price 25 cents the vampire cat by gerard van etten sergel's acting drama no. 641 art workers league published by the dramatic publishing company charles h sergel, president practical instructions for private theatricals by w. d. emerson author of "a country romance," "the unknown rival," "humble pie," etc. price, 25 cents here is a practical hand-book, describing in detail all the accessories, properties, scenes and apparatus necessary for an amateur production. in addition to the descriptions in words, everything is clearly shown in the numerous pictures, more than one hundred being inserted in the book. no such useful book has ever been offered to the amateur players of any country. contents chapter i. =introductory remarks.= chapter ii. =stage, how to make, etc.= in drawing-rooms or parlors, with sliding or hinged doors. in a single large room. the curtain; how to attach it, and raise it, etc. chapter iii. =arrangement of scenery.= how to hang it. drapery, tormentors, wings, borders, drops. chapter iv. =box scenes.= center door pieces, plain wings, door wings, return pieces, etc. chapter v. =how to light the stage.= oil, gas and electric light. footlights, sidelights, reflectors. how to darken the stage, etc. chapter vi. =stage effects.= wind, rain, thunder, breaking glass, falling buildings, snow, water, waves, cascades, passing trains, lightning, chimes, sound of horses' hoofs, shots. chapter vii. =scene painting.= chapter viii. =a word to the property man.= chapter ix. =to the stage manager.= chapter x. =the business manager.= address orders to the dramatic publishing company chicago, illinois the vampire cat a play in one act from the japanese legend of the nabeshima cat by gerard van etten copyright, 1918 by the dramatic publishing company chicago the dramatic publishing company cast of characters prince hizen, lord of nabeshima.... buzen, his chief councillor........ ruiten, a priest................... ito soda, a common soldier......... kashiku, a maid.................... o toyo, wife of the prince......... time: medieval japan. scene: the room of o toyo in the palace. time of action: between 10 and 12 p.m. note.--according to the old japanese legend, the soul of a cat can enter a human being. the vampire cat scene. _at r. is a dressing table, upon it a steel mirror, toilet articles, and two lighted candles with ornate shades. r. u. a section of shoji leads to another room, this section is now closed. at r. c. a large section of shoji is open, giving a view of the garden. to the r. of this entrance is a small shrine and buddha. at l. of the room is a sleeping mat and head rest. by the head rest a lantern, now unlighted. down l. is an open section of shoji leading to the_ prince's _apartments. just above it stands a screen. as the curtain rises the_ prince _is standing r. c. looking out into the garden._ ruiten _is down r. and_ buzen _slightly above him._ buzen _crosses l._ prince. [_comes down between_ ruiten _and_ buzen.] settle for me tonight my sicknesses and my fears- [_to_ buzen.] settle them for me, sir buzen, councillor crafty. [_to_ ruiten.] settle them for me, priest ruiten, the prayerful. ruiten. so are we trying in all ways thy pain to relieve yet nought seems availing. prince. wracked is my body with tortures unending born of the dreams that are surging forever backward and forward thru my brain, weary. buzen. [_indicating door l._] around thy bed each night have i placed thy samurai in number one hundred to guard thy sleep- ruiten. zealously have i prayed in the temple called "miyo in," and during the night hours have knelt at thy house shrine praying to buddha, the lord of the world. prince. yet have i not slept entirely untortured. slow are thy prayers in fruit bearing. ruiten. slow because contending with evil- [_approaches prince._] with evil in form strange and subtle. over this house hangs a spirit ne'er resting and ready always for dire deeds. prince. such a spirit there must be--but what? ruiten. evil takes many forms but the form of a cat is favored by many devils. prince. [_startled, the others watch him closely._] a cat--aye, truly and if a cat stalked here that evil thing must we kill. ruiten. yet such is their power malignant that they take other forms than the forms of cats- even human forms. prince. ha!--and the spirit that visits me? mayhap that- only twice hath it failed of its visit. buzen. and those lost visits, when? prince. the last two nights. buzen. [_swelling with pride._] then, oh prince, the cure may be found. better than prayers is the cure [_eyeing_ ruiten.] for prayers have not ears--have not eyes- have not weapons--better than prayers is it. prince. tell me this cure. it is grudged, sir priest? ruiten. [_bowing._] a cure for my lord could not be grudged. prince. well spoken. say on, sir buzen. buzen. first i must beg clemency for thy hundred samurai for faithful they are to the bone, yet- prince. yet? why clemency? for what? buzen. on guard, they slept. prince. slept? buzen. aye. soundly as though deep in saki. prince. and none roused? buzen. they were as dead from shortly after the hour of ten until dawning. awakening they knew they had slept yet knew not when the poppy was thrown in their eyes. even as one man none knew and were deep amazed and full of shame. each night it was the same. prince. [_angrily._] so, they slept. while i, on my couch, through the hours writhed- writhed and twisted- weakening ever- not sleep, yet dreaming- oh, horrible dreams. ruiten. of what were these horrible dreams? what was their substance? prince. [_mystified at the memory._] there would come a soft stealing- as of draperies hushed and lifted for silence in walking; like soft, silken draperies wrapped about stealthy limbs. then a shape clothed for sleep as women are clothed- sinuous and vague in movement, then taking form slowly- the form--a lie!--a lie! [_covers his face and goes upstage._] ruiten. the form? prince. [_turns._] o toyo! ruiten. buzen. [_rubbing their hands._] ah! prince. [_comes down r._, ruiten _and_ buzen _are together a little l._] came she to me- leaned o'er me- caressed me yet soothed not. her lips to mine- her lips but not sweet. then here on my throat would she place them and all my life seemed to smother- out of me flowed the life-blood in a deep stream like a tide forced by the gods, against its will, to flow far away and yet farther. buzen. so does a vampire sucking her victim draw from him his blood and his marrow. prince. guard thy words!- as my strength ebbed she drew back red-lipped and smiling, smiling and laughing though her laughter was silent. then with a final shimmer of silent silks she vanished- so was it done. ruiten. so always the dream? if dream it were. prince. the dream--i think yet it was a dream- so was it always. buzen. but the last two nights? prince. came she as usual flowing over the floor like a spectre enrobed and beautified. but as she bent o'er me she paused as if startled and, slowly gazing about, turned and was gone. last night she paused as if speaking to someone though i could see no one. buzen. but the cause of her turning? ruiten. turned she startled- turned she slowly- turned she wonderingly? prince. slowly, as if she felt a strange presence. ruiten. feared she? prince. she left me. buzen. but trembling or calm? prince. calmly, as from a thing hated and more powerful than she whom she would not rouse to action. buzen. [_rubbing his hands._] good. prince. what is good? buzen. that which thou speakest of. prince. how so? buzen. [_comes forward towards the prince._] it proves that i have humbly succeeded- [_grudgingly._] through the help of another, 'tis true- but yet succeeded in bringing my lord honorable help. ruiten. indeed it is so. prince. say on, very wise councillor. buzen. [_puffing up._] without more words than are fit this then is the way of the cure. when long had thine illness ravaged and worn thee and many nights had you tossed by weird visions enthralled, no cures affecting, no prayers availing thee [_glances at_ ruiten.] then councilled i with thy wise ones- and, too, with priest ruiten- ruiten. i, you should name first, for without my prayers your wisdom was nought. buzen. to continue briefly. all our heads together brought no solution- prince. true, true. buzen. [_bowing._] humbly i acknowledge my head empty and brainless. yet even from idiots lips wisdom oft falls unexpected and therefore more wonderful. now it is told in old tales of how iyaiyasu met- ruiten. short, abrupt is thy tale. prince. the cure, sir buzen, the hour passes. buzen. [_bowing._] i crave honorable leniency. to be brief- prince. aye, brief. buzen. discouraged and sick at heart at the sufferings of my great lord, i was retiring to my room by way of the garden and the hour was the hour of the fox. i heard a splashing in the pool and drawing near saw a young soldier washing. i spoke to him asking, "who art thou?" "retainer to my lord nabeshima, prince of hizen," he answered. then talked i with him. of thy sickness we talked. and he was ashamed of thy samurai's sleeping. he begged to be allowed to guard thy sleep also for, being a common soldier, it was not permitted. so earnestly talked he that i promised to consult with the other councillors and see what could be done. "so tell me your name, young sir," i said. "ito soda is my name, honorable sir, and for your kind words i thank you." so i consulted and the result was we granted his request. prince. and he, too, has watched the two nights past? ruiten. aye, and he slept not though the samurai were heavy with sleep-fumes. buzen. i will tell. ruiten. [_elbows_ buzen _out of the way and comes forward._] you are honorably hoarse. he slept not, as i say- prince. how kept he awake? since many slept spell-bound how broke he the spell? ruiten. with him he brought oiled paper and laid it down on the matting sitting upon it. when o'er his eyes sleep stole and wearily weighted them he drew out his sharp dirk and in his thigh thrust it by pain driving the poppy fumes off. ever and again he twisted the dirk in the raw wound and the thick blood-drops soiled not the matting because of the oiled paper. prince. indeed this is no common soldier, this ito soda. buzen. indeed not- ruiten. to continue--[_retires upstage, disgruntled._] buzen. [_pushing forward._] as i was saying, oh prince, his eyes never closed. during the reign of the rat he heard, in this room, o toyo tossing and moaning as if in great fear of something she could not escape from. even at the same moment as the beginnings of her moanings came a cat-call from the garden- then nearer--then ghostly paddings as of padded claws on matting, and an evil presence seemed hovering and lurking near in the darkness. o toyo gave a low scream--than all was silence. soon she came stealthily through the shoji--cat-like her step- glassy her eyes- claw-like her hands- bent she over you with curled lips- then she turned, even as you have said, and, seeing a waking watcher, left as she came. ruiten. [_comes down._] the second night of ito soda's watching she threatened him in low words but he made as to stab her and she melted before him laughing a little. and he heard the rustle of her garments as she regained this room though he saw not her passage hither. prince. thicker with each word the horror about me. [_turns away to r._] doubts to beliefs--beliefs to actions- love unto hate. [_turns to them almost pleadingly._] tell me it is not o toyo. buzen. i questioned her maid, kashiku, and found that o toyo's couch was empty even at the time of the weird visit to thee. prince. [_overwhelmed._] so, it was o toyo! in the soul of a flower, a demon- on the sweet lips, poison. buzen. there is only one course- ruiten. the one road- prince. and i take it! buzen. [_moves toward door l._] the samurai are gathered. prince. summon ito soda. [buzen _exits l._] ruiten. hard is the fate of man here on this dark earth. many the shapes and the shadows stalking abroad. yet ever the gentle buddha from the lotus fields watches and guards every life that lives. prince. [_puts one hand on_ ruiten's _shoulder._] priest, have not many vampires bleeding them and dream it is another thing? ruiten. the soul is often a vampire to the body. prince. and that evil thing must we kill. ito soda. [_enters l., kneels before the_ prince. ruiten _takes up r. a little and_ buzen _re-entering after_ ito soda _goes up c._] honorable prince, humbly i answer thy summons. prince. rise, ito soda. faithful beyond words art thou, this know i as all hath been told me. no longer call thyself a common soldier but a samurai of the prince of hizen. and the two swords will i give thee on the morrow. ito soda. on my knees i humbly thank thee. [_rises._] prince. now time presses. o toyo will be coming in from the garden. as usual shall the hundred sleepy samurai guard my couch. let ito soda remain here hidden and watchful. when o toyo rises to enter my chamber- your dirk is sharp, ito soda? ito soda. [_draws dirk._] as a moonbeam on a cold night. prince. and you know how to use it. ito soda. i will place this screen, thus. [_goes to screen l. and opens it so as to form a hiding place between the sleeping mat and the door l._] so will i wait the moment. prince. so be it. it is a good plan and on the one road. let us about it. [_exits l. followed by_ buzen _and_ ruiten. ito soda _goes behind the screen._ o toyo _is heard singing in the garden._] o toyo. [_outside._] moonlit convulvus through the night hours wan are their faces ghostly sweet. richer by daylight drinking of sunshine as thirsty souls drink at a shrine. fair are the faces glassed in the quiet pools maidens low-bending vain ones. [_the singing stops abruptly._] kashiku, is not that a cat stealing stealthily there? she snarls--quick--[o toyo _enters b. c. quickly and very frightened, turns and looks back, hurries_ kashiku _in._ kashiku _follows much less disturbed at any fear of a cat than over her mistress' fright._] kashiku. [_shuts the shoji r. c. and comes to_ o toyo.] you are all atremble. o toyo. quick, let me be safe in slumber. [_crosses to dressing table._] kashiku. [_follows her and attends to her hair while_ o toyo _kneels before the glass._] several nights lately have i heard my lady moaning as though even in sleep were she troubled. the worry over your honorable lord hath disturbed thee. o toyo. your ears are over keen. i am happy when i sleep. how can i moan, being happy? you are dull. kashiku. perhaps it was the wind or the echo of my lord's moaning. o toyo. moaning or was it singing? i would it were singing for singing is sweeter on the lips of those dying. kashiku. dying? o toyo. when those whom we love are passing- even under our hands are passing- and our love weans them from life and our kisses suck out the blood-life, then would we touch them no more, then would we kiss them no more, but a power greater than we and a power that we fear forces us on in our love-killing. kashiku. there is in your voice a vibration, as even the winds in the pine-tops when, in the autumn, they echo the summer's death-song; there is in your eyes a strange light as if the soul of another looked out from your curtaining lashes and dimmed the sweet light there abiding. oh, mistress, surely you are different than what you once were. o toyo. [_crosses c. slowly._] even now comes the hour and the struggle and i do the bidding of that which is in me. how i hate the feel of his flesh quivering under my lips and the loathsome taste of the blood-drops thick on my lips that would soothe him and cannot. kashiku. can anything soothe more than thy lips, more than the lips that love him? i cannot understand the words of your saying. you are happy and tearful all in a moment, your soul seems a sky full of sunshine and clouds. [_coming to her._] even now as my hand touches you, you are trembling. is it the cat that crept upon us whose shape still affrights you? o toyo. thou hast said it--my soul is as thou sayest. my dreams are sweet and again bitter. once came a dream horrible above all dreams. kashiku. what dream, my lady? o toyo. the night when you found me there on the floor. do you remember? kashiku. well. you were all distraught and the bosom of your gown was torn open and you clutched your throat as if you were wounded there. but there was no mark. and you let wild words fall from your lips and none knew their meaning. o toyo. the prince and i walked in the garden and there at the shoji i left him. as i entered there entered with me a spirit and its breath fell upon me- dumb my tongue in my mouth and frozen my marrow. suddenly it leapt upon me and as i fell downward flashed the spirit into mine eyes- a cat, two-tailed and hairy- and it's teeth sank in my throat here- can you see a mark? [_exposes her throat to_ kashiku.] kashiku. the skin is as smooth as satin and perfect. o toyo. then came darkness upon me--and so you found me. so strong is the dream within me i wonder if it be a dream or no. kashiku. you had walked that evening in the garden. o toyo. i had rather dreamed i walked--say i dreamed it. kashiku. the prince was with- o toyo. yet it was a dream, question it not. i would go to rest peacefully. he, too, shall rest peacefully- i shall not kiss my lord tonight. [_crosses l._] kashiku. not kiss him? o toyo. i think not i shall kiss him. i would not pain his slumbers- he has paled so and his face is so thin. in the night he lies like a strong flower and a strange flower, bled of its life- like a strong flower weakened. and at its sight my dreams are bitter. but as i gaze a change comes over all things and i hold in my hands a beautiful flower which i kiss with my lips holding my lips long to it, draining its sweetness. and a cloud passes over and on my lips are clots of blood! kashiku. such dreamings are not good. i find the silken coverlets tossed in the morning, twisted and thrown about as if you slept ill. o toyo. it is not o toyo who tosses them- it is the dream o toyo. kashiku. two nights lately have i imagined you called to me but entering you were not here--but there with your lord soothing his sufferings. o toyo. drinking at strange fountains and unknown springs- drinking of sacred waters sacred to unknown gods. and as i drink another life becomes my life and he is mine--utterly mine, at last! kashiku. you frighten me- o toyo. be not frightened--you have no need. now i shall sleep. he, too, is sleeping. perhaps--perhaps he is suffering. shall i touch him with my hands? perhaps he is hungry for my kisses- shall i kiss him? kashiku. it were a fitting thing to kiss thy lord. o toyo. you know not what you say, kashiku. kashiku. my lady- o toyo. you have not heard me say strange things, kashiku. kashiku. i have heard- o toyo. nothing. kashiku. nothing, my lady. o toyo. put out the lamps. [kashiku _blows out candles on dressing table_.] go now, kashiku, and do you sleep deeply, breathing poppies. kashiku. my lady- o toyo. go. [kashiku _opens shoji r. and goes out shutting it after her_. o toyo _crosses, too, and lies on the sleeping mat. the room is almost in total darkness._] o toyo. i shall kiss him--i shall kiss him! [_the lantern at the head of the sleeping mat glows more and more brightly until a cat's head appears on it. at this moment a cat-call comes from the garden._ (note.--if these effects cannot be gotten with no hint of the ludicrous, have the lantern glow with increasing light but use no cat's head or cat call.) _with the increase of light_, o toyo _has begun to moan and toss and at the moment of the cat-call she rises as in a trance and goes towards the door l. as she passes the screen_ ito soda _steps out from behind it and plunges his dirk into her back; she falls with a little, stifled cry. instantly, in utter darkness, the curtain falls._] end of the play. hageman's make-up book by maurice hageman price, 25 cents the importance of an effective make-up is becoming more apparent to the professional actor every year, but hitherto there has been no book on the subject describing the modern methods and at the same time covering all branches of the art. this want has now been filled. mr. hageman has had an experience of twenty years as actor and stage-manager, and his well-known literary ability has enabled him to put the knowledge so gained into shape to be of use to others. the book is an encyclopedia of the art of making up. every branch of the subject is exhaustively treated, and few questions can be asked by professional or amateur that cannot be answered by this admirable hand-book. it is not only the best make-up book ever published, but it is not likely to be superseded by any other. it is absolutely indispensable to every ambitious actor. contents chapter i. =general remarks.= chapter ii. =grease-paints, their origin, components and use.= chapter iii. =the make-up box.= grease-paints, mirrors, face powder and puff, exora cream, rouge, liquid color, grenadine, blue for the eyelids, brilliantine for the hair, nose putty, wig paste, mascaro, crape hair, spirit gum, scissors, artists' stomps, cold cream, cocoa butter, recipes for cold cream. chapter iv. =preliminaries before making up; the straight make-up and how to remove it.= chapter v. =remarks to ladies.= liquid creams, rouge, lips, eyebrows, eyelashes, character roles, jewelry, removing make-up. chapter vi. =juveniles.= straight juvenile make-up, society men, young men in ill health, with red wigs, rococo make-up, hands, wrists, cheeks, etc. chapter vii. =adults, middle aged and old men.= ordinary type of manhood, lining colors, wrinkles, rouge, sickly and healthy, old age, ruddy complexions. chapter viii. =comedy and character make-ups.= comedy effects, wigs, beards, eyebrows, noses, lips, pallor of death. chapter ix. =the human features.= the mouth and lips, the eyes and eyelids, the nose, the chin, the ear, the teeth. chapter x. =other exposed parts of the human anatomy.= chapter xi. =wigs, beards, moustaches, and eyebrows.= choosing a wig, powdering the hair, dimensions for wigs, wig bands, bald wigs, ladies' wigs, beards on wire, on gauze, crape hair, wool, beards for tramps, moustaches, eyebrows. chapter xii. =distinctive and traditional characteristics.= north american indians, new england farmers, hoosiers, southerners, politicians, cowboys, minors, quakers, tramps, creoles, mulattoes, quadroons, octoroons, negroes, soldiers during war, soldiers during peace, scouts, pathfinders, puritans, early dutch settlers, englishmen, scotchmen, irishmen, frenchmen, italians, spaniards, portuguese, south americans, scandinavians, germans, hollanders, hungarians, gipsies, russians, turks, arabs, moors, caffirs, abyssinians, hindoos, malays, chinese, japanese, clowns and statuary, hebrews, drunkards, lunatics, idiots, misers, rogues. address orders to the dramatic publishing company chicago, illinois plays and entertainment books. being the largest theatrical booksellers in the united states, we keep in stock the most complete and best assorted lines of plays and entertainment books to be found anywhere. we can supply any play or book published. we have issued a catalogue of the best plays and entertainment books published in america and england. it contains a full description of each play, giving number of characters, time of playing, scenery, costumes, etc. this catalogue will be sent free on application. the plays described are suitable for amateurs and professionals, and nearly all of them may be played free of royalty. persons interested in dramatic books should examine our catalogue before ordering elsewhere. we also carry a full line of grease paints, face powders, hair goods, and other "make-up" materials. the dramatic publishing company chicago doom of the house of duryea by earl peirce, jr. [transcriber note: this etext was produced from weird tales october 1936. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [sidenote: _a powerful story of stark horror, and the dreadful thing that happened in a lone house in the maine woods._] arthur duryea, a young, handsome man, came to meet his father for the first time in twenty years. as he strode into the hotel lobby--long strides which had the spring of elastic in them--idle eyes lifted to appraise him, for he was an impressive figure, somehow grim with exaltation. the desk clerk looked up with his habitual smile of expectation; how-do-you-do-mr.-so-and-so, and his fingers strayed to the green fountain pen which stood in a holder on the desk. arthur duryea cleared his throat, but still his voice was clogged and unsteady. to the clerk he said: "i'm looking for my father, doctor henry duryea. i understand he is registered here. he has recently arrived from paris." the clerk lowered his glance to a list of names. "doctor duryea is in suite 600, sixth floor." he looked up, his eyebrows arched questioningly. "are you staying too, sir, mr. duryea?" arthur took the pen and scribbled his name rapidly. without a further word, neglecting even to get his key and own room number, he turned and walked to the elevators. not until he reached his father's suite on the sixth floor did he make an audible noise, and this was a mere sigh which fell from his lips like a prayer. the man who opened the door was unusually tall, his slender frame clothed in tight-fitting black. he hardly dared to smile. his clean-shaven face was pale, an almost livid whiteness against the sparkle in his eyes. his jaw had a bluish luster. "arthur!" the word was scarcely a whisper. it seemed choked up quietly, as if it had been repeated time and again on his thin lips. arthur duryea felt the kindliness of those eyes go through him, and then he was in his father's embrace. later, when these two grown men had regained their outer calm, they closed the door and went into the drawing-room. the elder duryea held out a humidor of fine cigars, and his hand shook so hard when he held the match that his son was forced to cup his own hands about the flame. they both had tears in their eyes, but their eyes were smiling. henry duryea placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "this is the happiest day of my life," he said. "you can never know how much i have longed for this moment." arthur, looking into that glance, realized, with growing pride, that he had loved his father all his life, despite any of those things which had been cursed against him. he sat down on the edge of a chair. "i--i don't know how to act," he confessed. "you surprize me, dad. you're so different from what i had expected." a cloud came over doctor duryea's features. "what _did_ you expect, arthur?" he demanded quickly. "an evil eye? a shaven head and knotted jowls?" "please, dad--no!" arthur's words clipped short. "i don't think i ever really visualized you. i knew you would be a splendid man. but i thought you'd look older, more like a man who has really suffered." "i have suffered, more than i can ever describe. but seeing you again, and the prospect of spending the rest of my life with you, has more than compensated for my sorrows. even during the twenty years we were apart i found an ironic joy in learning of your progress in college, and in your american game of football." "then you've been following my work?" "yes, arthur; i've received monthly reports ever since you left me. from my study in paris i've been really close to you, working out your problems as if they were my own. and now that the twenty years are completed, the ban which kept us apart is lifted for ever. from now on, son, we shall be the closest of companions--unless your aunt cecilia has succeeded in her terrible mission." * * * * * the mention of that name caused an unfamiliar chill to come between the two men. it stood for something, in each of them, which gnawed their minds like a malignancy. but to the younger duryea, in his intense effort to forget the awful past, her name as well as her madness must be forgotten. he had no wish to carry on this subject of conversation, for it betrayed an internal weakness which he hated. with forced determination, and a ludicrous lift of his eyebrows, he said, "cecilia is dead, and her silly superstition is dead also. from now on, dad, we're going to enjoy life as we should. bygones are really bygones in this case." doctor duryea closed his eyes slowly, as though an exquisite pain had gone through him. "then you have no indignation?" he questioned. "you have none of your aunt's hatred?" "indignation? hatred?" arthur laughed aloud. "ever since i was twelve years old i have disbelieved cecilia's stories. i have known that those horrible things were impossible, that they belonged to the ancient category of mythology and tradition. how, then, can i be indignant, and how can i hate you? how can i do anything but recognize cecilia for what she was--a mean, frustrated woman, cursed with an insane grudge against you and your family? i tell you, dad, that nothing she has ever said can possibly come between us again." henry duryea nodded his head. his lips were tight together, and