by Bram Stoker
“Well,” he said, “they are gone, Admiral Bell, and we are alone; we have a clear stage and no favour.”
“The two things of all others I most desire. Now, they will be strangers where they are going to, and that will be something gained. I will endeavour to do some thing if I get yard-arm and yard-arm with these pirates. I’ll make ‘em feel the weight of true metal; I’ll board ‘em — d — — e, I’ll do everything.”
“Everything that can be done.”
“Ay — ay.”
The coach in which the family of the Bannerworths were carried away continued its course without any let or hindrance, and they met no one on their road during the whole drive. The fact was, nearly everybody was at the conflagration at Sir Francis Varney’s house.
Flora knew not which way they were going, and, after a time, all trace of the road was lost. Darkness set in, and they all sat in silence in the coach.
At length, after some time had been spent thus, Flora Bannerworth turned to Jack Pringle, and said, —
“Are we near, or have we much further to go?”
“Not very much, ma’am,” said Jack. “All’s right, however — ship in the direct course, and no breakers ahead — no lookout necessary; however there’s a land-lubber aloft to keep a look out.”
As this was not very intelligible, and Jack seemed to have his own reasons for silence, they asked him no further questions; but in about three-quarters of an hour, during which time the coach had been driving through the trees, they came to a standstill by a sudden pull of the check-string from Jack, who said, —
“Hilloa! — take in sails, and drop anchor.”
“Is this the place?”
“Yes, here we are,” said Jack; “we’re in port now, at all events;” and he began to sing, —
“The trials and the dangers of the voyage is past,” when the coach door opened, and they all got out and looked about them where they were.
“Up the garden if you please, ma’am — as quick as you can; the night air is very cold.”
Flora and her mother and brother took the hint, which was meant by Jack to mean that they were not to be seen outside. They at once entered a pretty garden, and then they came to a very neat and picturesque cottage. They had no time to look up at it, as the door was immediately opened by an elderly female, who was intended to wait upon them.
Soon after, Jack Pringle and the coachman entered the passage with the small amount of luggage which they had brought with them. This was deposited in the passage, and then Jack went out again, and, after a few minutes, there was the sound of wheels, which intimated that the coach had driven off.
Jack, however, returned in a few minutes afterwards, having secured the wicket-gate at the end of the garden, and then entered the house, shutting the door carefully after him.
Flora and her mother looked over the apartments in which they were shown with some surprise. It was, in everything, such as they could wish; indeed, though it could not be termed handsomely or extravagantly furnished, or that the things were new, yet, there was all that convenience and comfort could require, and some little of the luxuries.
“Well,” said Flora, “this is very thoughtful of the admiral. The place will really be charming, and the garden, too, delightful.”
“Mustn’t be made use of just now,” said Jack, “if you please, ma’am; them’s the orders at present.”
“Very well,” said Flora, smiling. “I suppose, Mr. Pringle, we must obey them.”
“Jack Pringle, if you please,” said Jack. “My commands only temporary. I ain’t got a commission.”
CHAPTER LVII.
THE LONELY WATCH, AND THE ADVENTURE IN THE DESERTED HOUSE.
It is now quite night, and so peculiar and solemn a stillness reigns in and about Bannerworth Hall and its surrounding grounds, that one might have supposed it a place of the dead, deserted completely after sunset by all who would still hold kindred with the living. There was not a breath of air stirring, and this circumstance added greatly to the impression of profound repose which the whole scene exhibited.
The wind during the day had been rather of a squally character, but towards nightfall, as is often usual after a day of such a character, it had completely lulled, and the serenity of the scene was unbroken even by the faintest sigh from a wandering zephyr.
The moon rose late at that period, and as is always the case at that interval between sunset and the rising of that luminary which makes the night so beautiful, the darkness was of the most profound character.
It was one of those nights to produce melancholy reflections — a night on which a man would be apt to review his past life, and to look into the hidden recesses of his soul to see if conscience could make a coward of him in the loneliness and stillness that breathed around.
It was one of those nights in which wanderers in the solitude of nature feel that the eye of Heaven is upon them, and on which there seems to be a more visible connection between the world and its great Creator than upon ordinary occasions.
The solemn and melancholy appear places once instinct with life, when deserted by those familiar forms and faces that have long inhabited them. There is no desert, no uninhabited isle in the far ocean, no wild, barren, pathless tract of unmitigated sterility, which could for one moment compare in point of loneliness and desolation to a deserted city.
Strip London, mighty and majestic as it is, of the busy swarm of humanity that throng its streets, its suburbs, its temples, its public edifices, and its private dwellings, and how awful would be the walk of one solitary man throughout its noiseless thoroughfares.
If madness seized not upon him ere he had been long the sole survivor of a race, it would need be cast in no common mould.
And to descend from great things to smaller — from the huge leviathan city to one mansion far removed from the noise and bustle of conventional life, we way imagine the sort of desolation that reigned through Bannerworth Hall, when, for the first time, after nearly a hundred and fifty years of occupation, it was deserted by the representatives of that family, so many members of which had lived and died beneath its roof. The house, and everything within, without, and around it, seemed actually to sympathize with its own desolation and desertion.
