Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  After this the fire might be said to be subdued, it having burned itself out; and the flames that could now be seen were but the result of so much charred wood, that would probably smoulder away for a day or two, if left to itself to do so. A dense mass of smoke arose from the ruins, and blackened the atmosphere around, and told the spectators the work was done.

  CHAPTER LV.

  THE RETURN OF THE MOB AND MILITARY TO THE TOWN. — THE MADNESS OF THE MOB. — THE GROCER’S REVENGE.

  On the termination of the conflagration, or, rather, the fall of the roof, with the loss of grandeur in the spectacle, men’s minds began to be free from the excitement that chained them to the spot, watching the progress of that element which has been truly described as a very good servant, but a very bad master; and of the truth of this every one must be well satisfied.

  There was now remaining little more than the livid glare of the hot and burning embers; and this did not extend far, for the walls were too strongly built to fall in from their own weight; they were strong and stout, and intercepted the little light the ashes would have given out.

  The mob now began to feel fatigued and chilly. It had been standing and walking about many hours, and the approach of exhaustion could not be put off much longer, especially as there was no longer any great excitement to carry it off.

  The officer, seeing that nothing was to be done, collected his men together, and they were soon seen in motion. He had been ordered to stop any tumult that he might have seen, and to save any property. But there was nothing to do now; all the property that could have been saved was now destroyed, and the mob were beginning to disperse, and creep towards their own houses.

  The order was then given for the men to take close order, and keep together, and the word to march was given, which the men obeyed with alacrity, for they had no good-will in stopping there the whole of the night.

  The return to the village of both the mob and the military was not without its vicissitudes; accidents of all kinds were rife amongst them; the military, however, taking the open paths, soon diminished the distance, and that, too, with little or no accidents, save such as might have been expected from the state of the fields, after they had been so much trodden down of late.

  Not so the townspeople or the peasantry; for, by way of keeping up their spirits, and amusing themselves on their way home, they commenced larking, as they called it, which often meant the execution of practical jokes, and these sometimes were of a serious nature.

  The night was dark at that hour, especially so when there was a number of persons traversing about, so that little or nothing could be seen.

  The mistakes and blunders that were made were numerous. In one place there were a number of people penetrating a path that led only to a hedge and deep ditch; indeed it was a brook very deep and muddy.

  Here they came to a stop and endeavoured to ascertain its width, but the little reflected light they had was deceptive, and it did not appear so broad as it was.

  “Oh, I can jump it,” exclaimed one.

  “And so can I,” said another. “I have done so before, and why should I not do so now.”

  This was unanswerable, and as there were many present, at least a dozen were eager to jump.

  “If thee can do it, I know I can,” said a brawny countryman; “so I’ll do it at once.

  “The sooner the better,” shouted some one behind, “or you’ll have no room for a run, here’s a lot of ‘em coming up; push over as quickly as you can.”

  Thus urged, the jumpers at once made a rush to the edge of the ditch, and many jumped, and many more, from the prevailing darkness, did not see exactly where the ditch was, and taking one or two steps too many, found themselves up above the waist in muddy water.

  Nor were those who jumped much better off, for nearly all jumped short or fell backwards into the stream, and were dragged out in a terrible state.

  “Oh, lord! oh, lord!” exclaimed one poor fellow, dripping wet and shivering with cold, “I shall die! oh, the rheumatiz, there’ll be a pretty winter for me: I’m half dead.”

  “Hold your noise,” said another, “and help me to get the mud out of my eye; I can’t see.”

  “Never mind,” added a third, “considering how you jump, I don’t think you want to see.”

  “This comes a hunting vampyres.”

  “Oh, it’s all a judgment; who knows but he may be in the air: it is nothing to laugh at as I shouldn’t be surprised if he were: only think how precious pleasant.”

  “However pleasant it may be to you,” remarked one, “it’s profitable to a good many.”

  “How so?”