the muscles in his throat held back a cry. in that same soft tone of defense he spoke further, doubting words. "are you so sure of your subconscious mind, arthur? can you be so certain that you are free from all suspicion, however vague? is there not a lingering premonition--a premonition which warns of peril?" "no, dad--no!" arthur shot to his feet. "i don't believe it. i've never believed it. i know, as any sane man would know, that you are neither a vampire nor a murderer. you know it, too; and cecilia knew it, only she was mad. "that family rot is dispelled, father. this is a civilized century. belief in vampirism is sheer lunacy. wh-why, it's too absurd even to think about!" "you have the enthusiasm of youth," said his father, in a rather tired voice. "but have you not heard the legend?" arthur stepped back instinctively. he moistened his lips, for their dryness might crack them. "the--legend?" he said the word in a curious hush of awed softness, as he had heard his aunt cecilia say it many times before. "that awful legend that you----" "that i _eat_ my children?" "oh, god, father!" arthur went to his knees as a cry burst through his lips. "dad, that--that's ghastly! we must forget cecilia's ravings." "you are affected, then?" asked doctor duryea bitterly. "affected? certainly i'm affected, but only as i should be at such an accusation. cecilia was mad, i tell you. those books she showed me years ago, and those folk-tales of vampires and ghouls--they burned into my infantile mind like acid. they haunted me day and night in my youth, and caused me to hate you worse than death itself. "but in heaven's name, father, i've outgrown those things as i have outgrown my clothes. i'm a man now; do you understand that? a man, with a man's sense of logic." "yes, i understand." henry duryea threw his cigar into the fireplace, and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "we shall forget cecilia," he said. "as i told you in my letter, i have rented a lodge in maine where we can go to be alone for the rest of the summer. we'll get in some fishing and hiking and perhaps some hunting. but first, arthur, i must be sure in my own mind that you are sure in yours. i must be sure you won't bar your door against me at night, and sleep with a loaded revolver at your elbow. i must be sure that you're not afraid of going up there alone with me, and dying----" his voice ended abruptly, as if an age-long dread had taken hold of it. his son's face was waxen, with sweat standing out like pearls on his brow. he said nothing, but his eyes were filled with questions which his lips could not put into words. his own hand touched his father's, and tightened over it. henry duryea drew his hand away. "i'm sorry," he said, and his eyes looked straight over arthur's lowered head. "this thing must be thrashed out now. i believe you when you say that you discredit cecilia's stories, but for a sake greater than sanity i must tell you the truth behind the legend--and believe me, arthur; there is a truth!" * * * * * he climbed to his feet and walked to the window which looked out over the street below. for a moment he gazed into space, silent. then he turned and looked down at his son. "you have heard only your aunt's version of the legend, arthur. doubtless it was warped into a thing far more hideous than it actually was--if that is possible! doubtless she spoke to you of the inquisitorial stake in carcassonne where one of my ancestors perished. also she may have mentioned that book, _vampyrs_, which a former duryea is supposed to have written. then certainly she told you about your two younger brothers--my own poor, motherless children--who were sucked bloodless in their cradles...." arthur duryea passed a hand across his aching eyes. those words, so often repeated by that witch of an aunt, stirred up the same visions which had made his childhood nights sleepless with terror. he could hardly bear to hear them again--and from the very man to whom they were accredited. "listen, arthur," the elder duryea went on quickly, his voice low with the pain it gave him. "you must know that true basis to your aunt's hatred. you must know of that curse--that curse of vampirism which is supposed to have followed the duryeas through five centuries of french history, but which we can dispel as pure superstition, so often connected with ancient families. but i must tell you that this part of the legend is true: "your two young brothers actually died in their cradles, bloodless. and i stood trial in france for their murder, and my name was smirched throughout all of europe with such an inhuman damnation that it drove your aunt and you to america, and has left me childless, hated, and ostracized from society the world over. "i must tell you that on that terrible night in duryea castle i had been working late on historic volumes of crespet and prinn, and on that loathsome tome, _vampyrs_. i must tell you of the soreness that was in my throat and of the heaviness of the blood which coursed through my veins.... and of that _presence_, which was neither man nor animal, but which i knew was some place near me, yet neither within the castle nor outside of it, and which was closer to me than my heart and more terrible to me than the touch of the grave.... "i was at the desk in my library, my head swimming in a delirium which left me senseless until dawn. there were nightmares that frightened me--frightened _me_, arthur, a grown man who had dissected countless cadavers in morgues and medical schools. i know that my tongue was swollen in my mouth and that brine moistened my lips, and that a rottenness pervaded my body like a fever. "i can make no recollection of sanity or of consciousness. that night remains vivid, unforgettable, yet somehow completely in shadows. when i had fallen asleep--if in god's name it _was_ sleep--i was slumped across my desk. but when i awoke in the morning i was lying face down on my couch. so you see, arthur, i _had_ moved during that night, _and i had never known it_! "what i'd done and where i'd gone during those dark hours will always remain an impenetrable mystery. but i do know this. on the morrow i was torn from my sleep by the shrieks of maids and butlers, and by that mad wailing of your aunt. i stumbled through the open door of my study, and in the nursery i saw those two babies there--lifeless, white and dry like mummies, and with twin holes in their necks that were caked black with their own blood.... "oh, i don't blame you for your incredulousness, arthur. i cannot believe it yet myself, nor shall i ever believe it. the belief of it would drive me to suicide; and still the doubting of it drives me mad with horror. "all of france was doubtful, and even the savants who defended my name at the trial found that they could not explain it nor disbelieve it. the case was quieted by the republic, for it might have shaken science to its very foundation and split the pedestals of religion and logic. i was released from the charge of murder; but the actual murder has hung about me like a stench. "the coroners who examined those tiny cadavers found them both dry of all their blood, but could find no blood on the floor of the nursery nor in the cradles. something from hell stalked the halls of duryea that night--and i should blow my brains out if i dared to think deeply of who that was. you, too, my son, would have been dead and bloodless if you hadn't been sleeping in a separate room with your door barred on the inside. "you were a timid child, arthur. you were only seven years old, but you were filled with the folk-lore of those mad lombards and the decadent poetry of your aunt. on that same night, while i was some place between heaven and hell, you, also, heard the padded footsteps on the stone corridor and heard the tugging at your door handle, for in the morning you complained of a chill and of terrible nightmares which frightened you in your sleep.... i only thank god that your door was barred!" * * * * * henry duryea's voice choked into a sob which brought the stinging tears back into his eyes. he paused to wipe his face, and to dig his fingers into his palm. "you understand, arthur, that for twenty years, under my sworn oath at the palace of justice, i could neither see you nor write to you. twenty years, my son, while all of that time you had grown to hate me and to spit at my name. not until your aunt's death have you called yourself a duryea.... and now you come to me at my bidding, and say you love me as a son should love his father. "perhaps it is god's forgiveness for everything. now, at last, we shall be together, and that terrible, unexplainable past will be buried for ever...." he put his handkerchief back into his pocket and walked slowly to his son. he dropped to one knee, and his hands gripped arthur's arms. "my son, i can say no more to you. i have told you the truth as i alone know it. i may be, by all accounts, some ghoulish creation of satan on earth. i may be a child-killer, a vampire, some morbidly diseased specimen of _vrykolakas_--things which science cannot explain. "perhaps the dreaded legend of the duryeas is true. autiel duryea was convicted of murdering his brother in that same monstrous fashion in the year 1576, and he died in flames at the stake. françois duryea, in 1802, blew his head apart with a blunderbuss on the morning after his youngest son was found dead, apparently from anemia. and there are others, of whom i cannot bear to speak, that would chill your soul if you were to hear them. "so you see, arthur, there is a hellish tradition behind our family. there is a heritage which no sane god would ever have allowed. the future of the duryeas lies in you, for you are the last of the race. i pray with all of my heart that providence will permit you to live your full share of years, and to leave other duryeas behind you. and so if ever again i feel that presence as i did in duryea castle, i am going to die as françois duryea died, over a hundred years ago...." he stood up, and his son stood up at his side. "if you are willing to forget, arthur, we shall go up to that lodge in maine. there is a life we've never known awaiting us. we must find that life, and we must find the happiness which a curious fate snatched from us on those lombard sourlands, twenty years ago...." 2 henry duryea's tall stature, coupled with a slenderness of frame and a sleekness of muscle, gave him an appearance that was unusually _gaunt_. his son couldn't help but think of that word as he sat on the rustic porch of the lodge, watching his father sunning himself at the lake's edge. henry duryea had a kindliness in his face, at times an almost sublime kindliness which great prophets often possess. but when his face was partly in shadows, particularly about his brow, there was a frightening tone which came into his features; for it was a tone of farness, of mysticism and conjuration. somehow, in the late evenings, he assumed the unapproachable mantle of a dreamer and sat silently before the fire, his mind ever off in unknown places. in that little lodge there was no electricity, and the glow of the oil lamps played curious tricks with the human expression which frequently resulted in something unhuman. it may have been the dusk of night, the flickering of the lamps, but arthur duryea had certainly noticed how his father's eyes had sunken further into his head, and how his cheeks were tighter, and the outline of his teeth pressed into the skin about his lips. * * * * * it was nearing sundown on the second day of their stay at timber lake. six miles away the dirt road wound on toward houtlon, near the canadian border. so it was lonely there, on a solitary little lake hemmed in closely with dark evergreens and a sky which drooped low over dusty-summited mountains. within the lodge was a homy fireplace, and a glossy elk's-head which peered out above the mantel. there were guns and fishing-tackle on the walls, shelves of reliable american fiction--mark twain, melville, stockton, and a well-worn edition of bret harte. a fully supplied kitchen and a wood stove furnished them with hearty meals which were welcome after a whole day's tramp in the woods. on that evening henry duryea prepared a select french stew out of every available vegetable, and a can of soup. they ate well, then stretched out before the fire for a smoke. they were outlining a trip to the orient together, when the back door blew open with a terrific bang, and a wind swept into the lodge with a coldness which chilled them both. "a storm," henry duryea said, rising to his feet. "sometimes they have them up here, and they're pretty bad. the roof might leak over your bedroom. perhaps you'd like to sleep down here with me." his fingers strayed playfully over his son's head as he went out into the kitchen to bar the swinging door. arthur's room was upstairs, next to a spare room filled with extra furniture. he'd chosen it because he liked the altitude, and because the only other bedroom was occupied.... he went upstairs swiftly and silently. his roof didn't leak; it was absurd even to think it might. it had been his father again, suggesting that they sleep together. he had done it before, in a jesting, whispering way--as if to challenge them both if they _dared_ to sleep together. arthur came back downstairs dressed in his bath-robe and slippers. he stood on the fifth stair, rubbing a two-day's growth of beard. "i think i'll shave tonight," he said to his father. "may i use your razor?" henry duryea, draped in a black raincoat and with his face haloed in the brim of a rain-hat, looked up from the hall. a frown glided obscurely from his features. "not at all, son. sleeping upstairs?" arthur nodded, and quickly said, "are you--going out?" "yes, i'm going to tie the boats up tighter. i'm afraid the lake will rough it up a bit." duryea jerked back the door and stepped outside. the door slammed shut, and his footsteps sounded on the wood flooring of the porch. arthur came slowly down the remaining steps. he saw his father's figure pass across the dark rectangle of a window, saw the flash of lightning that suddenly printed his grim silhouette against the glass. he sighed deeply, a sigh which burned in his throat; for his throat was sore and aching. then he went into the bedroom, found the razor lying in plain view on a birch table-top. as he reached for it, his glance fell upon his father's open gladstone bag which rested at the foot of the bed. there was a book resting there, half hidden by a gray flannel shirt. it was a narrow, yellow-bound book, oddly out of place. frowning, he bent down and lifted it from the bag. it was surprizingly heavy in his hands, and he noticed a faintly sickening odor of decay which drifted from it like a perfume. the title of the volume had been thumbed away into an indecipherable blur of gold letters. but pasted across the front cover was a white strip of paper, on which was typewritten the word--infantiphagi. he flipped back the cover and ran his eyes over the title-page. the book was printed in french--an early french--yet to him wholly comprehensible. the publication date was 1580, in caen. breathlessly he turned back a second page, saw a chapter headed, _vampires_. he slumped to one elbow across the bed. his eyes were four inches from those mildewed pages, his nostrils reeked with the stench of them. he skipped long paragraphs of pedantic jargon on theology, he scanned brief accounts of strange, blood-eating monsters, _vrykolakes_, and leprechauns. he read of jeanne d'arc, of ludvig prinn, and muttered aloud the latin snatches from _episcopi_. he passed pages in quick succession, his fingers shaking with the fear of it and his eyes hanging heavily in their sockets. he saw vague reference to "enoch," and saw the terrible drawings by an ancient dominican of rome.... paragraph after paragraph he read: the horror-striking testimony of nider's _ant-hill_, the testimony of people who died shrieking at the stake; the recitals of grave-tenders, of jurists and hang-men. then unexpectedly, among all of this monumental vestige, there appeared before his eyes the name of--_autiel duryea_; and he stopped reading as though invisibly struck. * * * * * thunder clapped near the lodge and rattled the window-panes. the deep rolling of bursting clouds echoed over the valley. but he heard none of it. his eyes were on those two short sentences which his father--someone--had underlined with dark red crayon. ... the execution, four years ago, of autiel duryea does not end the duryea controversy. time alone can decide whether the demon has claimed that family from its beginning to its end.... arthur read on about the trial of autiel duryea before veniti, the carcassonnean inquisitor-general; read, with mounting horror, the evidence which had sent that far-gone duryea to the pillar--the evidence of a bloodless corpse who had been autiel duryea's young brother. unmindful now of the tremendous storm which had centered over timber lake, unheeding the clatter of windows and the swish of pines on the roof--even of his father who worked down at the lake's edge in a drenching rain--arthur fastened his glance to the blurred print of those pages, sinking deeper and deeper into the garbled legends of a dark age.... on the last page of the chapter he again saw the name of his ancestor, autiel duryea. he traced a shaking finger over the narrow lines of words, and when he finished reading them he rolled sideways on the bed, and from his lips came a sobbing, mumbling prayer. "god, oh god in heaven protect me...." for he had read: as in the case of autiel duryea we observe that this specimen of _vrykolakas_ preys only upon the blood in its own family. it possesses none of the characteristics of the undead vampire, being usually a living male person of otherwise normal appearances, unsuspecting its inherent demonism. but this _vrykolakas_ cannot act according to its demoniacal possession unless it is in the presence of a second member of the same family, who acts as a medium between the man and its demon. this medium has none of the traits of the vampire, but it senses the being of this creature (when the metamorphosis is about to occur) by reason of intense pains in the head and throat. both the vampire and the medium undergo similar reactions, involving nausea, nocturnal visions, and physical disquietude. when these two outcasts are within a certain distance of each other, the coalescence of inherent demonism is completed, and the vampire is subject to its attacks, demanding blood for its sustenance. no member of the family is safe at these times, for the _vrykolakas_, acting in its true agency on earth, will unerringly seek out the blood. in rare cases, where other victims are unavailable, _the vampire will even take the blood from the very medium which made it possible_. this vampire is born into certain aged families, and naught but death can destroy it. it is not conscious of its blood-madness, and acts only in a psychic state. the medium, also, is unaware of its terrible rôle; and when these two are together, despite any lapse of years, the fusion of inheritance is so violent that no power known on earth can turn it back. 3 the lodge door slammed shut with a sudden, interrupting bang. the lock grated, and henry duryea's footsteps sounded on the planked floor. arthur shook himself from the bed. he had only time to fling that haunting book into the gladstone bag before he sensed his father standing in the doorway. "you--you're not shaving, arthur." duryea's words, spliced hesitantly, were toneless. he glanced from the table-top to the gladstone, and to his son. he said nothing for a moment, his glance inscrutable. then, "it's blowing up quite a storm outside." arthur swallowed the first words which had come into his throat, nodded quickly. "yes, isn't it? quite a storm." he met his father's gaze, his face burning. "i--i don't think i'll shave, dad. my head aches." duryea came swiftly into the room and pinned arthur's arms in his grasp. "what do you mean--your head aches? how? does your throat----" "no!" arthur jerked himself away. he laughed. "it's that french stew of yours! it's hit me in the stomach!" he stepped past his father and started up the stairs. "the stew?" duryea pivoted on his heel. "possibly. i think i feel it myself." arthur stopped, his face suddenly white. "you--too?" the words were hardly audible. their glances met--clashed like dueling-swords. for ten seconds neither of them said a word or moved a muscle: arthur, from the stairs, looking down; his father below, gazing up at him. in henry duryea the blood drained slowly from his face and left a purple etching across the bridge of his nose and above his eyes. he looked like a death's-head. arthur winced at the sight and twisted his eyes away. he turned to go up the remaining stairs. "son!" he stopped again; his hand tightened on the banister. "yes, dad?" duryea put his foot on the first stair, "i want you to lock your door tonight. the wind would keep it banging!" "yes," breathed arthur, and pushed up the stairs to his room. * * * * * doctor duryea's hollow footsteps sounded in steady, unhesitant beats across the floor of timber lake lodge. sometimes they stopped, and the crackling hiss of a sulfur match took their place, then perhaps a distended sigh, and, again, footsteps.... arthur crouched at the open door of his room. his head was cocked for those noises from below. in his hands was a double-barrel shotgun of violent gage. ... thud ... thud ... thud.... then a pause, the clinking of a glass and the gurgling of liquid. the sigh, the tread of his feet over the floor.... "he's thirsty," arthur thought--_thirsty!_ outside, the storm had grown into fury. lightning zigzagged between the mountains, filling the valley with weird phosphorescence. thunder, like drums, rolled incessantly. within the lodge the heat of the fireplace piled the atmosphere thick with stagnation. all the doors and windows were locked shut, the oil-lamps glowed weakly--a pale, anemic light. henry duryea walked to the foot of the stairs and stood looking up. arthur sensed his movements and ducked back into his room, the gun gripped in his shaking fingers. then henry duryea's footstep sounded on the first stair. arthur slumped to one knee. he buckled a fist against his teeth as a prayer tumbled through them. duryea climbed a second step ... and another ... and still one more. on the fourth stair he stopped. "arthur!" his voice cut into the silence like the crack of a whip. "arthur! will you come down here?" "yes, dad." bedraggled, his body hanging like cloth, young duryea took five steps to the landing. "we can't be zanies!" cried henry duryea. "my soul is sick with dread. tomorrow we're going back to new york. i'm going to get the first boat to open sea.... please come down here." he turned about and descended the stairs to his room. arthur choked back the words which had lumped in his mouth. half dazed, he followed.... in the bedroom he saw his father stretched face-up along the bed. he saw a pile of rope at his father's feet. "tie me to the bedposts, arthur," came the command. "tie both my hands and both my feet." arthur stood gaping. "do as i tell you!" "dad, what hor----" "don't be a fool! you read that book! you know what relation you are to me! i'd always hoped it was cecilia, but now i know it's you. i should have known it on that night twenty years ago when you complained of a headache and nightmares.... quickly, my head rocks with pain. _tie me!_" speechless, his own pain piercing him with agony, arthur fell to that grisly task. both hands he tied--and both feet ... tied them so firmly to the iron posts that his father could not lift himself an inch off the bed. then he blew out the lamps, and without a further glance at that prometheus, he reascended the stairs to his room, and slammed and locked his door behind him. he looked once at the breech of his gun, and set it against a chair by his bed. he flung off his robe and slippers, and within five minutes he was senseless in slumber. 4 he slept late, and when he awakened his muscles were as stiff as boards, and the lingering visions of a nightmare clung before his eyes. he pushed his way out of bed, stood dazedly on the floor. a dull, numbing cruciation circulated through his head. he felt bloated ... coarse and running with internal mucus. his mouth was dry, his gums sore and stinging. he tightened his hands as he lunged for the door. "dad," he cried, and he heard his voice breaking in his throat. sunlight filtered through the window at the top of the stairs. the air was hot and dry, and carried in it a mild odor of decay. arthur suddenly drew back at that odor--drew back with a gasp of awful fear. for he recognized it--that stench, the heaviness of his blood, the rawness of his tongue and gums.... age-long it seemed, yet rising like a spirit in his memory. all of these things he had known and felt before. he leaned against the banister, and half slid, half stumbled down the stairs.... his father had died during the night. he lay like a waxen figure tied to his bed, his face done up in knots. [illustration: "he lay like a waxen figure tied to his bed."] arthur stood dumbly at the foot of the bed for only a few seconds; then he went back upstairs to his room. almost immediately he emptied both barrels of the shotgun into his head. * * * * * the tragedy at timber lake was discovered accidentally three days later. a party of fishermen, upon finding the two bodies, notified state authorities, and an investigation was directly under way. arthur duryea had undoubtedly met death at his own hands. the condition of his wounds, and the manner with which he held the lethal weapon, at once foreclosed the suspicion of any foul play. but the death of doctor henry duryea confronted the police with an inexplicable mystery; for his trussed-up body, unscathed except for two jagged holes over the jugular vein, _had been drained of all its blood_. the autopsy protocol of henry duryea laid death to "undetermined causes," and it was not until the yellow tabloids commenced an investigation into the duryea family history that the incredible and fantastic explanations were offered to the public. obviously such talk was held in popular contempt; yet in view of the controversial war which followed, the authorities considered it expedient to consign both duryeas to the crematory.... [illustration] each man kills _by victoria glad_ [transcriber note: this etext was produced from weird tales march 1951. