Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  “Ah! Sir Francis Varney, you mean.”

  “I do; and I’d Varney him if I caught hold of him.”

  “Can you give me the least idea of where he can be found?”

  “Of course I can.”

  “Indeed! where?” said the stranger, eagerly.

  “In some churchyard, to be sure, gobbling up the dead bodies.”

  With this Mrs. Chillingworth shut the door with a bang that nearly flattened the Hungarian’s nose with his face, and he was fain to walk away, quite convinced that there was no information to be had in that quarter.

  He returned to the inn, and having told the landlord that he would give a handsome reward to any one who would discover to him the retreat of Sir Francis Varney, he shut himself up in an apartment alone, and was busy for a time in writing letters.

  Although the sum which the stranger offered was an indefinite one, the landlord mentioned the matter across the bar to several persons; but all of them shook their heads, believing it to be a very perilous adventure indeed to have anything to do with so troublesome a subject as Sir Francis Varney. As the day advanced, however, a young lad presented himself, and asked to see the gentleman who had been inquiring for Varney.

  The landlord severely questioned and cross-questioned him, with the hope of discovering if he had any information: but the boy was quite obdurate, and would speak to no one but the person who had offered the reward, so that mine host was compelled to introduce him to the Hungarian nobleman, who, as yet, had neither eaten nor drunk in the house.

  The boy wore upon his countenance the very expression of juvenile cunning, and when the stranger asked him if he really was in possession of any information concerning the retreat of Sir Francis Varney, he said, —

  “I can tell you where he is, but what are you going to give?”

  “What sum do you require?” said the stranger.

  “A whole half-crown.”

  “It is your’s; and, if your information prove correct, come to-morrow, and I’ll add another to it, always provided, likewise, you keep the secret from any one else.”

  “Trust me for that,” said the boy. “I live with my grandmother; she’s precious old, and has got a cottage. We sell milk and cakes, sticky stuff, and pennywinkles.”

  “A goodly collection. Go on.”

  “Well, sir, this morning, there comes a man in with a bottle, and he buys a bottle full of milk and a loaf. I saw him, and I knew it was Varney, the vampyre.”

  “You followed him?”

  “Of course I did, sir; and he’s staying at the house that’s to let down the lane, round the corner, by Mr. Biggs’s, and past Lee’s garden, leaving old Slaney’s stacks on your right hand, and so cutting on till you come to Grants’s meadow, when you’ll see old Madhunter a brick-field staring of you in the face; and, arter that — ”

  “Peace — peace! — you shall yourself conduct me. Come to this place at sunset; be secret, and, probably, ten times the reward you have already received may be yours,” said the stranger.

  “What, ten half-crowns?”

  “Yes, I will keep my word with you.”

  “What a go! I know what I’ll do. I’ll set up as a show man, and what a glorious treat it will be, to peep through one of the holes all day myself, and get somebody to pull the strings up and down, and when I’m tired of that, I can blaze away upon the trumpet like one o’clock. I think I see me. Here you sees the Duke of Marlborough a whopping of everybody, and here you see the Frenchmen flying about like parched peas in a sifter.”

  CHAPTER LXXXIV.

  THE EXCITED POPULACE. — VARNEY HUNTED. — THE PLACE OF REFUGE.

  There seemed, now a complete lull in the proceedings as connected with Varney, the vampyre. We have reason to believe that the executioner who had been as solicitous as Varney to obtain undisputed possession of Bannerworth Hall, has fallen a victim to the indiscriminating rage of the mob. Varney himself is a fugitive, and bound by the most solemn ties to Charles Holland, not only to communicate to him such particulars of the past, as will bring satisfaction to his mind, but to abstain from any act which, for the future, shall exercise a disastrous influence upon the happiness of Flora.

  The doctor and the admiral, with Henry, had betaken themselves from the Hall as we had recorded, and, in due time, reached the cottage where Flora and her mother had found a temporary refuge.