  “Why, see the numbers, of things that will be spoiled, coats torn, hats crushed, heads broken, and shoes burst. Oh, it’s an ill-wind that blows nobody any good.”

  “So it is, but you may benefit anybody you like, so you don’t do it at my expence.”

  In one part of a field where there were some stiles and gates, a big countryman caught a fat shopkeeper with the arms of the stile a terrible poke in the stomach; while the breath was knocked out of the poor man’s stomach, and he was gasping with agony, the fellow set to laughing, and said to his companions, who were of the same class —

  “I say, Jim, look at the grocer, he hasn’t got any wind to spare, I’d run him for a wager, see how he gapes like a fish out of water.”

  The poor shopkeeper felt indeed like a fish out of water, and as he afterwards declared he felt just as if he had had a red hot clock weight thrust into the midst of his stomach and there left to cool.

  However, the grocer would be revenged upon his tormentor, who had now lost sight of him, but the fat man, after a time, recovering his wind, and the pain in his stomach becoming less intense, he gathered himself up.

  “My name ain’t Jones,” he muttered, “if I don’t be one to his one for that; I’ll do something that shall make him remember what it is to insult a respectable tradesman. I’ll never forgive such an insult. It is dark, and that’s why it is he has dared to do this.”

  Filled with dire thoughts and a spirit of revenge, he looked from side to side to see with what he could effect his object, but could espy nothing.

  “It’s shameful,” he muttered; “what would I give for a little retort. I’d plaster his ugly countenance.”

  As he spoke, he placed his hands on some pales to rest himself, when he found that they stuck to them, the pales had that day been newly pitched.

  A bright idea now struck him.

  “If I could only get a handful of this stuff,” he thought, “I should be able to serve him out for serving me out. I will, cost what it may; I’m resolved upon that. I’ll not have my wind knocked out, and my inside set on fire for nothing. No, no; I’ll be revenged on him.”

  With this view he felt over the pales, and found that he could scrape off a little only, but not with his hands; indeed, it only plastered them; he, therefore, marched about for something to scrape it off with.

  “Ah; I have a knife, a large pocket knife, that will do, that is the sort of thing I want.”

  He immediately commenced feeling for it, but had scarcely got his hand into his pocket when he found there would be a great difficulty in either pushing it in further or withdrawing it altogether, for the pitch made it difficult to do either, and his pocket stuck to his hands like a glove.

  “D — n it,” said the grocer, “who would have thought of that? here’s a pretty go, curse that fellow, he is the cause of all this; I’ll be revenged upon him, if it’s a year hence.”

  The enraged grocer drew his hand out, but was unable to effect his object in withdrawing the knife also; but he saw something shining, he stooped to pick it up, exclaiming as he did so, in a gratified tone of voice,

  “Ah, here’s something that will do better.”

  As he made a grasp at it, he found he had inserted his hand into something soft.

  “God bless me! what now?”

  He pulled his hand hastily away, and found
that it stuck slightly, and then he saw what it was.

  “Ay, ay, the very thing. Surely it must have been placed here on purpose by the people.”

  The fact was, he had placed his hand into a pot of pitch that had been left by the people who had been at work at pitching the pales, but had been attracted by the fire at Sir Francis Varney’s, and to see which they had left their work, and the pitch was left on a smouldering peat fire, so that when Mr. Jones, the grocer, accidentally put his hand into it he found it just warm.

  When he made this discovery he dabbed his hand again into the pitch-pot, exclaiming, —

  “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  And he endeavoured to secure as large a handful of the slippery and sticky stuff as he could, and this done he set off to come up with the big countryman who had done him so much indignity and made his stomach uncomfortable.

  He soon came up with him, for the man had stopped rather behind, and was larking, as it is called, with some men, to whom he was a companion.

  He had slipped down a bank, and was partially sitting down on the soft mud. In his bustle, the little grocer came down with a slide, close to the big countryman.

  “Ah — ah! my little grocer,” said the countryman, holding out his hand to catch him, and drawing him towards himself. “You will come and sit down by the side of your old friend.”