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "_... to live you must feed on the living_" heading by vincent napoli [illustration] now that it's all over, it seems like a bad dream. but when i look at maria's picture on my desk, i realize it couldn't have been a dream. actually, it was only six months ago that i sat at this same desk, looking at her picture, wondering what could have happened to her. it had been six weeks since there had been any word from her, and she had promised to write as soon as she arrived in europe. considering that my future rested in her small hands, i had every right to be apprehensive. we had grown up together, had lost our folks within a few years of each other and had been fond of each other the way kids are apt to be. then the change came: it seemed i loved her, and she was still just "fond" of me. during our early college days i sort of let things ride, but once we went on to graduate school, i began to crowd her. the next thing i knew, she had signed up with a student tour destined for central europe, and told me she would give me my answer when she returned. i had to be content with that, but couldn't help worrying. maria was a strange girl--withdrawn, dreamy and soft-hearted. knowing the section she was going to, i was inclined to be uneasy, since it is the realm of gypsies, fortune tellers and the like. it is also the birthplace of many strange legends, and maria claimed to be strongly psychic. as a matter of fact, she had foretold one or two things which were probably coincidental, like the death of our parents, and which even made an impression on me--and you'd hardly call me a "believer." this so-called talent of hers led her into trouble on more than one occasion. i remember in her senior year at college she fell under the spell of a short, fat, greasy spook-reader with a strictly phony accent and all but gave her eye teeth away, until i realized something was amiss, got to the bottom of it, and dispatched friend spook-reader _pronto_. if she should meet some unscrupulous person now, with no one around to get her out of the scrape--but i didn't want to think of that. i was sure this time everything would be all right. when she didn't write at first, i let it go that she was busy. finally, six weeks' silent treatment aroused my curiosity. it also aroused my nasty temper, and the next thing i knew i was on a plane bound for the continent. within two hours after landing, i found her at a little inn in transylvania, a quaint little place that looked as if it were made of gingerbread, and was surrounded by the huge, craggy transylvania mountain range. i also found tod hunter. "what's wrong, maria? why didn't you write?" i asked. her usually gay, shining brown eyes flashed angrily. "why couldn't you leave me alone? i told you not to come after me. i came here so i could think this out. for god's sake, bill, can't you see i wanted to think? to be by myself?" "but you promised to write," i persisted, wondering at this change in her, this impatience. wondered, too, at her wraithlike slimness. she'd always been curved in the right places. "maria has been studying much too diligently," tod said slowly. "she's always tired lately. she hasn't been too well, either. her throat bothers her." * * * * * i wanted to punch his head in. for some reason i didn't like him. not because i sensed his rivalry; i was above that. god knows i wanted her to be happy, above everything. it was just something about him that irritated me. an attitude. not supercilious; i could have coped with that. rather, it was a calm imperturbability that seemed to speak his faith in his eventual success, regardless of any effort on my part. i don't know how to fight that sort of strategy. i look like i am: blunt and obvious. suddenly i didn't care if he was there. "maria. ria, darling. this guy's no good for you, can't you see that? what do you know about him?" she looked at me, her eyes surprised and a little hurt. then she looked at him, seemed to be looking _through_ him and into herself, if you know what i mean. a slow flush spread from the base of her throat, that thin, almost transparent throat. "all i have to know," she said softly. "i love him." she looked out the window. "i'm going up into _konigstein mountain_, to a small sanitarium for my health shortly; the doctor has told me i must go away, and tod has suggested this place. there tod and i shall be married." i knew then how it felt to be on the receiving end of a monkey-punch. that she had come to this decision because of my objections, i had not the slightest doubt. she was going to marry someone about whom she knew absolutely nothing. she was much more ill than she knew. hunter was undoubtedly after her money; she was considerably well-off. obviously she was once more being influenced in the wrong direction. "i won't let you!" i warned. "give it some more time, if for nothing else, then for old times' sake." "how about me, morris?" tod interrupted. "you haven't asked me my feelings on the subject. i happen to love maria dearly. have i no say just because you're a childhood friend of hers?" "childhood friend! i was her whole family for years before she ever heard of you! i'll see you in hell before i let her marry you!" i shouted. looking back, i'm sure that had he said anything else, i would have killed him, if ria hadn't come between us. "that's enough, bill morris! i've heard all i want to from you. i'm twenty-three, and if i choose to marry tod, i'll do so and there's nothing you can do about it. now, please go." "okay, ria," i said, "if that's the way you want it. but i'm not through. if you won't protect yourself, i'll do it for you. i'd like to know more about the mysterious mr. tod hunter, american, and i do wish, for your own sake, you'd do the same. i wouldn't care if you married king tut, so long as you knew all about him. people just don't marry strangers; not if they're smart. for god's sake, ask him about himself!" "all right, bill," she replied, smiling patiently. "i'll ask him. now, do stop being childish." "okay, darling," i said sheepishly. "but do me one more favor. don't marry him until i get back. only a little while; give me a week. just wait a little longer." as i closed the door, i could still feel his smile, mocking--yet a little sad. but maria didn't wait. i was gone a week. i had walked my legs off trying to track down the elusive mister hunter and discovered exactly--nothing. all his landlady could tell me was that he was an american who had come to this climate for his health, and that he slept late mornings. i was licked and i knew it. if i had been a pup, i would have fitted my tail neatly between my legs and made for home. but i wasn't a pup, so i headed straight for ria's flat to face the music. * * * * * they were waiting for me, she and tod. when i saw her, i wished i were dead. she lay in tod's arms, her body a mere whisper of a body. white and cold she was, like frozen milk on a cold winter's day. they were both dead. you know how it is when at a wake someone views the deceased and says kindly, "she's beautiful," and "she" isn't beautiful at all; just a made-up, lifeless handful of clay. dead as dead, and frightening. well, it wasn't that way this time. their fair skins were faintly pink-tinted and their blonde heads, hers ashen and his a reddish cast, gleamed brightly. and they sat so close in the sofa before the fire, his head resting in the hollow of her throat. they looked--peaceful; no line marred their faces. i almost fancied i saw them breathe. and on her third finger, left hand, was the ring--a thin, platinum band. he had won, and in winning somehow he had lost. how they had died and why they found each other and death at the same time, i would probably never know. i only knew one thing: i had to get away from there--quickly. i almost ran the distance to my flat. stumbled into the place and poured a triple scotch which i could scarcely hold. the scotch seared my throat and tasted bitter; someone must have poured salt in it. then i realized that it was tears--my tears. i, bill morris, who hadn't cried since my fifth birthday--i was sobbing like a baby. i didn't call the police. that would mean i would have to go back and watch them cover that lovely body, carry it away and submit it to untold indignities in order to ascertain the cause of death. the cleaning girl would find them in the morning and would notify the police. but it wasn't so simple as that. in the morning i found i couldn't shake off the guilt which possessed me. even two bottles of scotch hadn't helped me to forget. i was dead drunk and cold sober at the same time. i phoned ria's landlady and told her i had failed to reach the hunters by phone, that i was sure something was amiss. would she please go to their flat and see if anything was wrong. she was amused. "really, mr. morris, you must be mistaken. miss maria went out just an hour ago with her new husband. surely you are jesting. why she has never looked better. so happy. they have left for _konigstein_. they have also left you a note. i told her i would be right over, and hopped a cab. i began to think i was losing my mind. i had seen them both--dead. the landlady had seen them this morning--_alive!_" when i arrived, the landlady looked at me for a long moment, taking in my rough, dark-blue complexion, unpressed clothes, red-rimmed eyes, then wagged a finger playfully. "you are playing a joke, no? a wedding joke, maybe. here, too, we haze newlyweds. but of course i understood. who could help loving miss maria? be of good heart, young man. for you there will be another, some day. but i talk too much. here is your letter." i went where i would be undisturbed, to the reading room of the library on the same street as my flat. to the musty, oblong, dimly lit room whose threshold sunshine and fresh air dared not cross. without the saving warmth of sunlight or the fresh, clean relief of sweet-smelling air, i read. read, inhaling the pungent, sour smell of the scotch i had consumed during the long, sleepless night. read, and then doubted that i had read at all--but the blue ink on the white paper forced me to acknowledge its actuality. it had been written by hunter, in a neat, scholar's script. _dear morris_: (it began) _why should i not have wanted maria? you did; others doubtless did. why then should she not be mine? there are many things worse than being married to me; she might have married a man who beat her!_ _with her i have known the two happiest days of my life. i want no more than that. i have no right to ask for more. have we, any of us, a right to endless bliss on this earth? hardly._ _you thought of her welfare above all; for that i owe you some explanation. you must be patient, you must believe, and in the end, you must do as i ask._ you must. _you wanted to know about me--of my life before maria. before maria? it seems strange to think about it. there is no life without maria. still, there was a time when for me she didn't exist. i have been constantly going forward to the day when i would meet her, yet there was a time when i didn't know where i would find her, or even what her name would be!_ _it was chance that brought us together. for me, good chance; for you, possibly ill chance; for maria? only she can say. some three years ago i was studying in england under a rhodes scholarship. the future held great things for me. i was a yank like yourself, and damn proud of it. life in england seemed strange and slow and sometimes utterly dismal under austerity. then, little by little i slipped into their slower ways, growing to love the people for their spunk, and finally coming to feel i was one of them, so to speak._ _i have said everything slowed down: i was wrong. studying intensified for me. the folklore of the british isles intrigued me. i delved into the black welsh tales, the mischievous fancies of the irish, the english legends of the prowling werewolf. for me it was a relief from political science, which suddenly palled and which smacked of treason in the light of current events. my extracurricular research consumed the better part of my evenings. my books were and always have been a part of me, and as was to be expected, i overdid it. i studied too hard with too little let-up. sometimes it seemed to me there was more truth to what i read than myth. it became somewhat of an obsession. suddenly, one night, everything blacked out._ _i came to in a sanatorium. i didn't know how i got there, and when they explained it to me, i laughed. i thought they were joking. when i tried to get up, to walk, i collapsed. then i knew how bad it had been. i knew, too, i would have to go slowly._ _it was there i met eve. she was beautiful. not like maria, who is like a fragile, fair, spun-sugar angel. eve was more earthy, with skin like ivory, creamy and rich and pale. her blue-black hair she wore long and gathered in the back. she looked about twenty-five, but a streak of pure white ran back from each of her temples. she was the most striking woman i have ever met. i had never known anyone like her, nor have i since i saw her last._ _you know how it is: the air of mystery about a woman makes a man like a kid again. she reminded me of a sleek, black cat, with her large, hazel eyes. i bumped into her one day on the verandah, and spent every day with her after that._ _the doctors wanted me to take exercise--short walks and the like, and eve went with me, struggling to keep up with me. the slightest effort tired her. she suffered from a rather nasty case of anemia. she seldom smiled; the effort was probably too much for her. i saw her really smile only once._ _we had been on one of our short hikes in the woods close by the grounds. she stumbled over a twig or a branch, i'm not sure which. suddenly she was in my arms. have you ever held a cloud in your arms, morris? so light she was, although she was almost as tall as i. warm and pulsating. her eyes held mine; it was almost uncanny. i have never been affected like that by a woman. then i was kissing her; then a sharp sting, and i winced. there was the warm, salt taste of blood on my lips. i never knew how it happened. but she was smiling, her full mouth parted in the strangest smile i have ever seen. and those small white teeth gleamed; and in her eyes, which were all black pupils now, with the iris quite hidden, was desire--or something beyond desire. i couldn't define it then; now, i think i can. her small, pink tongue darted over her lips, tasting, seeming to savor._ _i was frightened, for some indefinable reason. i wanted to get away from her, from the woods, from myself. i grasped her arm roughly and we started back for the grounds. we never mentioned the episode again, but we neither of us ever forgot. she intrigued me now, more than ever. the doctors were able to satisfy my curiosity somewhat. they told me she had been a patient for some four years. some days she was better, some days worse. she needed rest--much rest. most days she slept past noon with their approval. some days there was a faint flush beneath that ivory skin; other days it was pale and cool._ _just when we became lovers, i scarcely remember. things were happening so fast i could barely keep pace with them. there was a magnetism about eve which compelled. i couldn't have resisted if i'd wanted to--and i didn't._ _i began to have long periods of lassitude, times when i would black out and remember nothing afterwards. and the dreams began. i would dream i was stroking a large, velvety-black cat, a cat with shining yellow eyes that looked at me as if they knew my every thought. i would stroke it continuously and it would nip me playfully. then, one night the dream intensified: i was playing with the creature, caressing it gently, when of a sudden its lips drew back in a snarl, and without warning it sprang at my throat and buried its fangs deep! i thought i could feel life being drawn from me; i screamed._ _the doctors told me afterwards that i was semi-conscious for days; that i had to be restrained._ _when i was well again, eve came to see me. she was gentle--soothing. she held me close to her and oh! it was good to be alive and to belong to someone._ _i remember to this day what she wore. black velvet lounging slacks, a low-necked amber satin blouse, caught at the "v" by a curiously wrought antique silver pin. it was round, about four inches in diameter. in its center was the carved figure of a serpent coiled to strike. its eyes were deep amber topazes and its darting tongue was raised and set with a blood-red ruby._ _"what an unusual pin, eve," i said "i've never seen it before, have i?"_ _"no," she replied. "it belongs to the deep, dark, seldom discussed skeleton in the orcaczy closet, tod. you see, my great-great grandmother was quite a wicked lady, to hear tell. went in for witches' masses and the like. they say she poisoned her husband, a rather elderly and very childish man, for her lover, whom she subsequently married. together they did away with relatives who stood in the way of their accumulating more money. this pin was the instrument of death."_ _her slim fingers pressed the ruby tongue and the pin opened, revealing a space large enough to secrete powder._ _"it's like those employed by the infamous borgias, as you can see," she continued, shrugging. "perhaps it was fate then, that her devoted new husband tired of her once her fortune was assured him, took a young mistress for himself, and disposed of the unfortunate wife, using her own pin to perpetrate her murder. she was excommunicated by her church, too, which must have made it most unpleasant for her, poor old dear." the slim shoulders straightened. "but let's not discuss such unpleasant things, my dear. the important thing now is for you to get well quickly. i've missed you terribly, you know."_ _it was then i asked her to marry me. i knew i didn't really love her, but there seemed nothing to prevent our marriage. and she had gotten under my skin. it was as elemental as that. she said she thought we should wait until i fully recovered._ _"don't say any more, darling," she said. "rest your poor, sore throat."_ _she bent over me solicitously and i reached up to stroke that smooth black hair. it had a familiar feel to it that i couldn't quite place. of course i had stroked it hundreds of times before, but it wasn't that. then she looked straight at me, those large, glowing hazel eyes boring into mine, and i knew. knew and disbelieved at the same time. i froze where i lay, paralyzed by my fear; unable to make a sound._ _"so you know," she whispered. "it is well. i have marked you for my own these many months. now that you know, you will not fight. you know what i am, or at least you can guess. this pin you admired so--it was mine three hundred years ago and it will always be mine!"_ _her lips were on mine. she had never kissed me like this. it was like the touch of hot ice, freezing, then searing. unendurable. i lay inert; i couldn't have moved if i wanted to. i could scarcely breathe. then i felt the blood within me pounding, pulsing, beginning to answer in spite of myself. i tasted once more the warm, salty fluid on my lips. eve's body was liquid in my arms; warm, heady, narcotizing. once again i felt the agonizing, dagger sharp pain in my throat and--darkness._ _have you ever wakened to a bright, sunny afternoon and heard yourself pronounced dead? they spoke in low, hushed tones. how unfortunate. young fellow only thirty, dying so far away from his homeland. no family. good thing he was well-set in life. this sudden anemia was most extraordinary; fellow showed no signs of it previously. all he had really needed was rest. if he had recovered, that lovely eve orcaczy might have made both their lives happier, richer. sad ending to what might have been an idyll. good of her to claim the body. she said she was going to inter it in the family vault in_ konigstein mountain _in transylvania._ _i heard them distinctly. i wanted to shout that i wasn't dead; i wanted to wake up from this horrible nightmare. i was as alive as they. i knew i had to get out of there, some way; to get away from eve, whom i now feared. they left to make arrangements._ _the lassitude crept through me without warning; i dozed in spite of myself. and i dreamed again. i was a cat running, leaping through windows, loping over the countryside, stopping for no one. i panted with my exertions. towns and cities flew by; i had to get someplace and quickly. then the dream ended._ _"tod," she said, "get up, my dear." i heard her and i hated her. hated her while i was drawn to her. there was a white mist before my eyes. i reached up to brush it away. it was not a mist; it was a cloth. i shivered._ _"i must wake up," i whispered hoarsely, "i must! i'm going mad!"_ _there was a creaking sound and daylight descended upon me. when i saw where i was, i covered my face with my hands and sobbed. i tried to pray, but the words froze on my lips._ i was sitting in a coffin in a mausoleum! i had been buried alive! _"what am i?" i shrieked. "where am i and what have you done? i'm out of my mind; stark, staring mad!"_ _eve's lips parted, showing the even white teeth--those slightly pointed teeth._ _"you're quite sane, my dear," she said calmly. "you are now one of us; a revenant, even as i, and to live you must feed on the living."_ _"it's not true!" i shouted. "this is all a crazy nightmare, part of my illness! you're not real! nothing is real!"_ _"i'm quite real, tod. to be trite, i am what i am, and have accepted it calmly, as you shall in time. i have told you of my life. you have been a student of legends. legends are often--more often than you think--reality. when one has been murdered, if one has lived a so-called wicked life, he is doomed to walk the earth battening on the living. my fate was sealed as i lay in my coffin. but that wasn't enough. as i lay there, my pet cat, suma, slunk into the room and leapt over me. that was a double insurance of my life after death. those whom i mark for my own must, too, live on. accept it, my dear. you have no other choice."_ _"no!" i cried. "i'm an american! things like this don't happen to us! it's only in stories, and then to foreigners!"_ _she chuckled drily. "i'm afraid these things do happen, and in this case, you're it, my dear. make the best of it."_ _but i wouldn't; i refused to--for a while. i would not feast on the blood of the living. something within me fought. for a time._ _then, the awful hunger began. the tearing pangs of hunger that ordinary food wouldn't arrest. i fought it as long as i could. i lost._ _first it was small animals; animals that i loved. it was my life or theirs. then there was a little girl; a dear little creature who might have been my child under different circumstances._ _after the episode of the little girl, eve left me. she had no further use for me; she had wanted the child, too, and i had got it. i was now competition to be shunned. i was alone once again alone and thoroughly miserable. i couldn't understand myself, my motives, so how could i expect someone else to understand?_ _i only knew what i was; nor could i rationalize on why i had become this way. i could only presume it had happened to others equally as innocent as myself of wrong-doing. in the daytime, when i was like others, i reproached myself; goodness knows i loathed myself and what i had to do in order to "live." i wished i might really die, for i was tired--so frightfully tired and sick of it all. but i knew of no way to accomplish this, so i had to bear it all, fasting until my voracious, disgusting appetites got the better of me._ _i decided there must be some information on my kind, particularly in this area where vampire legends are rife, so i took to haunting reading rooms. it was there i met maria. she told me, after we knew each other better, that she was doing graduate work in regional superstitions and had decided that her thesis would treat of the history of vampirism. she found it terribly amusing, but at the same time frightening: didn't i? i fear i saw nothing laughable about it, but i held my peace. why, i could have done a thesis for her that would have driven some mild-mannered prof completely out of his mind! i kept my knowledge to myself, though; i didn't want to scare maria._ _she was like a flash of sunshine in a darkened room. she made each day worth living. for the first time the hunger pangs ceased. ceased for one week, then two. i was certain i was cured. perhaps, i thought, the whole thing was just a dream and i am finally awake._ _i felt then i had the right to tell her of my love. she looked infinitely sad. she wasn't certain, she said. she knew she was awfully fond of me, but she was confused. she had just come away from the states, trying to make up her mind about someone dear, whom she didn't want to hurt, and she wanted a breather. i said i would wait up to and through eternity, if she wished._ _things, went along peacefully then. we would walk for hours together, walk in complete silence and understanding. my strength seemed to be returning more day by day. we went far afield in search of material for her thesis. she would track down the most minute speck of hearsay, to get authenticity._ _one day, in our wanderings, i thoughtlessly let myself be led too near my resting place. one of the locals mentioned a "place of horror" nearby and maria wanted to investigate. i had no choice. we poked amid the still fustiness of the deserted mausoleum i knew so well. she thought it odd that the door was unlocked. i said, yes, wasn't it. then she saw the box, that gleaming copper box which eve had so thoughtfully provided. she stroked it gently, commenting on its beauty, and before i could prevent it or divert her attention, she had lifted the heavy lid exposing the disarranged shroud, the remains of one or two hapless small creatures, the horrible blood-stained satin lining. she screamed and dropped the lid, somehow pinching her finger. she hopped on one foot, as one usually does to fight down sudden pain. then she was clinging to me, thoroughly frightened._ _"what does it mean, tod?"_ _i quieted her with the usual platitudes. then i was kissing that poor, red little finger. without warning to myself or her, i nipped it affectionately. a warm glow spread through me; there was a taste more delightful than fine old brandy, or vintage wine, and i knew irrevocably that i was not cured; no, nor ever should be! and i knew, too, that i wanted maria--not just as a man longs for the woman he loves--but to drink of the fountain of her life, that warm, intoxicating fountain, greedily, joyously. she never knew what went through my mind at that moment. if i could have killed myself then, i would have, and with no compunction. but there is more to killing a revenant than that. the church knows the procedure. i hurried maria home as fast as i could and told her i had to go away for a week on business. she believed me and said she would miss me. but i didn't go away. that night i fought a losing battle with myself, and then and every night thereafter, i returned to her, partook of her and slunk away, loathing myself. i knew that i must soon kill the one being i loved above all others, kill, too, her immortal soul, and there was nothing i could do to prevent it._ _she began to fade visibly. when i "returned" in a week, she was so ill that a few steps tired her. her appetite all but vanished. she seemed genuinely glad to see me. she was beset by nightmares, she said. could i help her get some rest? i took her to a physician who sagely prescribed a change in climate, rest and a diet rich in blood and iron, gave her a prescription for sedatives, and called it a day._ _you know how she looked when you saw her. the day was approaching when she would have no more blood, when life as you know it would stop and she would become like me. somehow i couldn't take her with me without some warning, but i didn't know how to do it. you see, since i was an innocent victim myself. i could speak, could warn my intended victim, because although my soul had all but died, there was still a spark that evil hadn't touched. i knew she would think it a joke if i told her about myself without warning._ _then, happily for me, you came along. i knew you would sense something amiss and i didn't care. i was almost certain of her love, and i decided to seize the few minutes left me and devil take the hindmost! when you told her to confront me, you gave me the happiest days of my life. for this i thank you sincerely. for what i have done and will ask you to do, forgive me!_ _maria asked me directly, as you had known she would. i replied frankly, sparing her nothing. i told her that the fact that this life had been wished on me, as it were, gave me some rights, and that i could tell her how to rid herself of me, if she wished. then she turned to me, her large, lovely eyes thoughtful._ _"tod, dearest," she said softly, "i must die some day, really die, so what difference does it make when? i only know that i love you. why wait until i'm decrepit and alone, with only a few memories to look back on? why not now, with you, where life doesn't really stop? with all i've read about this, don't you think i could free myself if i wished?"_ _i still wonder if she really believed me. we were married three days later. i never told her what her life with me would be like--that one day i would desert her, fearing and hating her rivalry for the very source of my life, and the ghastly chain would continue. i couldn't. i loved her so, morris, can you understand that? i couldn't betray her then and i can't now._ _on the second night of our marriage, she died as you know it, in my arms. i don't think she knows it yet. but it won't be long until she does discover it. we were quite alive when you found us; she was in an hypnotic state induced by her condition. she heard and saw nothing. but i knew. and i must keep my faith. i must, and you are the only one who can help me._ _if you will show this to a priest, he will gladly accompany you to the place in_ konigstein, _where we rest during the morning in a new "bed" i had specially constructed for us. i couldn't bring maria to that other bed of corruption. a map of how to get there is enclosed. there you will perform the ancient, effective rites, and you will lay us to rest together, as we wish. that is all i ask...._ * * * * * when i had finished reading i stared at nothing, trying to force myself to think. this was "all" he asked. in substance, he wished me to murder the girl i loved. i could refuse; i could ignore his request. i could even doubt the verity of his statements. he might be a madman. but i didn't doubt. i believed every word, and i knew i would do as he asked. that she had gone willingly i didn't doubt. i no longer hated him so much; rather i pitied him, the hapless victim of a horrible chain of circumstance. * * * * * i found the priest, a venerable, gentle soul, after much searching. the younger men had looked at me searchingly, laughed and told me to read the good book for consolation, and to lay off the bottle. father kalman was understanding, with the wisdom of the very old. "yes, my son," he said, "i will go. many might doubt, but i believe. lucifer roams the earth in many guises and must be recognized and exorcised." it was five o'clock in the morning when we approached the mausoleum. the good father explained that the "creatures of darkness" had to be back in their resting places before the cock crew. at night they drew sustenance; during the morning they slept. there was a gleaming copper casket. tod had not lied. we approached it warily. in it was nothing but grisly remains, bloodstains and dust. we drew back, fearful. then we saw the other, newer casket in richest mahogany, almost twice the width of the copper box: _their bridal bed!