It seemed as if twenty years of continued occupation could not have produced such an effect upon the ancient edifice as had those few hours of neglect and desertion.
And yet it was not as if it had been stripped of those time-worn and ancient relics of ornament and furnishing that so long had appertained to it. No, nothing but the absence of those forms which had been accustomed quietly to move from room to room, and to be met here upon a staircase, there upon a corridor, and even in some of the ancient panelled apartments, which give it an air of dreary repose and listlessness.
The shutters, too, were all closed, and that circumstance contributed largely to the production of that gloomy effect which otherwise could not have ensued.
In fact, what could be done without attracting very special observation was done to prove to any casual observer that the house was untenanted.
But such was not really the case. In that very room where the much dreaded Varney the vampyre had made one of his dreaded appearances to Flora Bannerworth and her mother, sat two men.
It was from that apartment that Flora had discharged the pistol, which had been left to her by her brother, and the shot from which it was believed by the whole family had most certainly taken effect upon the person of the vampyre.
It was a room peculiarly accessible from the gardens, for it had long French windows opening to the very ground, and but a stone step intervened between the flooring of the apartment and a broad gravel walk which wound round that entire portion of the house.
It was in this room, then, that two men sat in silence, and nearly in darkness.
Before them, and on a table, were several articles of refreshment, as well of defence and offence, according as their intentions might be.
There were a bottle and three glasses, and lying near the elbow of one of the men was a large pair of pistols, such as might have adorned the belt of some desperate character, who wished to instil an opinion of his prowess into his foes by the magnitude of his weapons.
Close at hand, by the same party, lay some more modern fire arms, as well as a long dirk, with a silver mounted handle.
The light they had consisted of a large lantern, so constructed with a slide, that it could be completely obscured at a moment’s notice; but now as it was placed, the rays that were allowed to come from it were directed as much from the window of the apartment, as possible, and fell upon the faces of the two men, revealing them to be Admiral Bell and Dr. Chillingworth.
It might have been the effect of the particular light in which he sat, but the doctor looked extremely pale, and did not appear at all at his ease.
The admiral, on the contrary, appeared in as placable a state of mind as possible and had his arms folded across his breast, and his head shrunk down between his shoulders as if he had made up his mind to something that was to last a long time, and, therefore he was making the best of it.
“I do hope,” said Mr. Chillingworth, after a long pause, “that our efforts will be crowned with success — you know, my dear sir, that I have always been of your opinion, that there was a great deal more in this matter than met the eye.”
“To be sure,” said the admiral, “and as to our efforts being crowned with success, why, I’ll give you a toast, doctor, ‘may the morning’s reflection provide for the evening’s amusement.’”
“Ha! ha!” said Chillingworth, faintly; “I’d rather not drink any more, and you seem, admiral, to have transposed the toast in some way. I believe it runs, ‘may the evening’s amusement bear the morning’s reflection.’”
“Transpose the devil!” said the admiral; “what do I care how it runs? I gave you my toast, and as to that you mention, it’s another one altogether, and a sneaking, shore-going one too: but why don’t you drink?”
“Why, my dear sir, medically speaking, I am strongly of opinion that, when the human stomach is made to contain a large quantity of alcohol, it produces bad effects upon the system. Now, I’ve certainly taken one glass of this infernally strong Hollands, and it is now lying in my stomach like the red-hot heater of a tea-urn.”
“Is it? put it out with another, then.”
“Ay, I’m afraid that would not answer, but do you really think, admiral, that we shall effect anything by waiting here, and keeping watch and ward, not under the most comfortable circumstances, this first night of the Hall being empty.”
“Well, I don’t know that we shall,” said the admiral; “but when you really want to steal a march upon the enemy, there is nothing like beginning betimes. We are both of opinion that Varney’s great object throughout has been, by some means or another, to get possession of the house.”
“Yes; true, true.”
“We know that he has been unceasing in his endeavours to get the Bannerworth family out of it; that he has offered them their own price to become its tenant, and that the whole gist of his quiet and placid interview with Flora in the garden, was to supply her with a new set of reasons for urging her mother and brother to leave Bannerworth Hall, because the old ones were certainly not found sufficient.”
“True, true, most true,” said Mr. Chillingworth, emphatically. “You know, sir, that from the first time you broached that view of the subject to me, how entirely I coincided with you.”
“Of course you did, for you are a honest fellow, and a right-thinking fellow, though you are a doctor, and I don’t know that I like doctors much better than I like lawyers — they’re only humbugs in a different sort of way. But I wish to be liberal; there is such a thing as an honest lawyer, and, d — — e, you’re an honest doctor!”
“Of course I’m much obliged, admiral, for your good opinion. I only wish it had struck me to bring something of a solid nature in the shape of food, to sustain the waste of the animal economy during the hours we shall have to wait here.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about that,” said the admiral. “Do you think I’m a donkey, and would set out on a cruise without victualling my ship? I should think not. Jack Pringle will be here soon, and he has my orders to bring in something to eat.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “that’s very provident of you, admiral, and I feel personally obliged; but tell me, how do you intend to conduct the watch?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, I mean, if we sit here with the window fastened so as to prevent our light from being seen, and the door closed, how are we by any possibility to know if the house is attacked or not?”
