewell. Please pray for me, dear friend.”

That was how the letter ended. Though I had never met Bertha Rheinfeldt, tears filled my eyes at the sudden news; I was shocked and profoundly disappointed.

By the time I returned the General’s letter to my father, the sun had set, and twilight had settled in.

It was a soft, clear evening, and we lingered, pondering the possible meanings behind the violent and incoherent sentences I had just read. We had nearly a mile to walk before reaching the road that passed in front of the castle, and by then, the moon was shining brightly. At the drawbridge, we encountered Madame Perrodon and Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, who had come out without their bonnets to enjoy the exquisite moonlight.

We heard their animated conversation as we approached. We joined them at the drawbridge and turned to admire the beautiful scene together.

The glade we had just walked through stretched out before us. To our left, a narrow road wound away beneath clusters of majestic trees, disappearing into the thickening forest. To the right, the same road crossed a steep, picturesque bridge, beside which stood a crumbling tower that once guarded the pass. Beyond the bridge, an abrupt hill rose, cloaked in trees, with shadows revealing clusters of grey rocks draped in ivy.

A thin layer of mist crept over the grass and lowlands like smoke, casting a translucent veil over the distance. Here and there, the river glimmered faintly in the moonlight.

It was a scene of unparalleled beauty. Yet, the news I had just received cast a shadow over it, though nothing could disturb the profound serenity and enchanting vagueness of the landscape.

My father, who appreciated the picturesque, and I stood in silence, gazing at the expanse below us. A short distance behind us, our two governesses were engaged in conversation, eloquently discussing the moon.

Madame Perrodon was plump, middle-aged, and romantic, speaking and sighing in poetic tones. Mademoiselle De Lafontaine, claiming some psychological and mystical insight from her German father, declared that when the moon shone with such intensity, it indicated a special spiritual activity. She explained that the full moon, in such brilliance, had various effects—it influenced dreams, stirred madness, affected nervous individuals, and had remarkable physical impacts on life. She recounted how her cousin, a ship's mate, had taken a nap on deck one such night, lying on his back in the moonlight. He awoke from a dream of an old woman clawing at his cheek, only to find his face grotesquely drawn to one side, a condition that never quite returned to normal.

“The moon tonight,” she said, “is filled with idyllic and magnetic influence. Look behind you at the front of the castle—see how all its windows sparkle with that silvery glow, as if unseen hands have lit the rooms to welcome fairy guests.”

There are moments when we find ourselves too languid to speak, yet the chatter of others is a pleasant melody to our ears. I listened, enjoying the gentle flow of the ladies’ conversation.

After a pause, my father broke the silence. “I’m in one of my gloomy moods tonight,” he said, quoting Shakespeare, whom he often read aloud to maintain our English.

“‘In truth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me: you say it wearies you; But how I got it—came by it.’”

He trailed off, then added, “I forget the rest. But I can’t shake the feeling that some great misfortune is looming over us. I suppose the poor General’s troubling letter has something to do with it.”

Just then, the unusual sound of carriage wheels and the clatter of hooves caught our attention.

They seemed to be approaching from the high ground overlooking the bridge, and soon the carriage appeared. Two horsemen crossed the bridge first, followed by a carriage drawn by four horses, with two men riding behind.

It looked like the traveling carriage of someone important, and we all became engrossed in this unusual sight. The scene grew even more dramatic when, as the carriage reached the top of the steep bridge, one of the lead horses took fright, causing panic to ripple through the rest of the team. In a matter of moments, the entire team broke into a wild gallop, thundering down the road toward us like a storm.

The tension was heightened by the piercing screams of a woman from the carriage window.

We moved forward, a mix of curiosity and horror; I remained mostly silent, while the others gasped in terror.

Our suspense was short-lived. Just before reaching the castle drawbridge, a magnificent lime tree stood by the roadside, with an ancient stone cross nearby. As the horses barreled toward them at a terrifying speed, they swerved, and the carriage wheel struck the protruding roots of the tree.

I knew what was about to happen. I covered my eyes, unable to watch, and turned my head away. At that moment, I heard a cry from my lady friends, who had ventured a little further ahead.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened my eyes to a scene of chaos. Two horses lay on the ground, the carriage was overturned with two wheels in the air, and the men were frantically unfastening the traces. A woman with a commanding presence had emerged, standing with her hands clasped, raising a handkerchief to her eyes from time to time.

Through the carriage door, a young woman was lifted out, appearing almost lifeless. My father was already at the side of an older woman, his hat in hand, clearly offering his assistance and the resources of our estate. The older woman seemed oblivious to him, her focus solely on the slender girl being gently placed against the slope of the bank.

I moved closer; the young woman seemed dazed but definitely alive. My father, who took pride in his medical knowledge, had just checked her pulse and assured the woman, who identified herself as the girl’s mother, that although her pulse was faint and irregular, it was still there. The mother clasped her hands and looked up, momentarily overwhelmed with gratitude, but then she broke out again in a dramatic manner that I suspected was natural to her.

She was what you might call a striking woman for her age, once undoubtedly beautiful. Tall but not thin, she wore a black velvet dress and looked rather pale, her face a mix of pride and agitation.

“Who could be so cursed by fate?” I heard her exclaim as I approached. “Here I am, on a journey that could mean life or death, and losing even an hour could mean losing everything. My child won’t be well enough to continue for who knows how long. I must leave her; I can’t afford to delay. How far is the nearest village? I need to leave her there, and I won’t see my darling or hear about her until I return in three months.”

I tugged at my father’s coat and whispered urgently, “Oh, Papa, please ask her if she can let her stay with us—it would be wonderful. Please.”

“If Madame will trust her daughter to the care of my daughter and her governess, Madame Perrodon, and allow her to remain with us until your return, it would be a great honor for us, and we will treat her with all the care and devotion such a responsibility deserves,” my father said.

“I can’t do that, sir; it would be asking too much of your kindness,” the lady replied, her voice distracted.

“On the contrary, it would be a tremendous kindness to us at a moment when we truly need it. My daughter has just suffered a cruel disappointment, and this young lady’s presence would be her greatest comfort. The nearest village is far away and lacks any suitable accommodations for your daughter. You can’t allow her to continue her journey for any significant distance without risking her safety. If, as you say, you cannot delay your journey, you must part with her tonight, and there’s no better place for that than here, where we can promise you honest care and tenderness.”

There was something about this lady’s demeanor that was both distinguished and commanding, and her engaging manner made it clear she was someone of importance, regardless of her elegant carriage.

By this point, the carriage had been set upright again, and the horses were calm and ready to go.

The lady glanced at her daughter, but I thought her expression lacked the affection one might expect at such a moment. Then she motioned for my father to follow her a few steps away, where they spoke in hushed tones, her face now serious and stern, a stark contrast to her earlier demeanor.

I was filled with curiosity about what she could be saying so urgently and rapidly, almost in his ear, while my father seemed oblivious to the shift in her mood.

After a couple of minutes, she returned to her daughter, who was being supported by Madame Perrodon. She knelt beside her for a moment, whispering what I assumed was a blessing in her ear. Then, after a quick kiss, she stepped back into her carriage. The door closed, the footmen in their formal livery jumped up behind, the outriders spurred their horses, the postilions cracked their whips, and the horses surged forward into a furious canter that threatened to break into a gallop. The carriage sped away, closely followed by the two horsemen behind.