_ they lay together, his arm about her. she wore a gown of palest blue, but oh, that mockery of a gown! stained it was with fresh blood which had seeped onto it from him. obviously she had not taken to prowling yet. his mouth was dark, rich with blood, slightly open in a half-smile. his hand pressed her fair head close to his chest. she lay trustingly within the circle of his arm, like a small child. the priest crossed himself. the bodies twitched slightly. "you know what you must do," father kalman whispered. i nodded, the pit of my stomach churning madly. i couldn't do it! not maria, the lovely. but i knew i would; i had to. she must not wake again to see that blood-stained gown or to wonder at her husband's gory lips. she should know rest, eternal rest. father kalman circled the box several times, ringing his small bell, and at one point laid a crucifix upon each of their chests. their faces writhed and i felt my skin creep. then, chanting in a low, firm voice, the priest gave me the signal. together we drove two long stakes, dipped first in holy water, home, piercing their hearts simultaneously. the bodies leapt forward in the box, straining against the stake, and a horrible, drawn-out wail shattered the stillness of the tomb. the priest dropped to his knees and i clapped my hands over my ears, but the dreadful shriek penetrated. my stomach turned over and i retched. the good father followed suit. we were no supermen and our bodies and our very souls revolted against this monstrous thing. "let us finish, my son," the priest said slowly, after a time, his face the color of ashes. "we must bury these dead, that they may sleep in consecrated ground." i couldn't. i had to see her again before it was done. she lay, small and fragile as ever, her face calm, only there was no trace of life now. she was still and white, as only the dead--the truly dead--are. tod's arm was flung across her chest, as if to protect her. i made myself move the arm, resting her head upon his shoulder, where it belonged. then, as i looked, there was just maria. tod was gone and only a handful of dust lay piled up around the stake. it was enough. i slammed the lid shut. * * * * * looking back now, i can see it was all for the best. ria was different--apart from other women. a dreamer, a mystic, too easily influenced by the bizarre and un-normal. i, on the other hand, am practical almost to a fault. had she married me i might have crushed in her the very thing that drew me to her. in time she might have grown to hate me. hunter, on the other hand, was a student. introspective, given to romanticizing. susceptible to suggestion. had i been confronted with an eve, i should have run like hell. to him, though, she was cloaked in mystery; hence, more desirable. what better choice for him ultimately than ria? that ria had to die to achieve her happiness is of no real importance. life is a transitory thing anyway. sometimes, though, when i look at ria's picture, it's hard to be practical. she was everything i shall ever want. i had never been to europe before the summer of 1947. i went to find maria, to marry her. instead, i found and murdered her, and i will never go back again. the vampyre; a tale. by john william polidori london printed for sherwood, neely, and jones paternoster row 1819 [entered at stationers' hall, march 27, 1819] gillet, printer, crown court, fleet street, london. extract of a letter from geneva. ______________ "i breathe freely in the neighbourhood of this lake; the ground upon which i tread has been subdued from the earliest ages; the principal objects which immediately strike my eye, bring to my recollection scenes, in which man acted the hero and was the chief object of interest. not to look back to earlier times of battles and sieges, here is the bust of rousseau--here is a house with an inscription denoting that the genevan philosopher first drew breath under its roof. a little out of the town is ferney, the residence of voltaire; where that wonderful, though certainly in many respects contemptible, character, received, like the hermits of old, the visits of pilgrims, not only from his own nation, but from the farthest boundaries of europe. here too is bonnet's abode, and, a few steps beyond, the house of that astonishing woman madame de stael: perhaps the first of her sex, who has really proved its often claimed equality with, the nobler man. we have before had women who have written interesting novels and poems, in which their tact at observing drawing-room characters has availed them; but never since the days of heloise have those faculties which are peculiar to man, been developed as the possible inheritance of woman. though even here, as in the case of heloise, our sex have not been backward in alledging the existence of an abeilard in the person of m. schlegel as the inspirer of her works. but to proceed: upon the same side of the lake, gibbon, bonnivard, bradshaw, and others mark, as it were, the stages for our progress; whilst upon the other side there is one house, built by diodati, the friend of milton, which has contained within its walls, for several months, that poet whom we have so often read together, and who--if human passions remain the same, and human feelings, like chords, on being swept by nature's impulses shall vibrate as before--will be placed by posterity in the first rank of our english poets. you must have heard, or the third canto of childe harold will have informed you, that lord byron resided many months in this neighbourhood. i went with some friends a few days ago, after having seen ferney, to view this mansion. i trod the floors with the same feelings of awe and respect as we did, together, those of shakespeare's dwelling at stratford. i sat down in a chair of the saloon, and satisfied myself that i was resting on what he had made his constant seat. i found a servant there who had lived with him; she, however, gave me but little information. she pointed out his bed-chamber upon the same level as the saloon and dining-room, and informed me that he retired to rest at three, got up at two, and employed himself a long time over his toilette; that he never went to sleep without a pair of pistols and a dagger by his side, and that he never ate animal food. he apparently spent some part of every day upon the lake in an english boat. there is a balcony from the saloon which looks upon the lake and the mountain jura; and i imagine, that it must have been hence, he contemplated the storm so magnificently described in the third canto; for you have from here a most extensive view of all the points he has therein depicted. i can fancy him like the scathed pine, whilst all around was sunk to repose, still waking to observe, what gave but a weak image of the storms which had desolated his own breast. the sky is changed!--and such a change; oh, night! and storm and darkness, ye are wond'rous strong, yet lovely in your strength, as is the light of a dark eye in woman! far along from peak to peak, the rattling crags among, leaps the lire thunder! not from one lone cloud, but every mountain now hath found a tongue, and jura answers thro' her misty shroud, back to the joyous alps who call to her aloud! and this is in the night:--most glorious night! thou wer't not sent for slumber! let me be a sharer in thy far and fierce delight,- a portion of the tempest and of me! how the lit lake shines a phosphoric sea, and the big rain comet dancing to the earth! and now again 'tis black,--and now the glee of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth, as if they did rejoice o'er a young; earthquake's birth, now where the swift rhine cleaves his way between heights which appear, as lovers who have parted in haste, whose mining depths so intervene, that they can meet no more, tho' broken hearted; tho' in their souls which thus each other thwarted, love was the very root of the fond rage which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed- itself expired, but leaving; them an age of years all winter--war within themselves to wage. i went down to the little port, if i may use the expression, wherein his vessel used to lay, and conversed with the cottager, who had the care of it. you may smile, but i have my pleasure in thus helping my personification of the individual i admire, by attaining to the knowledge of those circumstances which were daily around him. i have made numerous enquiries in the town concerning him, but can learn nothing. he only went into society there once, when m. pictet took him to the house of a lady to spend the evening. they say he is a very singular man, and seem to think him very uncivil. amongst other things they relate, that having invited m. pictet and bonstetten to dinner, he went on the lake to chillon, leaving a gentleman who travelled with him to receive them and make his apologies. another evening, being invited to the house of lady d---h----, he promised to attend, but upon approaching the windows of her ladyship's villa, and perceiving the room to be full of company, he set down his friend, desiring him to plead his excuse, and immediately returned home. this will serve as a contradiction to the report which you tell me is current in england, of his having been avoided by his countrymen on the continent. the case happens to be directly the reverse, as he has been generally sought by them, though on most occasions, apparently without success. it is said, indeed, that upon paying his first visit at coppet, following the servant who had announced his name, he was surprised to meet a lady carried out fainting; but before he had been seated many minutes, the same lady, who had been so affected at the sound of his name, returned and conversed with him a considerable time--such is female curiosity and affectation! he visited coppet frequently, and of course associated there with several of his countrymen, who evinced no reluctance to meet him whom his enemies alone would represent as an outcast. though i have been so unsuccessful in this town, i have been more fortunate in my enquiries elsewhere. there is a society three or four miles from geneva, the centre of which is the countess of breuss, a russian lady, well acquainted with the agrémens de la société, and who has collected them round herself at her mansion. it was chiefly here, i find, that the gentleman who travelled with lord byron, as physician, sought for society. he used almost every day to cross the lake by himself, in one of their flat-bottomed boats, and return after passing the evening with his friends, about eleven or twelve at night, often whilst the storms were raging in the circling summits of the mountains around. as he became intimate, from long acquaintance, with several of the families in this neighbourhood, i have gathered from their accounts some excellent traits of his lordship's character, which i will relate to you at some future opportunity. i must, however, free him from one imputation attached to him--of having in his house two sisters as the partakers of his revels. this is, like many other charges which have been brought against his lordship, entirely destitute of truth. his only companion was the physician i have already mentioned. the report originated from the following circumstance: mr. percy bysshe shelly, a gentleman well known for extravagance of doctrine, and for his daring, in their profession, even to sign himself with the title of atheos in the album at chamouny, having taken a house below, in which he resided with miss m. w. godwin and miss clermont, (the daughters of the celebrated mr. godwin) they were frequently visitors at diodati, and were often seen upon the lake with his lordship, which gave rise to the report, the truth of which is here positively denied. among other things which the lady, from whom i procured these anecdotes, related to me, she mentioned the outline of a ghost story by lord byron. it appears that one evening lord b., mr. p. b. shelly, the two ladies and the gentleman before alluded to, after having perused a german work, which was entitled phantasmagoriana, began relating ghost stories; when his lordship having recited the beginning of christabel, then unpublished, the whole took so strong a hold of mr. shelly's mind, that he suddenly started up and ran out of the room. the physician and lord byron followed, and discovered him leaning against a mantle-piece, with cold drops of perspiration trickling down his face. after having given him something to refresh him, upon enquiring into the cause of his alarm, they found that his wild imagination having pictured to him the bosom of one of the ladies with eyes (which was reported of a lady in the neighbourhood where he lived) he was obliged to leave the room in order to destroy the impression. it was afterwards proposed, in the course of conversation, that each of the company present should write a tale depending upon some supernatural agency, which was undertaken by lord b., the physician, and miss m. w. godwin.[1] my friend, the lady above referred to, had in her possession the outline of each of these stories; i obtained them as a great favour, and herewith forward them to you, as i was assured you would feel as much curiosity as myself, to peruse the ebauches of so great a genius, and those immediately under his influence." [1] since published under the title of "frankenstein; or, the modern prometheus." the vampyre. ________________________________________________________________ introduction. __________ the superstition upon which this tale is founded is very general in the east. among the arabians it appears to be common: it did not, however, extend itself to the greeks until after the establishment of christianity; and it has only assumed its present form since the division of the latin and greek churches; at which time, the idea becoming prevalent, that a latin body could not corrupt if buried in their territory, it gradually increased, and formed the subject of many wonderful stories, still extant, of the dead rising from their graves, and feeding upon the blood of the young and beautiful. in the west it spread, with some slight variation, all over hungary, poland, austria, and lorraine, where the belief existed, that vampyres nightly imbibed a certain portion of the blood of their victims, who became emaciated, lost their strength, and speedily died of consumptions; whilst these human blood-suckers fattened--and their veins became distended to such a state of repletion, as to cause the blood to flow from all the passages of their bodies, and even from the very pores of their skins. in the london journal, of march, 1732, is a curious, and, of course, credible account of a particular case of vampyrism, which is stated to have occurred at madreyga, in hungary. it appears, that upon an examination of the commander-in-chief and magistrates of the place, they positively and unanimously affirmed, that, about five years before, a certain heyduke, named arnold paul, had been heard to say, that, at cassovia, on the frontiers of the turkish servia, he had been tormented by a vampyre, but had found a way to rid himself of the evil, by eating some of the earth out of the vampyre's grave, and rubbing himself with his blood. this precaution, however, did not prevent him from becoming a vampyre[2] himself; for, about twenty or thirty days after his death and burial, many persons complained of having been tormented by him, and a deposition was made, that four persons had been deprived of life by his attacks. to prevent further mischief, the inhabitants having consulted their hadagni,[3] took up the body, and found it (as is supposed to be usual in cases of vampyrism) fresh, and entirely free from corruption, and emitting at the mouth, nose, and ears, pure and florid blood. proof having been thus obtained, they resorted to the accustomed remedy. a stake was driven entirely through the heart and body of arnold paul, at which he is reported to have cried out as dreadfully as if he had been alive. this done, they cut off his head, burned his body, and threw the ashes into his grave. the same measures were adopted with the corses of those persons who had previously died from vampyrism, lest they should, in their turn, become agents upon others who survived them. [2] the universal belief is, that a person sucked by a vampyre becomes a vampyre himself, and sucks in his turn. [3] chief bailiff. this monstrous rodomontade is here related, because it seems better adapted to illustrate the subject of the present observations than any other instance which could be adduced. in many parts of greece it is considered as a sort of punishment after death, for some heinous crime committed whilst in existence, that the deceased is not only doomed to vampyrise, but compelled to confine his infernal visitations solely to those beings he loved most while upon earth--those to whom he was bound by ties of kindred and affection.--a supposition alluded to in the "giaour." but first on earth, as vampyre sent, thy corse shall from its tomb be rent; then ghastly haunt the native place, and suck the blood of all thy race; there from thy daughter, sister, wife, at midnight drain the stream of life; yet loathe the banquet which perforce must feed thy livid living corse, thy victims, ere they yet expire, shall know the demon for their sire; as cursing thee, thou cursing them, thy flowers are withered on the stem. but one that for thy crime must fall, the youngest, best beloved of all, shall bless thee with a father's name- that word shall wrap thy heart in flame! yet thou must end thy task and mark her cheek's last tinge--her eye's last spark, and the last glassy glance must view which freezes o'er its lifeless blue; then with unhallowed hand shall tear the tresses of her yellow hair, of which, in life a lock when shorn affection's fondest pledge was worn- but now is borne away by thee memorial of thine agony! yet with thine own best blood shall drip; thy gnashing tooth, and haggard lip; then stalking to thy sullen grave, go--and with gouls and afrits rave, till these in horror shrink away from spectre more accursed than they. mr. southey has also introduced in his wild but beautiful poem of "thalaba," the vampyre corse of the arabian maid oneiza, who is represented as having returned from the grave for the purpose of tormenting him she best loved whilst in existence. but this cannot be supposed to have resulted from the sinfulness of her life, she being pourtrayed throughout the whole of the tale as a complete type of purity and innocence. the veracious tournefort gives a long account in his travels of several astonishing cases of vampyrism, to which he pretends to have been an eyewitness; and calmet, in his great work upon this subject, besides a variety of anecdotes, and traditionary narratives illustrative of its effects, has put forth some learned dissertations, tending to prove it to be a classical, as well as barbarian error. many curious and interesting notices on this singularly horrible superstition might be added; though the present may suffice for the limits of a note, necessarily devoted to explanation, and which may now be concluded by merely remarking, that though the term vampyre is the one in most general acceptation, there are several others synonymous with it, made use of in various parts of the world: as vroucolocha, vardoulacha, goul, broucoloka, &c. ________________________________________________________________ the vampyre. __________ it happened that in the midst of the dissipations attendant upon a london winter, there appeared at the various parties of the leaders of the ton a nobleman, more remarkable for his singularities, than his rank. he gazed upon the mirth around him, as if he could not participate therein. apparently, the light laughter of the fair only attracted his attention, that he might by a look quell it, and throw fear into those breasts where thoughtlessness reigned. those who felt this sensation of awe, could not explain whence it arose: some attributed it to the dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object's face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass. his peculiarities caused him to be invited to every house; all wished to see him, and those who had been accustomed to violent excitement, and now felt the weight of ennui, were pleased at having something in their presence capable of engaging their attention. in spite of the deadly hue of his face, which never gained a warmer tint, either from the blush of modesty, or from the strong emotion of passion, though its form and outline were beautiful, many of the female hunters after notoriety attempted to win his attentions, and gain, at least, some marks of what they might term affection: lady mercer, who had been the mockery of every monster shewn in drawing-rooms since her marriage, threw herself in his way, and did all but put on the dress of a mountebank, to attract his notice:--though in vain:--when she stood before him, though his eyes were apparently fixed upon her's, still it seemed as if they were unperceived;--even her unappalled impudence was baffled, and she left the field. but though the common adultress could not influence even the guidance of his eyes, it was not that the female sex was indifferent to him: yet such was the apparent caution with which he spoke to the virtuous wife and innocent daughter, that few knew he ever addressed himself to females. he had, however, the reputation of a winning tongue; and whether it was that it even overcame the dread of his singular character, or that they were moved by his apparent hatred of vice, he was as often among those females who form the boast of their sex from their domestic virtues, as among those who sully it by their vices. about the same time, there came to london a young gentleman of the name of aubrey: he was an orphan left with an only sister in the possession of great wealth, by parents who died while he was yet in childhood. left also to himself by guardians, who thought it their duty merely to take care of his fortune, while they relinquished the more important charge of his mind to the care of mercenary subalterns, he cultivated more his imagination than his judgment. he had, hence, that high romantic feeling of honour and candour, which daily ruins so many milliners' apprentices. he believed all to sympathise with virtue, and thought that vice was thrown in by providence merely for the picturesque effect of the scene, as we see in romances: he thought that the misery of a cottage merely consisted in the vesting of clothes, which were as warm, but which were better adapted to the painter's eye by their irregular folds and various coloured patches. he thought, in fine, that the dreams of poets were the realities of life. he was handsome, frank, and rich: for these reasons, upon his entering into the gay circles, many mothers surrounded him, striving which should describe with least truth their languishing or romping favourites: the daughters at the same time, by their brightening countenances when he approached, and by their sparkling eyes, when he opened his lips, soon led him into false notions of his talents and his merit. attached as he was to the romance of his solitary hours, he was startled at finding, that, except in the tallow and wax candles that flickered, not from the presence of a ghost, but from want of snuffing, there was no foundation in real life for any of that congeries of pleasing pictures and descriptions contained in those volumes, from which he had formed his study. finding, however, some compensation in his gratified vanity, he was about to relinquish his dreams, when the extraordinary being we have above described, crossed him in his career. he watched him; and the very impossibility of forming an idea of the character of a man entirely absorbed in himself, who gave few other signs of his observation of external objects, than the tacit assent to their existence, implied by the avoidance of their contact: allowing his imagination to picture every thing that flattered its propensity to extravagant ideas, he soon formed this object into the hero of a romance, and determined to observe the offspring of his fancy, rather than the person before him. he became acquainted with him, paid him attentions, and so far advanced upon his notice, that his presence was always recognised. he gradually learnt that lord ruthven's affairs were embarrassed, and soon found, from the notes of preparation in ---street, that he was about to travel. desirous of gaining some information respecting this singular character, who, till now, had only whetted his curiosity, he hinted to his guardians, that it was time for him to perform the tour, which for many generations has been thought necessary to enable the young to take some rapid steps in the career of vice towards putting themselves upon an equality with the aged, and not allowing them to appear as if fallen from the skies, whenever scandalous intrigues are mentioned as the subjects of pleasantry or of praise, according to the degree of skill shewn in carrying them on. they consented: and aubrey immediately mentioning his intentions to lord ruthven, was surprised to receive from him a proposal to join him. flattered by such a mark of esteem from him, who, apparently, had nothing in common with other men, he gladly accepted it, and in a few days they had passed the circling waters. hitherto, aubrey had had no opportunity of studying lord ruthven's character, and now he found, that, though many more of his actions were exposed to his view, the results offered different conclusions from the apparent motives to his conduct. his companion was profuse in his liberality;--the idle, the vagabond, and the beggar, received from his hand more than enough to relieve their immediate wants. but aubrey could not avoid remarking, that it was not upon the virtuous, reduced to indigence by the misfortunes attendant even upon virtue, that he bestowed his alms;--these were sent from the door with hardly suppressed sneers; but when the profligate came to ask something, not to relieve his wants, but to allow him to wallow in his lust, or to sink him still deeper in his iniquity, he was sent away with rich charity. this was, however, attributed by him to the greater importunity of the vicious, which generally prevails over the retiring bashfulness of the virtuous indigent. there was one circumstance about the charity of his lordship, which was still more impressed upon his mind: all those upon whom it was bestowed, inevitably found that there was a curse upon it, for they were all either led to the scaffold, or sunk to the lowest and the most abject misery. at brussels and other towns through which they passed, aubrey was surprized at the apparent eagerness with which his companion sought for the centres of all fashionable vice; there he entered into all the spirit of the faro table: he betted, and always gambled with success, except where the known sharper was his antagonist, and then he lost even more than he gained; but it was always with the same unchanging face, with which he generally watched the society around: it was not, however, so when he encountered the rash youthful novice, or the luckless father of a numerous family; then his very wish seemed fortune's law--this apparent abstractedness of mind was laid aside, and his eyes sparkled with more fire than that of the cat whilst dallying with the half-dead mouse. in every town, he left the formerly affluent youth, torn from the circle he adorned, cursing, in the solitude of a dungeon, the fate that had drawn him within the reach of this fiend; whilst many a father sat frantic, amidst the speaking looks of mute hungry children, without a single farthing of his late immense wealth, wherewith to buy even sufficient to satisfy their present craving. yet he took no money from the gambling table; but immediately lost, to the ruiner of many, the last gilder he had just snatched from the convulsive grasp of the innocent: this might but be the result of a certain degree of knowledge, which was not, however, capable of combating the cunning of the more experienced. aubrey often wished to represent this to his friend, and beg him to resign that charity and pleasure which proved the ruin of all, and did not tend to his own profit;--but he delayed it--for each day he hoped his friend would give him some opportunity of speaking frankly and openly to him; however, this never occurred. lord ruthven in his