“Hark’ee, my friend,” said the admiral; “I’ve left a weak point for the enemy.”
“A what, admiral?”
“A weak point. I’ve taken good care to secure everything but one of the windows on the ground floor, and that I’ve left open, or so nearly open, that it will look like the most natural place in the world to get in at. Now, just inside that window, I’ve placed a lot of the family crockery. I’ll warrant, if anybody so much as puts his foot in, you’ll hear the smash; — and, d — — e, there it is!”
There was a loud crash at this moment, followed by a succession of similar sounds, but of a lesser degree; and both the admiral and Mr. Chillingworth sprung to their feet.
“Come on,” cried the former; “here’ll be a precious row — take the lantern.”
Mr. Chillingworth did so, but he did not seem possessed of a great deal of presence of mind; for, before they got out of the room, he twice accidentally put on the dark slide, and produced a total darkness.
“D — n!” said the admiral; “don’t make it wink and wink in that way; hold it up, and run after me as hard as you can.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said Mr. Chillingworth.
It was one of the windows of a long room, containing five, fronting the garden, which the admiral had left purposely unguarded; and it was not far from the apartment in which they had been sitting, so that, probably, not half a minute’s time elapsed between the moment of the first alarm, and their reaching the spot from whence it was presumed to arise.
The admiral had armed himself with one of the huge pistols, and he dashed forward, with all the vehemence of his character, towards the window, where he knew he had placed the family crockery, and where he fully expected to meet the reward of his exertion by discovering some one lying amid its fragments.
In this, however, he was disappointed; for, although there was evidently a great smash amongst the plates and dishes, the window remained closed, and there was no indication whatever of the presence of any one.
“Well, that’s odd,” said the admiral; “I balanced them up amazingly careful, and two of ‘em edgeways — d — e, a fly would have knocked them down.”
“Mew,” said a great cat, emerging from under a chair.
“Curse you, there you are,” said the admiral. “Put out the light, put out the light; here we’re illuminating the whole house for nothing.”
With, a click went the darkening slide over the lantern, and all was obscurity.
At that instant a shrill, clear whistle came from the garden.
CHAPTER LVIII.
THE ARRIVAL OF JACK PRINGLE. — MIDNIGHT AND THE VAMPYRE. — THE MYSTERIOUS HAT.
“Bless me! what is that?” said Mr. Chillingworth; “what a very singular sound.”
“Hold your noise,” said the admiral; “did you never hear that before?”
“No; how should I?”
“Lor, bless the ignorance of some people, that’s a boatswain’s call.”
“Oh, it is,” said Mr. Chillingworth; “is he going to call again?”
“D — — e, I tell ye it’s a boatswain’s call.”
“Well, then, d — — e, if it comes to that,” said Mr. Chillingworth, “what does he call here for?”
The admiral disdained an answer; but de
manding the lantern, he opened it, so that there was a sufficient glimmering of light to guide him, and then walked from the room towards the front door of the Hall.
He asked no questions before he opened it, because, no doubt, the signal was preconcerted; and Jack Pringle, for it was he indeed who had arrived, at once walked in, and the admiral barred the door with the same precision with which it was before secured.
“Well, Jack,” he said, “did you see anybody?”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said Jack.
“Why, ye don’t mean that — where?”
“Where I bought the grub; a woman — ”
“D — — e, you’re a fool, Jack.”
“You’re another.”
“Hilloa, ye scoundrel, what d’ye mean by talking to me in that way? is this your respect for your superiors?”
“Ship’s been paid off long ago,” said Jack, “and I ain’t got no superiors. I ain’t a marine or a Frenchman.”
“Why, you’re drunk.”
“I know it; put that in your eye.”
“There’s a scoundrel. Why, you know-nothing-lubber, didn’t I tell you to be careful, and that everything depended upon secrecy and caution? and didn’t I tell you, above all this, to avoid drink?”
“To be sure you did.”
“And yet you come here like a rum cask.”
“Yes; now you’ve had your say, what then?”
“You’d better leave him alone,” said Mr. Chillingworth; “it’s no use arguing with a drunken man.”
“Harkye, admiral,” said Jack, steadying himself as well as he could. “I’ve put up with you a precious long while, but I won’t no longer; you’re so drunk, now, that you keeping bobbing up and down like the mizen gaff in a storm — that’s my opinion — tol de rol.”
“Let him alone, let him alone,” urged Mr. Chillingworth.
“The villain,” said the admiral; “he’s enough to ruin everything; now, who would have thought that? but it’s always been the way with him for a matter of twenty years — he never had any judgment in his drink. When it was all smooth sailing, and nothing to do, and the fellow might have got an extra drop on board, which nobody would have cared for, he’s as sober as a judge; but, whenever there’s anything to do, that wants a little cleverness, confound him, he ships rum enough to float a seventy-four.”