  As he spoke, he endeavoured to pull Mr. Jones down, too; but that individual only replied by fetching the countryman a swinging smack across the face with the handful of pitch.

  “There, take that; and now we are quits; we shall be old friends after this, eh? Are you satisfied? You’ll remember me, I’ll warrant.”

  As the grocer spoke, he rubbed his hands over the face of the fallen man, and then rushed from the spot with all the haste he could make.

  The countryman sat a moment or two confounded, cursing, and swearing, and spluttering, vowing vengeance, believing that it was mud only that had been plastered over his face; but when he put his hands up, and found out what it was, he roared and bellowed like a town-bull.

  He cried out to his companions that his eyes were pitched: but they only laughed at him, thinking he was having some foolish lark with them.

  It was next day before he got home, for he wandered about all night: and it took him a week to wash the pitch off by means of grease; and ever afterwards he recollected the pitching of his face; nor did he ever forget the grocer.

  Thus it was the whole party returned a long while after dark across the fields, with all the various accidents that were likely to befal such an assemblage of people.

  The vampyre hunting cost many of them dear, for clothes were injured on all sides: hats lost, and shoes missing in a manner that put some of the rioters to much inconvenience. Soon afterwards, the military retired to their quarters; and the townspeople at length became tranquil and nothing more was heard or done that night.

  CHAPTER LVI.

  THE DEPARTURE OF THE BANNERWORTHS FROM THE HALL. — THE NEW ABODE. — JACK PRINGLE, PILOT.

  During that very evening, on which the house of Sir Francis Varney was fired by the mob, another scene, and one of different character, was enacted at Bannerworth Hall, where the owners of that ancient place were departing from it.

  It was towards the latter part of the day, that Flora Bannerworth, Mrs. Bannerworth, and Henry Bannerworth, were preparing themselves to depart from the house of their ancestors. The intended proprietor was, as we have already been made acquainted with, the old admiral, who had taken the place somewhat mysteriously, considering the way in which he usually did business.

  The admiral was walking up and down the lawn before the house, and looking up at the windows every now and then; and turning to Jack Pringle, he said, —

  “Jack, you dog.”

  “Ay — ay, sir.”

  “Mind you convoy these women into the right port; do you hear? and no mistaking the bearings; do you hear?”

  “Ay, ay, sir.”

  “These crafts want care; and you are pilot, commander, and all; so mind and keep your weather eye open.”

  “Ay, ay, sir. I knows the craft well enough, and I knows the roads, too; there’ll be no end of foundering against the breakers to find where they lie.”

  “No, no, Jack; you needn’t do that; but mind your bearings. Jack, mind your bearings.”

  “Never fear; I know ‘em, well enough; my eyes ain’t laid up in ordinary yet.”

  “Eh? What do you mean by that, you dog, eh?”

  “Nothing; only I can see without helps to read, or glasses either; so I know one place from another.”

  There was now some one moving within; and the admiral, followed by Jack Pringle, entered the Hall. Henry Bannerworth was there. They were all ready to go when the coach came for them, which the admiral had ordered for them.

  “Jack, you lubber; where are you?”

  “Ay, ay, sir, here am I.”

  “Go, and station yourself up in some place where you can keep a good look-out for the coach, and come and report when you see it.”

  “Ay — ay, sir,” said Jack, and away he went from the room, and stationed himself up in one of the trees, that commanded a good view of the main road for some distance.

  “Admiral Bell,” said Henry, “here we are, trusting implicitly to you; and in doing so, I am sure I am doing right.”

  “You will see that,” said the admiral. “All’s fair and honest as yet; and what is to come, will speak for itself.”

  “I hope you won’t suffer from any of these nocturnal visits,” said Henry.

  “I don’t much care about them; but old Admiral Bell don’t strike his colours to an enemy, however ugly he may look. No, no; it must be a better craft than his own that’ll take him; and one who won’t run away, but that will grapple yard-arm and yard-arm, you know.”