carriage, and amidst the various wild and rich scenes of nature, was always the same: his eye spoke less than his lip; and though aubrey was near the object of his curiosity, he obtained no greater gratification from it than the constant excitement of vainly wishing to break that mystery, which to his exalted imagination began to assume the appearance of something supernatural. they soon arrived at rome, and aubrey for a time lost sight of his companion; he left him in daily attendance upon the morning circle of an italian countess, whilst he went in search of the memorials of another almost deserted city. whilst he was thus engaged, letters arrived from england, which he opened with eager impatience; the first was from his sister, breathing nothing but affection; the others were from his guardians, the latter astonished him; if it had before entered into his imagination that there was an evil power resident in his companion, these seemed to give him sufficient reason for the belief. his guardians insisted upon his immediately leaving his friend, and urged, that his character was dreadfully vicious, for that the possession of irresistible powers of seduction, rendered his licentious habits more dangerous to society. it had been discovered, that his contempt for the adultress had not originated in hatred of her character; but that he had required, to enhance his gratification, that his victim, the partner of his guilt, should be hurled from the pinnacle of unsullied virtue, down to the lowest abyss of infamy and degradation: in fine, that all those females whom he had sought, apparently on account of their virtue, had, since his departure, thrown even the mask aside, and had not scrupled to expose the whole deformity of their vices to the public gaze. aubrey determined upon leaving one, whose character had not yet shown a single bright point on which to rest the eye. he resolved to invent some plausible pretext for abandoning him altogether, purposing, in the mean while, to watch him more closely, and to let no slight circumstances pass by unnoticed. he entered into the same circle, and soon perceived, that his lordship was endeavouring to work upon the inexperience of the daughter of the lady whose house he chiefly frequented. in italy, it is seldom that an unmarried female is met with in society; he was therefore obliged to carry on his plans in secret; but aubrey's eye followed him in all his windings, and soon discovered that an assignation had been appointed, which would most likely end in the ruin of an innocent, though thoughtless girl. losing no time, he entered the apartment of lord ruthven, and abruptly asked him his intentions with respect to the lady, informing him at the same time that he was aware of his being about to meet her that very night. lord ruthven answered, that his intentions were such as he supposed all would have upon such an occasion; and upon being pressed whether he intended to marry her, merely laughed. aubrey retired; and, immediately writing a note, to say, that from that moment he must decline accompanying his lordship in the remainder of their proposed tour, he ordered his servant to seek other apartments, and calling upon the mother of the lady, informed her of all he knew, not only with regard to her daughter, but also concerning the character of his lordship. the assignation was prevented. lord ruthven next day merely sent his servant to notify his complete assent to a separation; but did not hint any suspicion of his plans having been foiled by aubrey's interposition. having left rome, aubrey directed his steps towards greece, and crossing the peninsula, soon found himself at athens. he then fixed his residence in the house of a greek; and soon occupied himself in tracing the faded records of ancient glory upon monuments that apparently, ashamed of chronicling the deeds of freemen only before slaves, had hidden themselves beneath the sheltering soil or many coloured lichen. under the same roof as himself, existed a being, so beautiful and delicate, that she might have formed the model for a painter wishing to pourtray on canvass the promised hope of the faithful in mahomet's paradise, save that her eyes spoke too much mind for any one to think she could belong to those who had no souls. as she danced upon the plain, or tripped along the mountain's side, one would have thought the gazelle a poor type of her beauties; for who would have exchanged her eye, apparently the eye of animated nature, for that sleepy luxurious look of the animal suited but to the taste of an epicure. the light step of ianthe often accompanied aubrey in his search after antiquities, and often would the unconscious girl, engaged in the pursuit of a kashmere butterfly, show the whole beauty of her form, floating as it were upon the wind, to the eager gaze of him, who forgot the letters he had just decyphered upon an almost effaced tablet, in the contemplation of her sylph-like figure. often would her tresses falling, as she flitted around, exhibit in the sun's ray such delicately brilliant and swiftly fading hues, it might well excuse the forgetfulness of the antiquary, who let escape from his mind the very object he had before thought of vital importance to the proper interpretation of a passage in pausanias. but why attempt to describe charms which all feel, but none can appreciate?--it was innocence, youth, and beauty, unaffected by crowded drawing-rooms and stifling balls. whilst he drew those remains of which he wished to preserve a memorial for his future hours, she would stand by, and watch the magic effects of his pencil, in tracing the scenes of her native place; she would then describe to him the circling dance upon the open plain, would paint, to him in all the glowing colours of youthful memory, the marriage pomp she remembered viewing in her infancy; and then, turning to subjects that had evidently made a greater impression upon her mind, would tell him all the supernatural tales of her nurse. her earnestness and apparent belief of what she narrated, excited the interest even of aubrey; and often as she told him the tale of the living vampyre, who had passed years amidst his friends, and dearest ties, forced every year, by feeding upon the life of a lovely female to prolong his existence for the ensuing months, his blood would run cold, whilst he attempted to laugh her out of such idle and horrible fantasies; but ianthe cited to him the names of old men, who had at last detected one living among themselves, after several of their near relatives and children had been found marked with the stamp of the fiend's appetite; and when she found him so incredulous, she begged of him to believe her, for it had been, remarked, that those who had dared to question their existence, always had some proof given, which obliged them, with grief and heartbreaking, to confess it was true. she detailed to him the traditional appearance of these monsters, and his horror was increased, by hearing a pretty accurate description of lord ruthven; he, however, still persisted in persuading her, that there could be no truth in her fears, though at the same time he wondered at the many coincidences which had all tended to excite a belief in the supernatural power of lord ruthven. aubrey began to attach himself more and more to ianthe; her innocence, so contrasted with all the affected virtues of the women among whom he had sought for his vision of romance, won his heart; and while he ridiculed the idea of a young man of english habits, marrying an uneducated greek girl, still he found himself more and more attached to the almost fairy form before him. he would tear himself at times from her, and, forming a plan for some antiquarian research, he would depart, determined not to return until his object was attained; but he always found it impossible to fix his attention upon the ruins around him, whilst in his mind he retained an image that seemed alone the rightful possessor of his thoughts. ianthe was unconscious of his love, and was ever the same frank infantile being he had first known. she always seemed to part from him with reluctance; but it was because she had no longer any one with whom she could visit her favourite haunts, whilst her guardian was occupied in sketching or uncovering some fragment which had yet escaped the destructive hand of time. she had appealed to her parents on the subject of vampyres, and they both, with several present, affirmed their existence, pale with horror at the very name. soon after, aubrey determined to proceed upon one of his excursions, which was to detain him for a few hours; when they heard the name of the place, they all at once begged of him not to return at night, as he must necessarily pass through a wood, where no greek would ever remain, after the day had closed, upon any consideration. they described it as the resort of the vampyres in their nocturnal orgies, and denounced the most heavy evils as impending upon him who dared to cross their path. aubrey made light of their representations, and tried to laugh them out of the idea; but when he saw them shudder at his daring thus to mock a superior, infernal power, the very name of which apparently made their blood freeze, he was silent. next morning aubrey set off upon his excursion unattended; he was surprised to observe the melancholy face of his host, and was concerned to find that his words, mocking the belief of those horrible fiends, had inspired them with such terror. when he was about to depart, ianthe came to the side of his horse, and earnestly begged of him to return, ere night allowed the power of these beings to be put in action;--he promised. he was, however, so occupied in his research, that he did not perceive that day-light would soon end, and that in the horizon there was one of those specks which, in the warmer climates, so rapidly gather into a tremendous mass, and pour all their rage upon the devoted country.--he at last, however, mounted his horse, determined to make up by speed for his delay: but it was too late. twilight, in these southern climates, is almost unknown; immediately the sun sets, night begins: and ere he had advanced far, the power of the storm was above--its echoing thunders had scarcely an interval of rest--its thick heavy rain forced its way through the canopying foliage, whilst the blue forked lightning seemed to fall and radiate at his very feet. suddenly his horse took fright, and he was carried with dreadful rapidity through the entangled forest. the animal at last, through fatigue, stopped, and he found, by the glare of lightning, that he was in the neighbourhood of a hovel that hardly lifted itself up from the masses of dead leaves and brushwood which surrounded it. dismounting, he approached, hoping to find some one to guide him to the town, or at least trusting to obtain shelter from the pelting of the storm. as he approached, the thunders, for a moment silent, allowed him to hear the dreadful shrieks of a woman mingling with the stifled, exultant mockery of a laugh, continued in one almost unbroken sound;--he was startled: but, roused by the thunder which again rolled over his head, he, with a sudden effort, forced open the door of the hut. he found himself in utter darkness: the sound, however, guided him. he was apparently unperceived; for, though he called, still the sounds continued, and no notice was taken of him. he found himself in contact with some one, whom he immediately seized; when a voice cried, "again baffled!" to which a loud laugh succeeded; and he felt himself grappled by one whose strength seemed superhuman: determined to sell his life as dearly as he could, he struggled; but it was in vain: he was lifted from his feet and hurled with enormous force against the ground:--his enemy threw himself upon him, and kneeling upon his breast, had placed his hands upon his throat--when the glare of many torches penetrating through the hole that gave light in the day, disturbed him;--he instantly rose, and, leaving his prey, rushed through the door, and in a moment the crashing of the branches, as he broke through the wood, was no longer heard. the storm was now still; and aubrey, incapable of moving, was soon heard by those without. they entered; the light of their torches fell upon the mud walls, and the thatch loaded on every individual straw with heavy flakes of soot. at the desire of aubrey they searched for her who had attracted him by her cries; he was again left in darkness; but what was his horror, when the light of the torches once more burst upon him, to perceive the airy form of his fair conductress brought in a lifeless corse. he shut his eyes, hoping that it was but a vision arising from his disturbed imagination; but he again saw the same form, when he unclosed them, stretched by his side. there was no colour upon her cheek, not even upon her lip; yet there was a stillness about her face that seemed almost as attaching as the life that once dwelt there:--upon her neck and breast was blood, and upon her throat were the marks of teeth having opened the vein:--to this the men pointed, crying, simultaneously struck with horror, "a vampyre! a vampyre!" a litter was quickly formed, and aubrey was laid by the side of her who had lately been to him the object of so many bright and fairy visions, now fallen with the flower of life that had died within her. he knew not what his thoughts were--his mind was benumbed and seemed to shun reflection, and take refuge in vacancy--he held almost unconsciously in his hand a naked dagger of a particular construction, which had been found in the hut. they were soon met by different parties who had been engaged in the search of her whom a mother had missed. their lamentable cries, as they approached the city, forewarned the parents of some dreadful catastrophe. --to describe their grief would be impossible; but when they ascertained the cause of their child's death, they looked at aubrey, and pointed to the corse. they were inconsolable; both died broken-hearted. aubrey being put to bed was seized with a most violent fever, and was often delirious; in these intervals he would call upon lord ruthven and upon ianthe--by some unaccountable combination he seemed to beg of his former companion to spare the being he loved. at other times he would imprecate maledictions upon his head, and curse him as her destroyer. lord ruthven, chanced at this time to arrive at athens, and, from whatever motive, upon hearing of the state of aubrey, immediately placed himself in the same house, and became his constant attendant. when the latter recovered from his delirium, he was horrified and startled at the sight of him whose image he had now combined with that of a vampyre; but lord ruthven, by his kind words, implying almost repentance for the fault that had caused their separation, and still more by the attention, anxiety, and care which he showed, soon reconciled him to his presence. his lordship seemed quite changed; he no longer appeared that apathetic being who had so astonished aubrey; but as soon as his convalescence began to be rapid, he again gradually retired into the same state of mind, and aubrey perceived no difference from the former man, except that at times he was surprised to meet his gaze fixed intently upon him, with a smile of malicious exultation playing upon his lips: he knew not why, but this smile haunted him. during the last stage of the invalid's recovery, lord ruthven was apparently engaged in watching the tideless waves raised by the cooling breeze, or in marking the progress of those orbs, circling, like our world, the moveless sun;--indeed, he appeared to wish to avoid the eyes of all. aubrey's mind, by this shock, was much weakened, and that elasticity of spirit which had once so distinguished him now seemed to have fled for ever. he was now as much a lover of solitude and silence as lord ruthven; but much as he wished for solitude, his mind could not find it in the neighbourhood of athens; if he sought it amidst the ruins he had formerly frequented, ianthe's form stood by his side--if he sought it in the woods, her light step would appear wandering amidst the underwood, in quest of the modest violet; then suddenly turning round, would show, to his wild imagination, her pale face and wounded throat, with a meek smile upon her lips. he determined to fly scenes, every feature of which created such bitter associations in his mind. he proposed to lord ruthven, to whom he held himself bound by the tender care he had taken of him during his illness, that they should visit those parts of greece neither had yet seen. they travelled in every direction, and sought every spot to which a recollection could be attached: but though they thus hastened from place to place, yet they seemed not to heed what they gazed upon. they heard much of robbers, but they gradually began to slight these reports, which they imagined were only the invention of individuals, whose interest it was to excite the generosity of those whom they defended from pretended dangers. in consequence of thus neglecting the advice of the inhabitants, on one occasion they travelled with only a few guards, more to serve as guides than as a defence. upon entering, however, a narrow defile, at the bottom of which was the bed of a torrent, with large masses of rock brought down from the neighbouring precipices, they had reason to repent their negligence; for scarcely were the whole of the party engaged in the narrow pass, when they were startled by the whistling of bullets close to their heads, and by the echoed report of several guns. in an instant their guards had left them, and, placing themselves behind rocks, had begun to fire in the direction whence the report came. lord ruthven and aubrey, imitating their example, retired for a moment behind the sheltering turn of the defile: but ashamed of being thus detained by a foe, who with insulting shouts bade them advance, and being exposed to unresisting slaughter, if any of the robbers should climb above and take them in the rear, they determined at once to rush forward in search of the enemy. hardly had they lost the shelter of the rock, when lord ruthven received a shot in the shoulder, which brought him to the ground. aubrey hastened to his assistance; and, no longer heeding the contest or his own peril, was soon surprised by seeing the robbers' faces around him--his guards having, upon lord ruthven's being wounded, immediately thrown up their arms and surrendered. by promises of great reward, aubrey soon induced them to convey his wounded friend to a neighbouring cabin; and having agreed upon a ransom, he was no more disturbed by their presence--they being content merely to guard the entrance till their comrade should return with the promised sum, for which he had an order. lord ruthven's strength rapidly decreased; in two days mortification ensued, and death seemed advancing with hasty steps. his conduct and appearance had not changed; he seemed as unconscious of pain as he had been of the objects about him: but towards the close of the last evening, his mind became apparently uneasy, and his eye often fixed upon aubrey, who was induced to offer his assistance with more than usual earnestness--"assist me! you may save me--you may do more than that--i mean not my life, i heed the death of my existence as little as that of the passing day; but you may save my honour, your friend's honour."--"how? tell me how? i would do any thing," replied aubrey.--"i need but little--my life ebbs apace--i cannot explain the whole--but if you would conceal all you know of me, my honour were free from stain in the world's mouth--and if my death were unknown for some time in england--i--i--but life."--"it shall not be known."--"swear!" cried the dying man, raising himself with exultant violence, "swear by all your soul reveres, by all your nature fears, swear that, for a year and a day you will not impart your knowledge of my crimes or death to any living being in any way, whatever may happen, or whatever you may see. "--his eyes seemed bursting from their sockets: "i swear!" said aubrey; he sunk laughing upon his pillow, and breathed no more. aubrey retired to rest, but did not sleep; the many circumstances attending his acquaintance with this man rose upon his mind, and he knew not why; when he remembered his oath a cold shivering came over him, as if from the presentiment of something horrible awaiting him. rising early in the morning, he was about to enter the hovel in which he had left the corpse, when a robber met him, and informed him that it was no longer there, having been conveyed by himself and comrades, upon his retiring, to the pinnacle of a neighbouring mount, according to a promise they had given his lordship, that it should be exposed to the first cold ray of the moon that rose after his death. aubrey astonished, and taking several of the men, determined to go and bury it upon the spot where it lay. but, when he had mounted to the summit he found no trace of either the corpse or the clothes, though the robbers swore they pointed out the identical rock on which they had laid the body. for a time his mind was bewildered in conjectures, but he at last returned, convinced that they had buried the corpse for the sake of the clothes. weary of a country in which he had met with such terrible misfortunes, and in which all apparently conspired to heighten that superstitious melancholy that had seized upon his mind, he resolved to leave it, and soon arrived at smyrna. while waiting for a vessel to convey him to otranto, or to naples, he occupied himself in arranging those effects he had with him belonging to lord ruthven. amongst other things there was a case containing several weapons of offence, more or less adapted to ensure the death of the victim. there were several daggers and ataghans. whilst turning them over, and examining their curious forms, what was his surprise at finding a sheath apparently ornamented in the same style as the dagger discovered in the fatal hut--he shuddered--hastening to gain further proof, he found the weapon, and his horror may be imagined when he discovered that it fitted, though peculiarly shaped, the sheath he held in his hand. his eyes seemed to need no further certainty--they seemed gazing to be bound to the dagger; yet still he wished to disbelieve; but the particular form, the same varying tints upon the haft and sheath were alike in splendour on both, and left no room for doubt; there were also drops of blood on each. he left smyrna, and on his way home, at rome, his first inquiries were concerning the lady he had attempted to snatch from lord ruthven's seductive arts. her parents were in distress, their fortune ruined, and she had not been heard of since the departure of his lordship. aubrey's mind became almost broken under so many repeated horrors; he was afraid that this lady had fallen a victim to the destroyer of ianthe. he became morose and silent; and his only occupation consisted in urging the speed of the postilions, as if he were going to save the life of some one he held dear. he arrived at calais; a breeze, which seemed obedient to his will, soon wafted him to the english shores; and he hastened to the mansion of his fathers, and there, for a moment, appeared to lose, in the embraces and caresses of his sister, all memory of the past. if she before, by her infantine caresses, had gained his affection, now that the woman began to appear, she was still more attaching as a companion. miss aubrey had not that winning grace which gains the gaze and applause of the drawing-room assemblies. there was none of that light brilliancy which only exists in the heated atmosphere of a crowded apartment. her blue eye was never lit up by the levity of the mind beneath. there was a melancholy charm about it which did not seem to arise from misfortune, but from some feeling within, that appeared to indicate a soul conscious of a brighter realm. her step was not that light footing, which strays where'er a butterfly or a colour may attract--it was sedate and pensive. when alone, her face was never brightened by the smile of joy; but when her brother breathed to her his affection, and would in her presence forget those griefs she knew destroyed his rest, who would have exchanged her smile for that of the voluptuary? it seemed as if those eyes,--that face were then playing in the light of their own native sphere. she was yet only eighteen, and had not been presented to the world, it having been thought by her guardians more fit that her presentation should be delayed until her brother's return from the continent, when he might be her protector. it was now, therefore, resolved that the next drawing-room, which was fast approaching, should be the epoch of her entry into the "busy scene." aubrey would rather have remained in the mansion of his fathers, and fed upon the melancholy which overpowered him. he could not feel interest about the frivolities of fashionable strangers, when his mind had been so torn by the events he had witnessed; but he determined to sacrifice his own comfort to the protection of his sister. they soon arrived in town, and prepared for the next day, which had been announced as a drawing-room. the crowd was excessive--a drawing-room had not been held for a long time, and all who were anxious to bask in the smile of royalty, hastened thither. aubrey was there with his sister. while he was standing in a corner by himself, heedless of all around him, engaged in the remembrance that the first time he had seen lord ruthven was in that very place--he felt himself suddenly seized by the arm, and a voice he recognized too well, sounded in his ear--"remember your oath." he had hardly courage to turn, fearful of seeing a spectre that would blast him, when he perceived, at a little distance, the same figure which had attracted his notice on this spot upon his first entry into society. he gazed till his limbs almost refusing to bear their weight, he was obliged to take the arm of a friend, and forcing a passage through the crowd, he threw himself into his carriage, and was driven home. he paced the room with hurried steps, and fixed his hands upon his head, as if he were afraid his thoughts were bursting from his brain. lord ruthven again before him--circumstances started up in dreadful array--the dagger--his oath.--he roused himself, he could not believe it possible--the dead rise again!--he thought his imagination had conjured up the image his mind was resting upon. it was impossible that it could be real--he determined, therefore, to go again into society; for though he attempted to ask concerning lord ruthven, the name hung upon his lips, and he could not succeed in gaining information. he went a few nights after with his sister to the assembly of a near relation. leaving her under the protection of a matron, he retired into a recess, and there gave himself up to his own devouring thoughts. perceiving, at last, that many were leaving, he roused himself, and entering another room, found his sister surrounded by several, apparently in earnest conversation; he attempted to pass and get near her, when one, whom he requested to move, turned round, and revealed to him those features he most abhorred. he sprang forward, seized his sister's arm, and, with hurried step, forced her towards the street: at the door he found himself impeded by the crowd of servants who were waiting for their lords; and while he was engaged in passing them, he again heard that voice whisper close to him--"remember your oath!"