  Mrs. Bannerworth was up; but Flora was sleeping, and, although the tidings they had to tell were of a curious and mixed nature, they would not have her disturbed to listen to them.

  And, likewise, they were rather pleased than otherwise, since they knew not exactly what had become of Charles Holland, to think that they would probably be spared the necessity of saying they could not account for his absence.

  That he had gone upon some expedition, probably dangerous, and so one which he did not wish to communicate the particulars of to his friends, lest they should make a strong attempt to dissuade him from it, they were induced to believe.

  But yet they had that confidence in his courage and active intellectual resources, to believe that he would come through it unscathed, and, probably, shortly show himself at the cottage.

  In this hope they were not disappointed, for in about two hours Charles made his appearance; but, until he began to be questioned concerning his absence by the admiral, he scarcely considered the kind of dilemma he had put himself into by the promise of secrecy he had given to Varney, and was a little puzzled to think now much he might tell, and how much he was bound in honour to conceal.

  “Avast there!” cried the admiral; “what’s become of your tongue, Charles? You’ve been on some cruize, I’ll be bound. Haul over the ship’s books, and tell us what’s happened.”

  “I have been upon an adventure,” said Charles, “which I hope will be productive of beneficial results to us all; but, the fact is, I have made a promise, perhaps incautiously, that I will not communicate what I know.”

  “Whew!” said the admiral, “that’s awkward; but, however, if a man said under sealed instructions, there’s an end of it. I remember when I was off Candia once — -”

  “Ha!” interposed Jack, “that was the time you tumbled over the blessed binnacle, all in consequence of taking too much Madeira. I remember it, too — it’s an out and out good story, that ‘ere. You took a rope’s end, you know, and laid into the bowsprit; and, says you, ‘Get up, you lubber,’ says you, all the while a thinking, I supposes, as it was long Jack Ingram, the carpenter’s mate, laying asleep. What a lark!”

  “This scoundrel will be the death of me,” said the admiral; “there isn’t one word of truth in what he says. I never got drunk in all my life, as everybody knows. Jack, affairs are getting serious between you and I — we must part, and for good. It’s a good many times that I’ve told you you’ve forgot the difference between the quarter-deck and the caboose. Now, I’m serious — you’re off the ship’s books, and there’s an end of you.”

  “Very good,” said Jack; “I’m willing I’ll leave you. Do you think I want to keep you any longer? Good bye, old bloak — I’ll leave you to repent, and when old grim death comes yard-arm and yard-arm with you, and you can’t shake off his boarding-tackle, you’ll say, ‘Where’s Jack Pringle?’ says you; and then what’s his mane — oh ah! echo you call it — echo’ll say, it’s d — — d if it knows.”

  Jack turned upon his heel, and, before the admiral could make any reply he left the place.

  “What’s the rascal up to now?” said the admiral. “I really didn’t think he’d have taken me at my word.”

  “Oh, then, after all, you didn’t mean it, uncle?” said Charles.

  “What’s that to you, you lubber, whether I mean it, or not, you shore-going squab? Of course I expect everybody to desert an old hulk, rats and all — and now Jack Pringle’s gone; the vagabond, couldn’t he stay, and get drunk as long as he liked! Didn’t he say what he pleased, and do what he pleased, the mutinous thief? Didn’t he say I run awa
y from a Frenchman off Cape Ushant, and didn’t I put up with that?”

  “But, my dear uncle, you sent him away yourself.”

  “I didn’t, and you know I didn’t; but I see how it is, you’ve disgusted Jack among you. A better seaman never trod the deck of a man-of-war.”

  “But his drunkenness, uncle?”

  “It’s a lie. I don’t believe he ever got drunk. I believe you all invented it, and Jack’s so good-natured, he tumbled about just to keep you in countenance.”

  “But his insolence, uncle; his gross insolence towards you — his inventions, his exaggerations of the truth?”

  “Avast, there — avast, there — none of that, Master Charlie; Jack couldn’t do anything of the sort; and I means to say this, that if Jack was here now, I’d stick up for him, and say he was a good seaman.