  “Why, admiral, you must have seen many dangers in your time, and be used to all kinds of disturbances and conflicts. You have had a life of experience.”

  “Yes; and experience has come pretty thick sometimes, I can tell you, when it comes in the shape of Frenchmen’s broadsides.”

  “I dare say, then, it must be rather awkward.”

  “Death by the law,” said the admiral, “to stop one of them with your head, I assure you. I dare not make the attempt myself, though I have often seen it done.”

  “I dare say; but here are Flora and my mother.”

  As he spoke, Flora and her mother entered the apartment.

  “Well, admiral, we are all ready; and, though I may feel somewhat sorry at leaving the old Hall, yet it arises from attachment to the place, and not any disinclination to be beyond the reach of these dreadful alarms.”

  “And I, too, shall be by no means sorry,” said Flora; “I am sure it is some gratification to know we leave a friend here, rather than some others, who would have had the place, if they could have got it, by any means.”

  “Ah, that’s true enough, Miss Flora,” said the admiral; “but we’ll run the enemy down yet, depend upon it. But once away, you will be free from these terrors; and now, as you have promised, do not let yourselves be seen any where at all.”

  “You have our promises, admiral; and they shall be religiously kept, I can assure you.”

  “Boat, ahoy — ahoy!” shouted Jack.

  “What boat?” said the admiral, surprised; and then he muttered, “Confound you for a lubber! Didn’t I tell you to mind your bearings, you dog-fish you?”

  “Ay, ay, sir — and so I did.”

  “You did.”

  “Yes, here they are. Squint over the larboard bulk-heads, as they call walls, and then atween the two trees on the starboard side of the course, then straight ahead for a few hundred fathoms, when you come to a funnel as is smoking like the crater of Mount Vesuvius, and then in a line with that on the top of the hill, comes our boat.”

  “Well,” said the admiral, “that’ll do. Now go open the gates, and keep a bright look out, and if you see an
ybody near your watch, why douse their glim.”

  “Ay — ay, sir,” said Jack, and he disappeared.

  “Rather a lucid description,” said Henry, as he thought of Jack’s report to the admiral.

  “Oh, it’s a seaman’s report. I know what he means; it’s quicker and plainer than the land lingo, to my ears, and Jack can’t talk any other, you see.”

  By this time the coach came into the yard, and the whole party descended into the court-yard, where they came to take leave of the old place.

  “Farewell, admiral.”

  “Good bye,” said the admiral. “I hope the place you are going to will be such as please you — I hope it will.”

  “I am sure we shall endeavour to be pleased with it, and I am pretty sure we shall.”

  “Good bye.”

  “Farewell, Admiral Bell,” said Henry.

  “You remember your promises?”

  “I do. Good bye, Mr. Chillingworth.”

  “Good bye,” said Mr. Chillingworth, who came up to bid them farewell; “a pleasant journey, and may you all be the happier for it.”

  “You do not come with us?”

  “No; I have some business of importance to attend to, else I should have the greatest pleasure in doing so. But good bye; we shall not be long apart, I dare say.”

  “I hope not,” said Henry.

  The door of the carriage was shut by the admiral, who looked round, saying, —

  “Jack — Jack Pringle, where are you, you dog?”

  “Here am I,” said Jack.

  “Where have you been to?”

  “Only been for pigtail,” said Jack. “I forgot it, and couldn’t set sail without it.”

  “You dog you; didn’t I tell you to mind your bearings?”

  “So I will,” said Jack, “fore and aft — fore and aft, admiral.”

  “You had better,” said the admiral, who, however, relaxed into a broad grin, which he concealed from Jack Pringle.

  Jack mounted the coach-box, and away it went, just as it was getting dark. The old admiral had locked up all the rooms in the presence of Henry Bannerworth; and when the coach had gone out of sight, Mr. Chillingworth came back to the Hall, where he joined the admiral.