--he did not dare to turn, but, hurrying his sister, soon reached home. aubrey became almost distracted. if before his mind had been absorbed by one subject, how much more completely was it engrossed, now that the certainty of the monster's living again pressed upon his thoughts. his sister's attentions were now unheeded, and it was in vain that she intreated him to explain to her what had caused his abrupt conduct. he only uttered a few words, and those terrified her. the more he thought, the more he was bewildered. his oath startled him;--was he then to allow this monster to roam, bearing ruin upon his breath, amidst all he held dear, and not avert its progress? his very sister might have been touched by him. but even if he were to break his oath, and disclose his suspicions, who would believe him? he thought of employing his own hand to free the world from such a wretch; but death, he remembered, had been already mocked. for days he remained in this state; shut up in his room, he saw no one, and ate only when his sister came, who, with eyes streaming with tears, besought him, for her sake, to support nature. at last, no longer capable of bearing stillness and solitude, he left his house, roamed from street to street, anxious to fly that image which haunted him. his dress became neglected, and he wandered, as often exposed to the noon-day sun as to the midnight damps. he was no longer to be recognized; at first he returned with the evening to the house; but at last he laid him down to rest wherever fatigue overtook him. his sister, anxious for his safety, employed people to follow him; but they were soon distanced by him who fled from a pursuer swifter than any--from thought. his conduct, however, suddenly changed. struck with the idea that he left by his absence the whole of his friends, with a fiend amongst them, of whose presence they were unconscious, he determined to enter again into society, and watch him closely, anxious to forewarn, in spite of his oath, all whom lord ruthven approached with intimacy. but when he entered into a room, his haggard and suspicious looks were so striking, his inward shudderings so visible, that his sister was at last obliged to beg of him to abstain from seeking, for her sake, a society which affected him so strongly. when, however, remonstrance proved unavailing, the guardians thought proper to interpose, and, fearing that his mind was becoming alienated, they thought it high time to resume again that trust which had been before imposed upon them by aubrey's parents. desirous of saving him from the injuries and sufferings he had daily encountered in his wanderings, and of preventing him from exposing to the general eye those marks of what they considered folly, they engaged a physician to reside in the house, and take constant care of him. he hardly appeared to notice it, so completely was his mind absorbed by one terrible subject. his incoherence became at last so great, that he was confined to his chamber. there he would often lie for days, incapable of being roused. he had become emaciated, his eyes had attained a glassy lustre;--the only sign of affection and recollection remaining displayed itself upon the entry of his sister; then he would sometimes start, and, seizing her hands, with looks that severely afflicted her, he would desire her not to touch him. "oh, do not touch him--if your love for me is aught, do not go near him!" when, however, she inquired to whom he referred, his only answer was, "true! true!" and again he sank into a state, whence not even she could rouse him. this lasted many months: gradually, however, as the year was passing, his incoherences became less frequent, and his mind threw off a portion of its gloom, whilst his guardians observed, that several times in the day he would count upon his fingers a definite number, and then smile. the time had nearly elapsed, when, upon the last day of the year, one of his guardians entering his room, began to converse with his physician upon the melancholy circumstance of aubrey's being in so awful a situation, when his sister was going next day to be married. instantly aubrey's attention was attracted; he asked anxiously to whom. glad of this mark of returning intellect, of which they feared he had been deprived, they mentioned the name of the earl of marsden. thinking this was a young earl whom he had met with in society, aubrey seemed pleased, and astonished them still more by his expressing his intention to be present at the nuptials, and desiring to see his sister. they answered not, but in a few minutes his sister was with him. he was apparently again capable of being affected by the influence of her lovely smile; for he pressed her to his breast, and kissed her cheek, wet with tears, flowing at the thought of her brother's being once more alive to the feelings of affection. he began to speak with all his wonted warmth, and to congratulate her upon her marriage with a person so distinguished for rank and every accomplishment; when he suddenly perceived a locket upon her breast; opening it, what was his surprise at beholding the features of the monster who had so long influenced his life. he seized the portrait in a paroxysm of rage, and trampled it under foot. upon her asking him why he thus destroyed the resemblance of her future husband, he looked as if he did not understand her--then seizing her hands, and gazing on her with a frantic expression of countenance, he bade her swear that she would never wed this monster, for he--- but he could not advance--it seemed as if that voice again bade him remember his oath--he turned suddenly round, thinking lord ruthven was near him but saw no one. in the meantime the guardians and physician, who had heard the whole, and thought this was but a return of his disorder, entered, and forcing him from miss aubrey, desired her to leave him. he fell upon his knees to them, he implored, he begged of them to delay but for one day. they, attributing this to the insanity they imagined had taken possession of his mind, endeavoured to pacify him, and retired. lord ruthven had called the morning after the drawing-room, and had been refused with every one else. when he heard of aubrey's ill health, he readily understood himself to be the cause of it; but when he learned that he was deemed insane, his exultation and pleasure could hardly be concealed from those among whom he had gained this information. he hastened to the house of his former companion, and, by constant attendance, and the pretence of great affection for the brother and interest in his fate, he gradually won the ear of miss aubrey. who could resist his power? his tongue had dangers and toils to recount--could speak of himself as of an individual having no sympathy with any being on the crowded earth, save with her to whom he addressed himself;--could tell how, since he knew her, his existence, had begun to seem worthy of preservation, if it were merely that he might listen to her soothing accents;--in fine, he knew so well how to use the serpent's art, or such was the will of fate, that he gained her affections. the title of the elder branch falling at length to him, he obtained an important embassy, which served as an excuse for hastening the marriage, (in spite of her brother's deranged state,) which was to take place the very day before his departure for the continent. aubrey, when he was left by the physician and his guardians, attempted to bribe the servants, but in vain. he asked for pen and paper; it was given him; he wrote a letter to his sister, conjuring her, as she valued her own happiness, her own honour, and the honour of those now in the grave, who once held her in their arms as their hope and the hope of their house, to delay but for a few hours that marriage, on which he denounced the most heavy curses. the servants promised they would deliver it; but giving it to the physician, he thought it better not to harass any more the mind of miss aubrey by, what he considered, the ravings of a maniac. night passed on without rest to the busy inmates of the house; and aubrey heard, with a horror that may more easily be conceived than described, the notes of busy preparation. morning came, and the sound of carriages broke upon his ear. aubrey grew almost frantic. the curiosity of the servants at last overcame their vigilance, they gradually stole away, leaving him in the custody of an helpless old woman. he seized the opportunity, with one bound was out of the room, and in a moment found himself in the apartment where all were nearly assembled. lord ruthven was the first to perceive him: he immediately approached, and, taking his arm by force, hurried him from the room, speechless with rage. when on the staircase, lord ruthven whispered in his ear--"remember your oath, and know, if not my bride to day, your sister is dishonoured. women are frail!" so saying, he pushed him towards his attendants, who, roused by the old woman, had come in search of him. aubrey could no longer support himself; his rage not finding vent, had broken a blood-vessel, and he was conveyed to bed. this was not mentioned to his sister, who was not present when he entered, as the physician was afraid of agitating her. the marriage was solemnized, and the bride and bridegroom left london. aubrey's weakness increased; the effusion of blood produced symptoms of the near approach of death. he desired his sister's guardians might be called, and when the midnight hour had struck, he related composedly what the reader has perused--he died immediately after. the guardians hastened to protect miss aubrey; but when they arrived, it was too late. lord ruthven had disappeared, and aubrey's sister had glutted the thirst of a vampyre! ________________________________________________________________ extract of a letter, containing an account of lord byron's residence in the island of mitylene. ________________________________________________________________ account of lord byron's residence, &c. ______________ "the world was all before him, where to choose his place of rest, and providence his guide." in sailing through the grecian archipelago, on board one of his majesty's vessels, in the year 1812, we put into the harbour of mitylene, in the island of that name. the beauty of this place, and the certain supply of cattle and vegetables always to be had there, induce many british vessels to visit it--both men of war and merchantmen; and though it lies rather out of the track for ships bound to smyrna, its bounties amply repay for the deviation of a voyage. we landed; as usual, at the bottom of the bay, and whilst the men were employed in watering, and the purser bargaining for cattle with the natives, the clergyman and myself took a ramble to the cave called homer's school, and other places, where we had been before. on the brow of mount ida (a small monticule so named) we met with and engaged a young greek as our guide, who told us he had come from scio with an english lord, who left the island four days previous to our arrival in his felucca. "he engaged me as a pilot," said the greek, "and would have taken me with him; but i did not choose to quit mitylene, where i am likely to get married. he was an odd, but a very good man. the cottage over the hill, facing the river, belongs to him, and he has left an old man in charge of it: he gave dominick, the wine-trader, six hundred zechines for it, (about l250 english currency,) and has resided there about fourteen months, though not constantly; for he sails in his felucca very often to the different islands." this account excited our curiosity very much, and we lost no time in hastening to the house where our countryman had resided. we were kindly received by an old man, who conducted us over the mansion. it consisted of four apartments on the ground-floor--an entrance hall, a drawing-room, a sitting parlour, and a bed-room, with a spacious closet annexed. they were all simply decorated: plain green-stained walls, marble tables on either side, a large myrtle in the centre, and a small fountain beneath, which could be made to play through the branches by moving a spring fixed in the side of a small bronze venus in a leaning posture; a large couch or sofa completed the furniture. in the hall stood half a dozen english cane chairs, and an empty book-case: there were no mirrors, nor a single painting. the bedchamber had merely a large mattress spread on the floor, with two stuffed cotton quilts and a pillow--the common bed throughout greece. in the sitting-room we observed a marble recess, formerly, the old man told us, filled with books and papers, which were then in a large seaman's chest in the closet: it was open, but we did not think ourselves justified in examining the contents. on the tablet of the recess lay voltaire's, shakspeare's, boileau's, and rousseau's works complete; volney's ruins of empires; zimmerman, in the german language; klopstock's messiah; kotzebue's novels; schiller's play of the robbers; milton's paradise lost, an italian edition, printed at parma in 1810; several small pamphlets from the greek press at constantinople, much torn, but no english book of any description. most of these books were filled with marginal notes, written with a pencil, in italian and latin. the messiah was literally scribbled all over, and marked with slips of paper, on which also were remarks. the old man said: "the lord had been reading these books the evening before he sailed, and forgot to place them with the others; but," said he, "there they must lie until his return; for he is so particular, that were i to move one thing without orders, he would frown upon me for a week together; he is otherways very good. i once did him a service; and i have the produce of this farm for the trouble of taking care of it, except twenty zechines which i pay to an aged armenian who resides in a small cottage in the wood, and whom the lord brought here from adrianople; i don't know for what reason." the appearance of the house externally was pleasing. the portico in front was fifty paces long and fourteen broad, and the fluted marble pillars with black plinths and fret-work cornices, (as it is now customary in grecian architecture,) were considerably higher than the roof. the roof, surrounded by a light stone balustrade, was covered by a fine turkey carpet, beneath an awning of strong coarse linen. most of the house-tops are thus furnished, as upon them the greeks pass their evenings in smoking, drinking light wines, such as "lachryma christi," eating fruit, and enjoying the evening breeze. on the left hand as we entered the house, a small streamlet glided away, grapes, oranges and limes were clustering together on its borders, and under the shade of two large myrtle bushes, a marble seat with an ornamental wooden back was placed, on which we were told, the lord passed many of his evenings and nights till twelve o'clock, reading, writing, and talking to himself. "i suppose," said the old man, "praying" for he was very devout, "and always attended our church twice a week, besides sundays." the view from this seat was what may be termed "a bird's-eye view." a line of rich vineyards led the eye to mount calcla, covered with olive and myrtle trees in bloom, and on the summit of which an ancient greek temple appeared in majestic decay. a small stream issuing from the ruins descended in broken cascades, until it was lost in the woods near the mountain's base. the sea smooth as glass, and an horizon unshadowed by a single cloud, terminates the view in front; and a little on the left, through a vista of lofty chesnut and palm-trees, several small islands were distinctly observed, studding the light blue wave with spots of emerald green. i seldom enjoyed a view more than i did this; but our enquiries were fruitless as to the name of the person who had resided in this romantic solitude: none knew his name but dominick, his banker, who had gone to candia. "the armenian," said our conductor, "could tell, but i am sure he will not,"--"and cannot you tell, old friend?" said i--"if i can," said he, "i dare not." we had not time to visit the armenian, but on our return to the town we learnt several particulars of the isolated lord. he had portioned eight young girls when he was last upon the island, and even danced with them at the nuptial feast. he gave a cow to one man, horses to others, and cotton and silk to the girls who live by weaving these articles. he also bought a new boat for a fisherman who had lost his own in a gale, and he often gave greek testaments to the poor children. in short, he appeared to us, from all we collected, to have been a very eccentric and benevolent character. one circumstance we learnt, which our old friend at the cottage thought proper not to disclose. he had a most beautiful daughter, with whom the lord was often seen walking on the sea-shore, and he had bought her a piano-forte, and taught her himself the use of it. such was the information with which we departed from the peaceful isle of mitylene; our imaginations all on the rack, guessing who this rambler in greece could be. he had money it was evident: he had philanthropy of disposition, and all those eccentricities which mark peculiar genius. arrived at palermo, all our doubts were dispelled. falling in company with mr. foster, the architect, a pupil of wyatt's, who had been travelling in egypt and greece, "the individual," said he, "about whom you are so anxious, is lord byron; i met him in my travels on the island of tenedos, and i also visited him at mitylene." we had never then heard of his lordship's fame, as we had been some years from home; but "childe harolde" being put into our hands we recognized the recluse of calcla in every page. deeply did we regret not having been more curious in our researches at the cottage, but we consoled ourselves with the idea of returning to mitylene on some future day; but to me that day will never return. i make this statement, believing it not quite uninteresting, and in justice to his lordship's good name, which has been grossly slandered. he has been described as of an unfeeling disposition, averse to associating with human nature, or contributing in any way to sooth its sorrows, or add to its pleasures. the fact is directly the reverse, as may be plainly gathered from these little anecdotes. all the finer feelings of the heart, so elegantly depicted in his lordship's poems, seem to have their seat in his bosom. tenderness, sympathy, and charity appear to guide all his actions: and his courting the repose of solitude is an additional reason for marking him as a being on whose heart religion hath set her seal, and over whose head benevolence hath thrown her mantle. no man can read the preceding pleasing "traits" without feeling proud of him as a countryman. with respect to his loves or pleasures, i do not assume a right to give an opinion. reports are ever to be received with caution, particularly when directed against man's moral integrity; and he who dares justify himself before that awful tribunal where all must appear, alone may censure the errors of a fellow-mortal. lord byron's character is worthy of his genius. to do good in secret, and shun the world's applause, is the surest testimony of a virtuous heart and self-approving conscience. the end ____________________ gillet, printer, crown-court, fleet-street. the house of the vampire by george sylvester viereck author of nineveh and other poems new york moffat, yard & company 1912 copyright, 1907, by moffat, yard & company new york published september, 1907 reprinted october, 1907 the premier press new york _to my mother_ the house of the vampire i the freakish little leader of the orchestra, newly imported from sicily to new york, tossed his conductor's wand excitedly through the air, drowning with musical thunders the hum of conversation and the clatter of plates. yet neither his apish demeanour nor the deafening noises that responded to every movement of his agile body detracted attention from the figure of reginald clarke and the young man at his side as they smilingly wound their way to the exit. the boy's expression was pleasant, with an inkling of wistfulness, while the soft glimmer of his lucid eyes betrayed the poet and the dreamer. the smile of reginald clarke was the smile of a conqueror. a suspicion of silver in his crown of dark hair only added dignity to his bearing, while the infinitely ramified lines above the heavy-set mouth spoke at once of subtlety and of strength. without stretch of the imagination one might have likened him to a roman cardinal of the days of the borgias, who had miraculously stepped forth from the time-stained canvas and slipped into twentieth century evening-clothes. with the affability of complete self-possession he nodded in response to greetings from all sides, inclining his head with special politeness to a young woman whose sea-blue eyes were riveted upon his features with a look of mingled hate and admiration. the woman, disregarding his silent salutation, continued to stare at him wild-eyed, as a damned soul in purgatory might look at satan passing in regal splendour through the seventy times sevenfold circles of hell. reginald clarke walked on unconcernedly through the rows of gay diners, still smiling, affable, calm. but his companion bethought himself of certain rumours he had heard concerning ethel brandenbourg's mad love for the man from whose features she could not even now turn her eyes. evidently her passion was unreciprocated. it had not always been so. there was a time in her career, some years ago in paris, when it was whispered that she had secretly married him and, not much later, obtained a divorce. the matter was never cleared up, as both preserved an uncompromising silence upon the subject of their matrimonial experience. certain it was that, for a space, the genius of reginald clarke had completely dominated her brush, and that, ever since he had thrown her aside, her pictures were but plagiarisms of her former artistic self. the cause of the rupture between them was a matter only of surmise; but the effect it had on the woman testified clearly to the remarkable power of reginald clarke. he had entered her life and, behold! the world was transfixed on her canvases in myriad hues of transcending radiance; he had passed from it, and with him vanished the brilliancy of her colouring, as at sunset the borrowed amber and gold fade from the face of the clouds. the glamour of clarke's name may have partly explained the secret of his charm, but, even in circles where literary fame is no passport, he could, if he chose, exercise an almost terrible fascination. subtle and profound, he had ransacked the coffers of mediæval dialecticians and plundered the arsenals of the sophists. many years later, when the vultures of misfortune had swooped down upon him, and his name was no longer mentioned without a sneer, he was still remembered in new york drawing-rooms as the man who had brought to perfection the art of talking. even to dine with him was a liberal education. clarke's marvellous conversational power was equalled only by his marvellous style. ernest fielding's heart leaped in him at the thought that henceforth he would be privileged to live under one roof with the only writer of his generation who could lend to the english language the rich strength and rugged music of the elizabethans. reginald clarke was a master of many instruments. milton's mighty organ was no less obedient to his touch than the little lute of the troubadour. he was never the same; that was his strength. clarke's style possessed at once the chiselled chasteness of a greek marble column and the elaborate deviltry of the late renaissance. at times his winged words seemed to flutter down the page frantically like baroque angels; at other times nothing could have more adequately described his manner than the timeless calm of the gaunt pyramids. the two men had reached the street. reginald wrapped his long spring coat round him. "i shall expect you to-morrow at four," he said. the tone of his voice was deep and melodious, suggesting hidden depths and cadences. "i shall be punctual." the younger man's voice trembled as he spoke. "i look forward to your coming with much pleasure. i am interested in you." the glad blood mounted to ernest's cheeks at praise from the austere lips of this arbiter of literary elegance. an almost imperceptible smile crept over the other man's features. "i am proud that my work interests you," was all the boy could say. "i think it is quite amazing, but at present," here clarke drew out a watch set with jewels, "i am afraid i must bid you good-bye." he held ernest's hand for a moment in a firm genial grasp, then turned away briskly, while the boy remained standing open-mouthed. the crowd jostling against him carried him almost off his feet, but his eyes followed far into the night the masterful figure of reginald clarke, toward whom he felt himself drawn with every fiber of his body and the warm enthusiasm of his generous youth. ii with elastic step, inhaling the night-air with voluptuous delight, reginald clarke made his way down broadway, lying stretched out before him, bathed in light and pulsating with life. his world-embracing intellect was powerfully attracted by the giant city's motley activities. on the street, as in the salon, his magnetic power compelled recognition, and he stepped through the midst of the crowd as a circassian blade cleaves water. after walking a block or two, he suddenly halted before a jeweller's shop. arrayed in the window were priceless gems that shone in the glare of electricity, like mystical serpent-eyes--green, pomegranate and water-blue. and as he stood there the dazzling radiance before him was transformed in the prism of his mind into something great and very wonderful that might, some day, be a poem. then his attention was diverted by a small group of tiny girls dancing on the sidewalk to the husky strains of an old hurdy-gurdy. he joined the circle of amused spectators, to watch those pink-ribboned bits of femininity swaying airily to and fro in unison with the tune. one especially attracted his notice--a slim olive-coloured girl from a land where it is always spring. her whole being translated into music, with hair dishevelled and feet hardly touching the ground, the girl suggested an orange-leaf dancing on a sunbeam. the rasping street-organ, perchance, brought to her melodious reminiscences of some flute-playing savoyard boy, brown-limbed and dark of hair. for several minutes reginald clarke followed with keen delight each delicate curve her graceful limbs described. then--was it that she grew tired, or that the stranger's persistent scrutiny embarrassed her?