  “Tip us your fin, then,” said Jack, darting into the room; “do you think I’d leave you, you d — — d old fool? What would become of you, I wonder, if I wasn’t to take you in to dry nurse? Why, you blessed old babby, what do you mean by it?”

  “Jack, you villain!”

  “Ah! go on and call me a villain as much as you like. Don’t you remember when the bullets were scuttling our nobs?”

  “I do, I do, Jack; tip us your fin, old fellow. You’ve saved my life more than once.”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “It ain’t. You did, I say.”

  “You bed — — d!”

  And thus was the most serious misunderstanding that these two worthies ever had together made up. The real fact is, that the admiral could as little do without Jack, as he could have done without food; and as for Pringle, he no more thought of leaving the old commodore, than of — what shall we say? forswearing him. Jack himself could not have taken a stronger oath.

  But the old admiral had suffered so much from the idea that Jack had actually left him, that although he abused him as usual often enough, he never again talked of taking him off the ship’s books; and, to the credit of Jack be it spoken, he took no advantage of the circumstance, and only got drunk just as usual, and called his master an old fool whenever it suited him.

  CHAPTER LXXXV.

  THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN GETS INTO DANGER. — HE IS FIRED AT, AND SHOWS SOME OF HIS QUALITY.

  Considerably delighted was the Hungarian, not only at the news he had received from the boy, but as well for the cheapness of it. Probably he did not conceive it possible that the secret of the retreat of such a man as Varney could have been attained so easily.

  He waited with great impatience for the evening, and stirred not from the inn for several hours; neither did he take any refreshment, notwithstanding he had made so liberal an arrangement with the landlord to be supplied.

  All this was a matter of great excitement and speculation in the inn, so much so, indeed, that the landlord sent for some of the oldest customers of his house, regular topers, who sat there every evening, indulging in strong drinks, and pipes and tobacco, to ask their serious advice as to what he should do, as if it were necessary he should do anything at all.

  But, somehow or another, these wiseacres who assembled at the landlord’s bidding, and sat down, with something strong before them, in the bar parlour, never once seemed to think that a man might, if he choosed, come to an inn, and agree to pay four guineas a week for board and lodging, and yet take nothing at all.

  No; they could not understand it, and therefore they would not have it. It was quite monstrous that anybody should attempt to do anything so completely out of the ordinary course of proceeding. It was not to be borne; and as in this country it happens, free and enlightened as we are, that no man can commit a greater social offence than doing something that his neighbours never thought of doing themselves, the Hungarian nobleman was voted a most dangerous character, and, in fact, not to be put up with.

  “I shouldn’t have thought so much of it” said the landlord; “but only look at the aggravation of the thing. After I have asked him four guineas a week, and expected to be beaten down to two, to be then told that he would not have cared if it had been eight. It is enough to aggravate a saint.”

  “Well, I agree with you there,” said another; “that’s just what it is, and I only wonder that a man of your sagacity has not quite understood it before.”

  “Understood what?”

  “Why, that he is a vampyre. He has heard of Sir Francis Varney, that’s the fact, and he’s come to see him. Birds of a feather, you know, flock together, and now we shall have two vampyres in the town instead of one.”

  The party looked rather blank at this suggestion, which, indeed, seemed rather uncomfortable probably. The landlord had just opened his mouth to make some remark, when he was stopped by the violent ringing of what he now called the vampyre’s bell, since it proceeded from the room where the Hungarian nobleman was.

  “Have you an almanack in the house?” was the question of the mysterious guest.

  “An almanack, sir? well, I really don’t know. Let me see, an almanack.”

  “But, perhaps, you can tell me. I was to know the moon’s age.”

  “The devil!” thought the landlord; “he’s a vampyre, and no mistake. Why, sir, as to the moon’s age, it was a full moon last night, very bright and beautiful, only you could not see it for the clouds.”