--the music oozed out of her movements. they grew slower, angular, almost clumsy. the look of interest in clarke's eyes died, but his whole form quivered, as if the rhythm of the music and the dance had mysteriously entered into his blood. he continued his stroll, seemingly without aim; in reality he followed, with nervous intensity, the multiform undulations of the populace, swarming through broadway in either direction. like the giant whose strength was rekindled every time he touched his mother, the earth, reginald clarke seemed to draw fresh vitality from every contact with life. he turned east along fourteenth street, where cheap vaudevilles are strung together as glass-pearls on the throat of a wanton. gaudy bill-boards, drenched in clamorous red, proclaimed the tawdry attractions within. much to the surprise of the doorkeeper at a particularly evil-looking music hall, reginald clarke lingered in the lobby, and finally even bought a ticket that entitled him to enter this sordid wilderness of décolleté art. street-snipes, a few workingmen, dilapidated sportsmen, and women whose ruined youth thick layers of powder and paint, even in this artificial light, could not restore, constituted the bulk of the audience. reginald clarke, apparently unconscious of the curiosity, surprise and envy that his appearance excited, seated himself at a table near the stage, ordering from the solicitous waiter only a cocktail and a programme. the drink he left untouched, while his eyes greedily ran down the lines of the announcement. when he had found what he sought, he lit a cigar, paying no attention to the boards, but studying the audience with cursory interest until the appearance of betsy, the hyacinth girl. when she began to sing, his mind still wandered. the words of her song were crude, but not without a certain lilt that delighted the uncultured ear, while the girl's voice was thin to the point of being unpleasant. when, however, she came to the burden of the song, clarke's manner changed suddenly. laying down his cigar, he listened with rapt attention, eagerly gazing at her. for, as she sang the last line and tore the hyacinth-blossoms from her hair, there crept into her voice a strangely poignant, pathetic little thrill, that redeemed the execrable faultiness of her singing, and brought the rude audience under her spell. clarke, too, was captivated by that tremour, the infinite sadness of which suggested the plaint of souls moaning low at night, when lust preys on creatures marked for its spoil. the singer paused. still those luminous eyes were upon her. she grew nervous. it was only with tremendous difficulty that she reached the refrain. as she sang the opening lines of the last stanza, an inscrutable smile curled on clarke's lips. she noticed the man's relentless gaze and faltered. when the burden came, her singing was hard and cracked: the tremour had gone from her voice. iii long before the appointed time ernest walked up and down in front of the abode of reginald clarke, a stately apartment-house overlooking riverside drive. misshapen automobiles were chasing by, carrying to the cool river's marge the restlessness and the fever of american life. but the bustle and the noise seemed to the boy only auspicious omens of the future. jack, his room-mate and dearest friend, had left him a month ago, and, for a space, he had felt very lonely. his young and delicate soul found it difficult to grapple with the vague fears that his nervous brain engendered, when whispered sounds seemed to float from hidden corners, and the stairs creaked under mysterious feet. he needed the voice of loving kindness to call him back from the valley of haunting shadows, where his poet's soul was wont to linger overlong; in his hours of weakness the light caress of a comrade renewed his strength and rekindled in his hand the flaming sword of song. and at nightfall he would bring the day's harvest to clarke, as a worshipper scattering precious stones, incense and tapestries at the feet of a god. surely he would be very happy. and as the heart, at times, leads the feet to the goal of its desire, while multicoloured dreams, like dancing-girls, lull the will to sleep, he suddenly found himself stepping from the elevator-car to reginald clarke's apartment. already was he raising his hand to strike the electric bell when a sound from within made him pause half-way. "no, there's no help!" he heard clarke say. his voice had a hard, metallic clangour. a boyish voice answered plaintively. what the words were ernest could not distinctly hear, but the suppressed sob in them almost brought the tears to his eyes. he instinctively knew that this was the finale of some tragedy. he withdrew hastily, so as not to be a witness of an interview that was not meant for his ears. reginald clarke probably had good reason for parting with his young friend, whom ernest surmised to be abel felton, a talented boy, whom the master had taken under his wings. in the apartment a momentary silence had ensued. this was interrupted by clarke: "it will come again, in a month, in a year, in two years." "no, no! it is all gone!" sobbed the boy. "nonsense. you are merely nervous. but that is just why we must part. there is no room in one house for two nervous people." "i was not such a nervous wreck before i met you." "am i to blame for it--for your morbid fancies, your extravagance, the slow tread of a nervous disease, perhaps?" "who can tell? but i am all confused. i don't know what i am saying. everything is so puzzling--life, friendship, you. i fancied you cared for my career, and now you end our friendship without a thought!" "we must all follow the law of our being." "the laws are within us and in our control." "they are within us and beyond us. it is the physiological structure of our brains, our nerve-cells, that makes and mars our lives. "our mental companionship was so beautiful. it was meant to last." "that is the dream of youth. nothing lasts. everything flows--panta rei. we are all but sojourners in an inn. friendship, as love, is an illusion. life has nothing to take from a man who has no illusions." "it has nothing to give him." they said good-bye. at the door ernest met abel. "where are you going?" he asked. "for a little pleasure trip." ernest knew that the boy lied. he remembered that abel felton was at work upon some book, a play or a novel. it occurred to him to inquire how far he had progressed with it. abel smiled sadly. "i am not writing it." "not writing it?" "reginald is." "i am afraid i don't understand." "never mind. some day you will." iv "i am so happy you came," reginald clarke said, as he conducted ernest into his studio. it was a large, luxuriously furnished room overlooking the hudson and riverside drive. dazzled and bewildered, the boy's eyes wandered from object to object, from picture to statue. despite seemingly incongruous details, the whole arrangement possessed style and distinction. a satyr on the mantelpiece whispered obscene secrets into the ears of saint cecilia. the argent limbs of antinous brushed against the garments of mona lisa. and from a corner a little rococo lady peered coquettishly at the gray image of an egyptian sphinx. there was a picture of napoleon facing the image of the crucified. above all, in the semi-darkness, artificially produced by heavy draperies, towered two busts. "shakespeare and balzac!" ernest exclaimed with some surprise. "yes," explained reginald, "they are my gods." his gods! surely there was a key to clarke's character. our gods are ourselves raised to the highest power. clarke and shakespeare! even to ernest's admiring mind it seemed almost blasphemous to name a contemporary, however esteemed, in one breath with the mighty master of song, whose great gaunt shadow, thrown against the background of the years has assumed immense, unproportionate, monstrous dimensions. yet something might be said for the comparison. clarke undoubtedly was universally broad, and undoubtedly concealed, with no less exquisite taste than the elizabethan, his own personality under the splendid raiment of his art. they certainly were affinities. it would not have been surprising to him to see the clear calm head of shakespeare rise from behind his host. perhaps--who knows?--the very presence of the bust in his room had, to some extent, subtly and secretly moulded reginald clarke's life. a man's soul, like the chameleon, takes colour from its environment. even comparative trifles, the number of the house in which we live, or the colour of the wallpaper of a room, may determine a destiny. the boy's eyes were again surveying the fantastic surroundings in which he found himself; while, from a corner, clarke's eyes were watching his every movement, as if to follow his thoughts into the innermost labyrinth of the mind. it seemed to ernest, under the spell of this passing fancy, as though each vase, each picture, each curio in the room, was reflected in clarke's work. in a long-queued, porcelain chinese mandarin he distinctly recognised a quaint quatrain in one of clarke's most marvellous poems. and he could have sworn that the grin of the hindu monkey-god on the writing-table reappeared in the weird rhythm of two stanzas whose grotesque cadence had haunted him for years. at last clarke broke the silence. "you like my studio?" he asked. the simple question brought ernest back to reality. "like it? why, it's stunning. it set up in me the queerest train of thought." "i, too, have been in a whimsical mood to-night. fancy, unlike genius, is an infectious disease." "what is the peculiar form it assumed in your case?" "i have been wondering whether all the things that environ us day by day are, in a measure, fashioning our thought-life. i sometimes think that even my little mandarin and this monkey-idol which, by the way, i brought from india, are exerting a mysterious but none the less real influence upon my work." "great god!" ernest replied, "i have had the identical thought!" "how very strange!" clarke exclaimed, with seeming surprise. "it is said tritely but truly, that great minds travel the same roads," ernest observed, inwardly pleased. "no," the older man subtly remarked, "but they reach the same conclusion by a different route." "and you attach serious importance to our fancy?" "why not?" clarke was gazing abstractedly at the bust of balzac. "a man's genius is commensurate with his ability of absorbing from life the elements essential to his artistic completion. balzac possessed this power in a remarkable degree. but, strange to say, it was evil that attracted him most. he absorbed it as a sponge absorbs water; perhaps because there was so little of it in his own make-up. he must have purified the atmosphere around him for miles, by bringing all the evil that was floating in the air or slumbering in men's souls to the point of his pen. "and he"--his eyes were resting on shakespeare's features as a man might look upon the face of a brother--"he, too, was such a nature. in fact, he was the most perfect type of the artist. nothing escaped his mind. from life and from books he drew his material, each time reshaping it with a master-hand. creation is a divine prerogative. re-creation, infinitely more wonderful than mere calling into existence, is the prerogative of the poet. shakespeare took his colours from many palettes. that is why he is so great, and why his work is incredibly greater than he. it alone explains his unique achievement. who was he? what education did he have, what opportunities? none. and yet we find in his work the wisdom of bacon, sir walter raleigh's fancies and discoveries, marlowe's verbal thunders and the mysterious loveliness of mr. w.h." ernest listened, entranced by the sound of clarke's mellifluous voice. he was, indeed, a master of the spoken word, and possessed a miraculous power of giving to the wildest fancies an air of vraisemblance. v "yes," said walkham, the sculptor, "it's a most curious thing." "what is?" asked ernest, who had been dreaming over the sphinx that was looking at him from its corner with the sarcastic smile of five thousand years. "how our dreams of yesterday stare at us like strangers to-day." "on the contrary," remarked reginald, "it would be strange if they were still to know us. in fact, it would be unnatural. the skies above us and the earth underfoot are in perpetual motion. each atom of our physical nature is vibrating with unimaginable rapidity. change is identical with life." "it sometimes seems," said the sculptor, "as if thoughts evaporated like water." "why not, under favorable conditions?" "but where do they go? surely they cannot perish utterly?" "yes, that is the question. or, rather, it is not a question. nothing is ever lost in the spiritual universe." "but what," inquired ernest, "is the particular reason for your reflection?" "it is this," the sculptor replied; "i had a striking motive and lost it." "do you remember," he continued, speaking to reginald, "the narcissus i was working on the last time when you called at my studio?" "yes; it was a striking thing and impressed me very much, though i cannot recall it at the moment." "well, it was a commission. an eccentric young millionaire had offered me eight thousand dollars for it. i had an absolutely original conception. but i cannot execute it. it's as if a breeze had carried it away." "that is very regrettable." "well, i should say so," replied the sculptor. ernest smiled. for everybody knew of walkham's domestic troubles. having twice figured in the divorce court, he was at present defraying the expenses of three households. the sculptor had meanwhile seated himself at reginald's writing-table, unintentionally scanning a typewritten page that was lying before him. like all artists, something of a madman and something of a child, he at first glanced over its contents distractedly, then with an interest so intense that he was no longer aware of the impropriety of his action. "by jove!" he cried. "what is this?" "it's an epic of the french revolution," reginald replied, not without surprise. "but, man, do you know that i have discovered my motive in it?" "what do you mean?" asked ernest, looking first at reginald and then at walkham, whose sanity he began to doubt. "listen!" and the sculptor read, trembling with emotion, a long passage whose measured cadence delighted ernest's ear, without, however, enlightening his mind as to the purport of walkham's cryptic remark. reginald said nothing, but the gleam in his eye showed that this time, at least, his interest was alert. walkham saw the hopelessness of making clear his meaning without an explanation. "i forget you haven't a sculptor's mind. i am so constituted that, with me, all impressions are immediately translated into the sense of form. i do not hear music; i see it rise with domes and spires, with painted windows and arabesques. the scent of the rose is to me tangible. i can almost feel it with my hand. so your prose suggested to me, by its rhythmic flow, something which, at first indefinite, crystallised finally into my lost conception of narcissus." "it is extraordinary," murmured reginald. "i had not dreamed of it." "so you do not think it rather fantastic?" remarked ernest, circumscribing his true meaning. "no, it is quite possible. perhaps his narcissus was engaging the sub-conscious strata of my mind while i was writing this passage. and surely it would be strange if the undercurrents of our mind were not reflected in our style." "do you mean, then, that a subtle psychologist ought to be able to read beneath and between our lines, not only what we express, but also what we leave unexpressed?" "undoubtedly." "even if, while we are writing, we are unconscious of our state of mind? that would open a new field to psychology." "only to those that have the key, that can read the hidden symbols. it is to me a matter-of-course that every mind-movement below or above the threshold of consciousness must, of a necessity, leave its imprint faintly or clearly, as the case may be, upon our activities." "this may explain why books that seem intolerably dull to the majority, delight the hearts of the few," ernest interjected. "yes, to the few that possess the key. i distinctly remember how an uncle of mine once laid down a discussion on higher mathematics and blushed fearfully when his innocent wife looked over his shoulder. the man who had written it was a roué." "then the seemingly most harmless books may secretly possess the power of scattering in young minds the seed of corruption," walkham remarked. "if they happen to understand," clarke observed thoughtfully. "i can very well conceive of a lecherous text-book of the calculus, or of a reporter's story of a picnic in which burnt, under the surface, undiscoverable, save to the initiate, the tragic passion of tristram and iseult." vi several weeks had elapsed since the conversation in reginald clarke's studio. the spring was now well advanced and had sprinkled the meadows with flowers, and the bookshelves of the reviewers with fiction. the latter ernest turned to good account, but from the flowers no poem blossomed forth. in writing about other men's books, he almost forgot that the springtide had brought to him no bouquet of song. only now and then, like a rippling of water, disquietude troubled his soul. the strange personality of the master of the house had enveloped the lad's thoughts with an impenetrable maze. the day before jack had come on a flying visit from harvard, but even he was unable to free ernest's soul from the obsession of reginald clarke. ernest was lazily stretching himself on a couch, waving the smoke of his cigarette to reginald, who was writing at his desk. "your friend jack is delightful," reginald remarked, looking up from his papers. "and his ebon-coloured hair contrasts prettily with the gold in yours. i should imagine that you are temperamental antipodes." "so we are; but friendship bridges the chasm between." "how long have you known him?" "we have been chums ever since our sophomore year." "what attracted you in him?" "it is no simple matter to define exactly one's likes and dislikes. even a tiny protoplasmic animal appears to be highly complex under the microscope. how can we hope to analyse, with any degree of certitude, our souls, especially when, under the influence of feeling, we see as through a glass darkly." "it is true that personal feeling colours our spectacles and distorts the perspective. still, we should not shrink from self-analysis. we must learn to see clearly into our own hearts if we would give vitality to our work. indiscretion is the better part of literature, and it behooves us to hound down each delicate elusive shadow of emotion, and convert it into copy." "it is because i am so self-analytical that i realise the complexity of my nature, and am at a loss to define my emotions. conflicting forces sway us hither and thither without neutralising each other. physicology isn't physics. there were many things to attract me to jack. he was subtler, more sympathetic, more feminine, perhaps, than the rest of my college-mates." "that i have noticed. in fact, his lashes are those of a girl. you still care for him very much?" "it isn't a matter of caring. we are two beings that live one life." "a sort of psychic siamese twins?" "almost. why, the matter is very simple. our hearts root in the same soil; the same books have nourished us, the same great winds have shaken our being, and the same sunshine called forth the beautiful blossom of friendship." "he struck me, if you will pardon my saying so, as a rather commonplace companion." "there is in him a hidden sweetness, and a depth of feeling which only intimate contact reveals. he is now taking his post-graduate course at harvard, and for well-nigh two months we have not met; yet so many invisible threads of common experience unite us that we could meet after years and still be near each other." "you are very young," reginald replied. "what do you mean?" "ah--never mind." "so you do not believe that two hearts may ever beat as one?" "no, that is an auditory delusion. not even two clocks beat in unison. there is always a discrepancy, infinitesimal, perhaps, but a discrepancy nevertheless." a sharp ring of the bell interrupted the conversation. a moment later a curly head peeped through the door. "hello, ernest! how are you, old man?" the intruder cried, with a laugh in his voice. then, noticing clarke, he shook hands with the great man unceremoniously, with the nonchalance of the healthy young animal bred in the atmosphere of an american college. his touch seemed to thrill clarke, who breathed heavily and then stepped to the window, as if to conceal the flush of vitality on his cheek. it was a breath of springtide that jack had brought with him. youth is a prince charming. to shrivelled veins the pressure of his hand imparts a spark of animation, and middle age unfolds its petals in his presence, as a sunflower gazing at late noon once more upon its lord. "i have come to take ernest away from you," said jack. "he looks a trifle paler than usual, and a day's outing will stir the red corpuscles in his blood." "i have no doubt that you will take very good care of him," reginald replied. "where shall we go?" ernest asked, absent-mindedly. but he did not hear the answer, for reginald's scepticisms had more deeply impressed him than he cared to confess to himself. vii the two boys had bathed their souls in the sea-breeze, and their eyes in light. the tide of pleasure-loving humanity jostling against them had carried their feet to the "lion palace." from there, seated at table and quenching their thirst with high-balls, they watched the feverish palpitations of the city's life-blood pulsating in the veins of coney island, to which they had drifted from brighton beach. ernest blew thoughtful rings of smoke into the air. "do you notice the ferocious look in the mien of the average frequenter of this island resort?" he said to jack, whose eyes, following the impulse of his more robust youth, were examining specimens of feminine flotsam on the waves of the crowd. "it is," he continued, speaking to himself for want of an audience, "the american who is in for having a 'good time.' and he is going to get it. like a huntsman, he follows the scent of happiness; but i warrant that always it eludes him. perhaps his mad race is only the epitome of humanity's vain pursuit of pleasure, the eternal cry that is never answered." but jack was not listening. there are times in the life of every man when a petticoat is more attractive to him than all the philosophy of the world. ernest was a little hurt, and it was not without some silent remonstrance that he acquiesced when jack invited to their table two creatures that once were women. "why?" "but they are interesting." "i cannot find so." they both had seen better times--of course. then money losses came, with work in shop or factory, and the voice of the tempter in the commercial wilderness. one, a frail nervous little creature, who had instinctively chosen a seat at ernest's side, kept prattling in his ear, ready to tell the story of her life to any one who was willing to treat her to a drink. something in her demeanour interested him. "and then i had a stroke of luck. the manager of a vaudeville was my friend and decided to give me a trial. he thought i had a voice. they called me betsy, the hyacinth girl. at first it seemed as if people liked to hear me. but i suppose that was because i was new. after a month or two they discharged me." "and why?" "i suppose i was just used up, that's all." "frightful!" "i never had much of a voice--and the tobacco smoke--and the wine--i love wine." she gulped down her glass. "and do you like your present occupation?" "why not? am i not young? am i not pretty?" this she said not parrotwise, but with a simple coquettishness that was all her own. on the way to the steamer a few moments later, ernest asked, half-reproachfully: "jack--and you really enjoyed this conversation?" "didn't you?" "do you mean this?" "why, yes; she was--very agreeable." ernest frowned. "we're twenty, ernest. and then, you see, it's like a course in sociology. susie--" "susie, was that her name?" "yes." "so she had a name?" "of course." "she shouldn't. it should be a number." "they may not be pillars of society; still, they're human." "yes," said ernest, "that is the most horrible part of it." viii the moon was shining brightly. swift and sure the prow of the night-boat parted the silvery foam. the smell of young flesh. peals of laughter. a breathless pianola. the tripping of dancing-feet. voices husked with drink and voices soft with love. the shrill accents of vulgarity. hustling waiters. shop-girls. bourgeois couples. tired families of four and upward. sleeping children. a boy selling candy. the crying of babies. the two friends were sitting on the upper deck, muffled in their long rain-coats. in the distance the empire city rose radiant from the mist. "say, ernest, you should spout some poetry as of old. are your lips stricken mute, or are you still thinking of coney island?" "oh, no, the swift wind has taken it away. i am clean, i am pure. life has passed me. it has kissed me, but it has left no trace." he looked upon the face of his friend. their hands met. they felt, with keen enjoyment, the beauty of the night, of their friendship, and of the city beyond. then ernest's lips moved softly, musically, twitching with a strange ascetic passion that trembled in his voice as he began: _"huge steel-ribbed monsters rise into the air her babylonian towers, while on high, like gilt-scaled serpents, glide the swift trains by, or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair. a thousand lights are jewels in her hair, the sea her girdle, and her crown the sky; her life-blood throbs, the fevered pulses fly. immense, defiant, breathless she stands there. "and ever listens in the ceaseless din, waiting for him, her lover, who shall come, whose singing lips shall boldly claim their own, and render sonant what in her was dumb, the splendour, and the madness, and the sin, her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone."_ he paused. the boat glided on. for a long time neither spoke a word. after a while jack broke the silence: "and are you dreaming of becoming the lyric mouth of the city, of giving utterance to all its yearnings, its 'dreams in iron and its thoughts of stone'?" "no," replied ernest, simply, "not yet. it is strange to what impressions the brain will respond. in clarke's house, in the midst of inspiring things, inspiration failed me. but while i was with that girl an idea came to me--an idea, big, real." "will it deal with her?" ernest smiled: "oh, no. she personally has nothing to do with it. at least not directly. it was the commotion of blood and--brain. the air--the change. i don't know what." "what will it be?" asked jack, with interest all alert. "a play, a wonderful play. and its heroine will be a princess, a little princess, with a yellow veil." "what of the plot?" "that i shall not tell you to-day. in fact, i shall not breathe a word to any one. it will take you all by surprise--and the public by storm." "so it will be playable?" "if i am not very much mistaken, you will see it on broadway within a year. and," he added graciously, "i will let you have two box-seats for the first night." they both chuckled at the thought, and their hearts leaped within them. "i hope you will finish it soon," jack observed after a while. "you haven't done much of late." "a similar reflection was on my mind when you came yesterday. that accounts for the low spirits in which you found me." "ah, indeed," jack replied, measuring ernest with a look of wonder. "but now your face is aglow. it seems that the blood rushes to your head swifter at the call of an idea than at the kiss of a girl." "thank god!" ernest remarked with a sigh of relief. "mighty forces within me are fashioning the limpid thought. passion may grip us by the throat momentarily; upon our backs we may feel the lashes of desire and bathe our souls in flames of many hues; but the joy of activity is the ultimate passion." ix it seemed, indeed, as if work was to ernest what the sting of pleasure is to the average human animal. the inter-play of his mental forces gave him the sensuous satisfaction of a woman's embrace. his eyes sparkled. his muscle tightened. the joy of creation was upon him. often very material reasons, like stone weights tied to the wings of a bird, stayed the flight of his imagination. magazines were waiting for his copy, and he was not in the position to let them wait. they supplied his bread and butter. between the bread and butter, however, the play was growing scene by scene. in the lone hours of the night he spun upon the loom of his fancy a brilliant weft of swift desire--heavy, perfumed, oriental--interwoven with bits of gruesome tenderness. the thread of his own life intertwined with the thread of the story. all genuine art is autobiography. it is not, however, necessarily a revelation of the artist's actual self, but of a myriad of potential selves. ah, our own potential selves! they are sometimes beautiful, often horrible, and always fascinating. they loom to heavens none too high for our reach; they stray to yawning hells beneath our very feet. the man who encompasses heaven and hell is a perfect man. but there are many heavens and more hells. the artist snatches fire from both. surely the assassin feels no more intensely the lust of murder than the poet who depicts it in glowing words. the things he writes are as real to him as the things that he lives. but in his realm the poet is supreme. his hands may be red with blood or white with leprosy: he still remains king. woe to him, however, if he transcends the limits of his kingdom and translates into action the secret of his dreams. the throng that before applauded him will stone his quivering body or nail to the cross his delicate hands and feet. sometimes days passed before ernest could concentrate his mind upon his play. then the fever seized him again, and he strung pearl on pearl, line on line, without entrusting a word to paper. even to discuss his work before it had received the final brush-strokes would have seemed indecent to him. reginald, too, seemed to be in a turmoil of work. ernest had little chance to speak to him. and to drop even a hint of his plans between the courses at breakfast would have been desecration. sunset followed sunset, night followed night. the stripling april had made room for the lady may. the play was almost completed in ernest's mind, and he thought, with a little shudder, of the physical travail of the actual writing. he felt that the transcript from brain to paper would demand all his powers. for, of late, his thoughts seemed strangely evanescent; they seemed to run away from him whenever he attempted to seize them. the day was glad with sunshine, and he decided to take a long walk in the solitude of the palisades, to steady hand and nerve for the final task. he told reginald of his intention, but met with little response. reginald's face was wan and bore the peculiar pallor of one who had worked late at night. "you must be frightfully busy?" ernest asked, with genuine concern. "so i am," reginald replied. "i always work in a white heat. i am restless, nervous, feverish, and can find no peace until i have given utterance to all that clamours after birth." "what is it that is so engaging your mind, the epic of the french revolution?" "oh, no. i should never have undertaken that. i haven't done a stroke of work on it for several weeks. in fact, ever since walkham called, i simply couldn't. it seemed as if a rough hand had in some way destroyed the web of my thought. poetry in the writing is like red hot glass before the master-blower has fashioned it into birds and trees and strange fantastic shapes. a draught, caused by the opening of a door may distort it. but at present i am engaged upon more important work. i am modelling a vessel not of fine-spun glass, but of molten gold." "you make me exceedingly anxious to know what you have in store for us. it seems to me you have reached a point where even you can no longer surpass yourself." reginald smiled. "your praise is too generous, yet it warms like sunshine. i will confess that my conception is unique. it combines with the ripeness of my technique the freshness of a second spring." ernest was bubbling with anticipated delights. his soul responded to reginald's touch as a harp to the winds. "when," he