  “A full moon last night,” said the mysterious guest, thoughtfully; “it may shine, then, brightly, to-night, and if so, all will be well. I thank you, — leave the room.”

  “Do you mean to say, sir, you don’t want anything to eat now?”

  “What I want I’ll order.”

  “But you have ordered nothing.”

  “Then presume that I want nothing.”

  The discomfited landlord was obliged to leave the room, for there was no such a thing as making any answer to this, and so, still further confirmed in his opinion that the stranger was a vampyre that came to see Sir Francis Varney from a sympathetic feeling towards him, he again reached the bar-parlour.

  “You may depend,” he said, “as sure as eggs is eggs, that he is a vampyre. Hilloa! he’s going off, — after him — after him; he thinks we suspect him. There he goes — down the High-street.”

  The landlord ran out, and so did those who were with him, one of whom carried his brandy and water in his hand, which, being too hot for him to swallow all at once, he still could not think of leaving behind.

  It was now gelling rapidly dark, and the mysterious stranger was actually proceeding towards the lane to keep his appointment with the boy who had promised to conduct him to the hiding-place of Sir Francis Varney.

  He had not proceeded far, however, before he began to suspect that he was followed, as it was evident on the instant that he altered his course; for, instead of walking down the lane, where the boy was waiting for him, he went right on, and seemed desirous of making his way into the open country between the town and Bannerworth Hall.

  His pursuers — for they assumed that character — when they saw this became anxious to intercept him; and thinking that the greater force they had the better, they called out aloud as they passed a smithy, where a man was shoeing a horse, —

  “Jack Burdon, here is another vampyre!”

  “The deuce there is!” said the person who was addressed. “I’ll soon settle him. Here’s my wife gets no sleep of a night as it is, all owing to that Varney, who has been plaguing us so long. I won’t put up with another.”

  So saying, he snatched from a hook on which it hung, an old fowling-piece, and joined the pursuit, which now required to be conducted with some celerity, for the stranger had struck into the open country, and was getting on at good speed.

  The last remnants of the twilight were fading away, and although the moon had actually risen, its rays were obscured by a number of light, fleecy clouds, which, although they did not promise to be of long continuance, as yet certainly impeded the light.

  “Where is he going?” said the blacksmith. “He seems to be making his way tow
ards the mill-stream.”

  “No,” said another; “don’t you see he is striking higher up towards the old ford, where the stepping-stones are!”

  “He is — he is,” cried the blacksmith. “Run on — run on; don’t you see he is crossing it now? Tell me, all of you, are you quite sure he is a vampyre, and no mistake? He ain’t the exciseman, landlord, now, is he?”

  “The exciseman, the devil! Do you think I want to shoot the exciseman?”

  “Very good — then here goes,” exclaimed the Smith.

  He stooped, and just as the brisk night air blew aside the clouds from before the face of the moon, and as the stranger was crossing the slippery stones, he fired at him.

  How silently and sweetly the moon’s rays fall upon the water, upon the meadows, and upon the woods. The scenery appeared the work of enchantment, some fairy land, waiting the appearance of its inhabitants. No sound met the ear; the very wind was hushed; nothing was there to distract the sense of sight, save the power of reflection.

  This, indeed, would aid the effect of such a scene. A cloudless sky, the stars all radiant with beauty, while the moon, rising higher and higher in the heavens, increasing in the strength and refulgence of her light, and dimming the very stars, which seemed to grow gradually invisible as the majesty of the queen of night became more and more manifest.

  The dark woods and the open meadows contrasted more and more strongly; like light and shade, the earth and sky were not more distinct and apart; and the ripling stream, that rushed along with all the impetuosity of uneven ground.

  The banks are clothed with verdure; the tall sedges, here and there, lined the sides; beds of bulrushes raised their heads high above all else, and threw out their round clumps of blossoms like tufts, and looked strange in the light of the moon.

  Here and there, too, the willows bent gracefully over the stream, and their long leaves were wafted and borne up and down by the gentler force of the stream.