cried, "shall we be privileged to see it?" reginald's eyes were already straying back to his writing table. "if the gods are propitious," he remarked, "i shall complete it to-night. to-morrow is my reception, and i have half promised to read it then." "perhaps i shall be in the position soon to let you see my play." "let us hope so," reginald replied absent-mindedly. the egotism of the artist had once more chained him to his work. x that night a brilliant crowd had gathered in reginald clarke's house. from the studio and the adjoining salon arose a continual murmur of well-tuned voices. on bare white throats jewels shone as if in each a soul were imprisoned, and voluptuously rustled the silk that clung to the fair slim forms of its bearers in an undulating caress. subtle perfumes emanated from the hair and the hands of syren women, commingling with the soft plump scent of their flesh. fragrant tapers, burning in precious crystal globules stained with exquisite colours, sprinkled their shimmering light over the fashionable assemblage and lent a false radiance to the faces of the men, while in the hair and the jewels of the women each ray seemed to dance like an imp with its mate. a seat like a throne, covered with furs of tropic beasts of prey, stood in one corner of the room in the full glare of the light, waiting for the monarch to come. above were arranged with artistic _raffinement_ weird oriental draperies, resembling a crimson canopy in the total effect. chattering visitors were standing in groups, or had seated themselves on the divans and curiously-fashioned chairs that were scattered in seeming disorder throughout the salon. there were critics and writers and men of the world. everybody who was anybody and a little bigger than somebody else was holding court in his own small circle of enthusiastic admirers. the bohemian element was subdued, but not entirely lacking. the magic of reginald clarke's name made stately dames blind to the presence of some individuals whom they would have passed on the street without recognition. ernest surveyed this gorgeous assembly with the absent look of a sleep-walker. not that his sensuous soul was unsusceptible to the atmosphere of culture and corruption that permeated the whole, nor to the dazzling colour effects that tantalised while they delighted the eye. but to-night they shrivelled into insignificance before the splendour of his inner vision. a radiant dreamland palace, his play, had risen from the night of inchoate thought. it was wonderful, it was real, and needed for its completion only the detail of actual construction. and now the characters were hovering in the recesses of his brain, were yearning to leave that many-winded labyrinth to become real beings of paper and ink. he would probably have tarried overlong in this fanciful mansion, had not the reappearance of an unexpected guest broken his reverie. "jack!" he exclaimed in surprise, "i thought you a hundred miles away from here." "that shows that you no longer care for me," jack playfully answered. "when our friendship was young, you always had a presentiment of my presence." "ah, perhaps i had. but tell me, where do you hail from?" "clarke called me up on the telephone--long-distance, you know. i suppose it was meant as a surprise for you. and you certainly looked surprised--not even pleasantly. i am really head-over-heels at work. but you know how it is. sometimes a little imp whispers into my ears daring me to do a thing which i know is foolish. but what of it? my legs are strong enough not to permit my follies to overtake me." "it was certainly good of you to come. in fact, you make me very glad. i feel that i need you to-night--i don't know why. the feeling came suddenly--suddenly as you. i only know i need you. how long can you stay?" "i must leave you to-morrow morning. i have to hustle somewhat. you know my examinations are taking place in a day or two and i've got to cram up a lot of things." "still," remarked ernest, "your visit will repay you for the loss of time. clarke will read to us to-night his masterpiece." "what is it?" "i don't know. i only know it's the real thing. it's worth all the wisdom bald-headed professors may administer to you in concentrated doses at five thousand a year." "come now," jack could not help saying, "is your memory giving way? don't you remember your own days in college--especially the mathematical examinations? you know that your marks came always pretty near the absolute zero." "jack," cried ernest in honest indignation, "not the last time. the last time i didn't flunk." "no, because your sonnet on cartesian geometry roused even the math-fiend to compassion. and don't you remember professor squeeler, whose heart seemed to leap with delight whenever he could tell you that, in spite of incessant toil on your part, he had again flunked you in physics with fifty-nine and a half per cent.?" "and he wouldn't raise the mark to sixty! god forgive him,--i cannot." here their exchange of reminiscences was interrupted. there was a stir. the little potentates of conversation hastened to their seats, before their minions had wholly deserted them. the king was moving to his throne! assuredly reginald clarke had the bearing of a king. leisurely he took his seat under the canopy. a hush fell on the audience; not a fan stirred as he slowly unfolded his manuscript. xi the music of reginald clarke's intonation captivated every ear. voluptuously, in measured cadence, it rose and fell; now full and strong like the sound of an organ, now soft and clear like the tinkling of bells. his voice detracted by its very tunefulness from what he said. the powerful spell charmed even ernest's accustomed ear. the first page gracefully glided from reginald's hand to the carpet before the boy dimly realised that he was intimately familiar with every word that fell from reginald's lips. when the second page slipped with seeming carelessness from the reader's hand, a sudden shudder ran through the boy's frame. it was as if an icy hand had gripped his heart. there could be no doubt of it. this was more than mere coincidence. it was plagiarism. he wanted to cry out. but the room swam before his eyes. surely he must be dreaming. it was a dream. the faces of the audience, the lights, reginald, jack--all phantasmagoria of a dream. perhaps he had been ill for a long time. perhaps clarke was reading the play for him. he did not remember having written it. but he probably had fallen sick after its completion. what strange pranks our memories will play us! but no! he was not dreaming, and he had not been ill. he could endure the horrible uncertainty no longer. his overstrung nerves must find relaxation in some way or break with a twang. he turned to his friend who was listening with rapt attention. "jack, jack!" he whispered. "what is it?" "that is my play!" "you mean that you inspired it?" "no, i have written it, or rather, was going to write it." "wake up, ernest! you are mad!" "no, in all seriousness. it is mine. i told you--don't you remember--when we returned from coney island--that i was writing a play." "ah, but not this play." "yes, this play. i conceived it, i practically wrote it." "the more's the pity that clarke had preconceived it." "but it is mine!" "did you tell him a word about it?" "no, to be sure." "did you leave the manuscript in your room?" "i had, in fact, not written a line of it. no, i had not begun the actual writing." "why should a man of clarke's reputation plagiarise your plays, written or unwritten?" "i can see no reason. but--" "tut, tut." for already this whispered conversation had elicited a look like a stab from a lady before them. ernest held fast to the edge of a chair. he must cling to some reality, or else drift rudderless in a dim sea of vague apprehensions. or was jack right? was his mind giving way? no! no! no! there must be a monstrous secret somewhere, but what matter? did anything matter? he had called on his mate like a ship lost in the fog. for the first time he had not responded. he had not understood. the bitterness of tears rose to the boy's eyes. above it all, melodiously, ebbed and flowed the rich accents of reginald clarke. ernest listened to the words of his own play coming from the older man's mouth. the horrible fascination of the scene held him entranced. he saw the creations of his mind pass in review before him, as a man might look upon the face of his double grinning at him from behind a door in the hideous hours of night. they were all there! the mad king. the subtle-witted courtiers. the sombre-hearted prince. the queen-mother who had loved a jester better than her royal mate, and the fruit of their shameful alliance, the princess marigold, a creature woven of sunshine and sin. swiftly the action progressed. shadows of impending death darkened the house of the king. in the horrible agony of the rack the old jester confessed. stripped of his cap and bells, crowned with a wreath of blood, he looked so pathetically funny that the princess marigold could not help laughing between her tears. the queen stood there all trembling and pale. without a complaint she saw her lover die. the executioner's sword smote the old man's head straight from the trunk. it rolled at the feet of the king, who tossed it to marigold. the little princess kissed it and covered the grinning horror with her yellow veil. the last words died away. there was no applause. only silence. all were stricken with the dread that men feel in the house of god or his awful presence in genius. but the boy lay back in his chair. the cold sweat had gathered on his brow and his temples throbbed. nature had mercifully clogged his head with blood. the rush of it drowned the crying voice of the nerves, deadening for a while both consciousness and pain. xii somehow the night had passed--somehow in bitterness, in anguish. but it had passed. ernest's lips were parched and sleeplessness had left its trace in the black rings under the eyes, when the next morning he confronted reginald in the studio. reginald was sitting at the writing-table in his most characteristic pose, supporting his head with his hand and looking with clear piercing eyes searchingly at the boy. "yes," he observed, "it's a most curious psychical phenomenon." "you cannot imagine how real it all seemed to me." the boy spoke painfully, dazed, as if struck by a blow. "even now it is as if something has gone from me, some struggling thought that i cannot--cannot remember." reginald regarded him as a physical experimenter might look upon the subject of a particularly baffling mental disease. "you must not think, my boy, that i bear you any malice for your extraordinary delusion. before jack went away he gave me an exact account of all that has happened. divers incidents recurred to him from which it appears that, at various times in the past, you have been on the verge of a nervous collapse." a nervous collapse! what was the use of this term but a euphemism for insanity? "do not despair, dear child," reginald caressingly remarked. "your disorder is not hopeless, not incurable. such crises come to every man who writes. it is the tribute we pay to the lords of song. the minnesinger of the past wrote with his heart's blood; but we moderns dip our pen into the sap of our nerves. we analyse life, love art--and the dissecting knife that we use on other men's souls finally turns against ourselves. "but what shall a man do? shall he sacrifice art to hygiene and surrender the one attribute that makes him chiefest of created things? animals, too, think. some walk on two legs. but introspection differentiates man from the rest. shall we yield up the sweet consciousness of self that we derive from the analysis of our emotion, for the contentment of the bull that ruminates in the shade of a tree or the healthful stupidity of a mule?" "assuredly not." "but what shall a man do?" "ah, that i cannot tell. mathematics offers definite problems that admit of a definite solution. life states its problems with less exactness and offers for each a different solution. one and one are two to-day and to-morrow. psychical values, on each manipulation, will yield a different result. still, your case is quite clear. you have overworked yourself in the past, mentally and emotionally. you have sown unrest, and must not be surprised if neurasthenia is the harvest thereof." "do you think--that i should go to some sanitarium?" the boy falteringly asked. "god forbid! go to the seashore, somewhere where you can sleep and play. take your body along, but leave your brain behind--at least do not take more of it with you than is necessary. the summer season in atlantic city has just begun. there, as everywhere in american society, you will be much more welcome if you come without brains." reginald's half-bantering tone reassured ernest a little. timidly he dared approach once more the strange event that had wrought such havoc with his nervous equilibrium. "how do you account for my strange obsession--one might almost call it a mania?" "if it could be accounted for it would not be strange." "can you suggest no possible explanation?" "perhaps a stray leaf on my desk a few indications of the plot, a remark--who knows? perhaps thought-matter is floating in the air. perhaps--but we had better not talk of it now. it would needlessly excite you." "you are right," answered ernest gloomily, "let us not talk of it. but whatever may be said, it is a marvellous play." "you flatter me. there is nothing in it that you may not be able to do equally well--some day." "ah, no," the boy replied, looking up to reginald with admiration. "you are the master." xiii lazily ernest stretched his limbs on the beach of atlantic city. the sea, that purger of sick souls, had washed away the fever and the fret of the last few days. the wind was in his hair and the spray was in his breath, while the rays of the sun kissed his bare arms and legs. he rolled over in the glittering sand in the sheer joy of living. now and then a wavelet stole far into the beach, as if to caress him, but pined away ere it could reach its goal. it was as if the enamoured sea was stretching out its arms to him. who knows, perhaps through the clear water some green-eyed nymph, or a young sea-god with the tang of the sea in his hair, was peering amorously at the boy's red mouth. the people of the deep love the red warm blood of human kind. it is always the young that they lure to their watery haunts, never the shrivelled limbs that totter shivering to the grave. such fancies came to ernest as he lay on the shore in his bathing attire, happy, thoughtless,--animal. the sun and the sea seemed to him two lovers vying for his favor. the sudden change of environment had brought complete relaxation and had quieted his rebellious, assertive soul. he was no longer a solitary unit but one with wind and water, herb and beach and shell. almost voluptuously his hand toyed with the hot sand that glided caressingly through his fingers and buried his breast and shoulder under its glittering burden. a summer girl who passed lowered her eyes coquettishly. he watched her without stirring. even to open his mouth or to smile would have seemed too much exertion. thus he lay for hours. when at length noon drew nigh, it cost him a great effort of will to shake off his drowsy mood and exchange his airy costume for the conventional habilaments of the dining-room. he had taken lodgings in a fashionable hotel. an unusual stroke of good luck, hack-work that paid outrageously well, had made it possible for him to idle for a time without a thought of the unpleasant necessity of making money. one single article to which he signed his name only with reluctance had brought to him more gear than a series of golden sonnets. "surely," he thought, "the social revolution ought to begin from above. what right has the bricklayer to grumble when he receives for a week's work almost more than i for a song?" thus soliloquising, he reached the dining-room. the scene that unfolded itself before him was typical--the table over-loaded, the women over-dressed. the luncheon was already in full course when he came. he mumbled an apology and seated himself on the only remaining chair next to a youth who reminded him of a well-dressed dummy. with slight weariness his eyes wandered in all directions for more congenial faces when they were arrested by a lady on the opposite side of the table. she was clad in a silk robe with curiously embroidered net-work that revealed a nervous and delicate throat. the rich effect of the net-work was relieved by the studied simplicity with which her heavy chestnut-colored hair was gathered in a single knot. her face was turned away from him, but there was something in the carriage of her head that struck him as familiar. when at last she looked him in the face, the glass almost fell from his hand: it was ethel brandenbourg. she seemed to notice his embarrassment and smiled. when she opened her lips to speak, he knew by the haunting sweetness of the voice that he was not mistaken. "tell me," she said wistfully, "you have forgotten me? they all have." he hastened to assure her that he had not forgotten her. he recollected now that he had first been introduced to her in walkham's house some years ago, when a mere college boy, he had been privileged to attend one of that master's famous receptions. she had looked quite resolute and very happy then, not at all like the woman who had stared so strangely at reginald in the broadway restaurant. he regarded this encounter as very fortunate. he knew so much of her personal history that it almost seemed to him as if they had been intimate for years. she, too, felt on familiar ground with him. neither as much as whispered the name of reginald clarke. yet it was he, and the knowledge of what he was to them, that linked their souls with a common bond. xiv it was the third day after their meeting. hour by hour their intimacy had increased. ethel was sitting in a large wicker-chair. she restlessly fingered her parasol, mechanically describing magic circles in the sand. ernest lay at her feet. with his knees clasped between his hands, he gazed into her eyes. "why are you trying so hard to make love to me?" the woman asked, with the half-amused smile with which the eve near thirty receives the homage of a boy. there is an element of insincerity in that smile, but it is a weapon of defence against love's artillery. sometimes, indeed, the pleading in the boy's eyes and the cry of the blood pierces the woman's smiling superiority. she listens, loves and loses. ethel brandenbourg was listening, but the idea of love had not yet entered into her mind. her interest in ernest was due in part to his youth and the trembling in his voice when he spoke of love. but what probably attracted her most powerfully was the fact that he intimately knew the man who still held her woman's heart in the hollow of his hand. it was half in play, therefore, that she had asked him that question. why did he make love to her? he did not know. perhaps it was the irresistible desire to be petted which young poets share with domesticated cats. but what should he tell her? polite platitudes were out of place between them. besides he knew the penalty of all tender entanglements. women treat love as if it were an extremely tenuous wire that can be drawn out indefinitely. this is a very expensive process. it costs us the most precious, the only irretrievable thing in the universe--time. and to him time was song; for money he did not care. the lord had hallowed his lips with rhythmic speech; only in the intervals of his singing might he listen to the voice of his heart--strangest of all watches, that tells the time not by minutes and hours, but by the coming and going of love. the woman beside him seemed to read his thoughts. "child, child," she said, "why will you toy with love? like jehovah, he is a jealous god, and nothing but the whole heart can placate him. woe to the woman who takes a poet for a lover. i admit it is fascinating, but it is playing _va banque_. in fact, it is fatal. art or love will come to harm. no man can minister equally to both. a genuine poet is incapable of loving a woman." "pshaw! you exaggerate. of course, there is a measure of truth in what you say, but it is only one side of the truth, and the truth, you know, is always janus-faced. in fact, it often has more than two faces. i can assure you that i have cared deeply for the women to whom my love-poetry was written. and you will not deny that it is genuine." "god forbid! only you have been using the wrong preposition. you should have said that it was written at them." ernest stared at her in child-like wonder. "by jove! you are too devilishly clever!" he exclaimed. after a little silence he said not without hesitation: "and do you apply your theory to all artists, or only to us makers of rhyme?" "to all," she replied. he looked at her questioningly. "yes," she said, with a new sadness in her voice, "i, too, have paid the price." "you mean?" "i loved." "and art?" "that was the sacrifice." "perhaps you have chosen the better part," ernest said without conviction. "no," she replied, "my tribute was brought in vain." this she said calmly, but ernest knew that her words were of tragic import. "you love him still?" he observed simply. ethel made no reply. sadness clouded her face like a veil or like a grey mist over the face of the waters. her eyes went out to the sea, following the sombre flight of the sea-mews. in that moment he could have taken her in his arms and kissed her with infinite tenderness. but tenderness between man and woman is like a match in a powder-magazine. the least provocation, and an amorous explosion will ensue, tumbling down the card-houses of platonic affection. if he yielded to the impulse of the moment, the wine of the springtide would set their blood afire, and from the flames within us there is no escape. "come, come," she said, "you do not love me." he protested. "ah!" she cried triumphantly, "how many sonnets would you give for me? if you were a usurer in gold instead of in rhyme, i would ask how many dollars. but it is unjust to pay in a coin that we value little. to a man starving in gold mines, a piece of bread weighs more than all the treasures of the earth. to you, i warrant your poems are the standard of appreciation. how many would you give for me? one, two, three?" "more." "because you think love would repay you with compound interest," she observed merrily. he laughed. and when love turns to laughter the danger is passed for the moment. xv thus three weeks passed without apparent change in their relations. ernest possessed a personal magnetism that, always emanating from him, was felt most deeply when withdrawn. he was at all times involuntarily exerting his power, which she ever resisted, always on the alert, always warding off. when at last pressure of work made his immediate departure for new york imperative, he had not apparently gained the least ground. but ethel knew in her heart that she was fascinated, if not in love. the personal fascination was supplemented by a motherly feeling toward ernest that, sensuous in essence, was in itself not far removed from love. she struggled bravely and with external success against her emotions, never losing sight of the fact that twenty and thirty are fifty. increasingly aware of her own weakness, she constantly attempted to lead the conversation into impersonal channels, speaking preferably of his work. "tell me," she said, negligently fanning herself, "what new inspiration have you drawn from your stay at the seaside?" "why," he exclaimed enthusiastically, "volumes and volumes of it. i shall write the great novel of my life after i am once more quietly installed at riverside drive." "the great american novel?" she rejoined. "perhaps." "who will be your hero--clarke?" there was a slight touch of malice in her words, or rather in the pause between the penultimate word and the last. ernest detected its presence, and knew that her love for reginald was dead. stiff and cold it lay in her heart's chamber--beside how many others?--all emboxed in the coffin of memory. "no," he replied after a while, a little piqued by her suggestion, "clarke is not the hero. what makes you think that he casts a spell on everything i do?" "dear child," she replied, "i know him. he cannot fail to impress his powerful personality upon all with whom he comes in contact, to the injury of their intellectual independence. moreover, he is so brilliant and says everything so much better than anybody else, that by his very splendor he discourages effort in others. at best his influence will shape your development according to the tenets of his mind--curious, subtle and corrupted. you will become mentally distorted, like one of those hunchback japanese trees, infinitely wrinkled and infinitely grotesque, whose laws of growth are not determined by nature, but by the diseased imagination of the east." "i am no weakling," ernest asserted, "and your picture of clarke is altogether out of perspective. his splendid successes are to me a source of constant inspiration. we have some things in common, but i realise that it is along entirely different lines that success will come to me. he has never sought to influence me, in fact, i never received the smallest suggestion from him." here the princess marigold seemed to peer at him through the veil of the past, but he waved her aside. "as for my story," he continued, "you need not go so far out of your way to find the leading character?" "who can it be?" ethel remarked, with a merry twinkle, "you?" "ethel," he said sulkingly, "be serious. you know that it is you." "i am immensely flattered," she replied. "really, nothing pleases me better than to be immortalised in print, since i have little hope nowadays of perpetuating my name by virtue of pencil or brush. i have been put into novels before and am consumed with curiosity to hear the plot of yours." "if you don't mind, i had rather not tell you just yet," ernest said. "it's going to be called leontina--that's you. but all depends on the treatment. you know it doesn't matter much what you say so long as you say it well. that's what counts. at any rate, any indication of the plot at this stage would be decidedly inadequate." "i think you are right," she ventured. "by all means choose your own time to tell me. let's talk of something else. have you written anything since your delightful book of verse last spring? surely now is your singing season. by the time we are thirty the springs of pure lyric passion are usually exhausted." ethel's inquiry somehow startled him. in truth, he could find no satisfactory answer. a remark relative to his play--clarke's play--rose to the threshold of his lips, but he almost bit his tongue as soon as he realised that the strange delusion which had possessed him that night still dominated the undercurrents of his cerebration. no, he had accomplished but little during the last few months--at least, by way of creative literature. so he replied that he had made money. "that is something," he said. "besides, who can turn out a masterpiece every week? an artist's brain is not a machine, and in the respite from creative work i have gathered strength for the future. but," he added, slightly annoyed, "you are not listening." his exclamation brought her back from the train of thoughts that his words had suggested. for in his reasoning she had recognised the same arguments that she had hourly repeated to herself in defence of her inactivity when she was living under the baneful influence of reginald clarke. yes, baneful; for the first time she dared to confess it to herself. in a flash the truth dawned upon her that it was not her love alone, but something else, something irresistable and very mysterious, that had dried up the well of creation in her. could it be that the same power was now exerting its influence upon the struggling soul of this talented boy? rack her brains as she might, she could not definitely formulate her apprehensions and a troubled look came into her eyes. "ethel," the boy repeated, impatiently, "why are you not listening? do you realise that i must leave you in half an hour?" she looked at him with deep tenderness. something like a tear lent a soft radiance to her large child-like eyes. ernest saw it and was profoundly moved. in that moment he loved her passionately. "foolish boy," she said softly; then, lowering her voice to a whisper: "you may kiss me before you go." his lips gently touched hers, but she took his head between her hands and pressed her mouth upon his in a long kiss. ernest drew back a little awkwardly. he had not been kissed like this before. "poet though you are," ethel whispered, "you have not yet learned to kiss." she was deeply agitated when she noticed that his hand was fumbling for the watch in his vest-pocket. she suddenly released him, and said, a little hurt: "no, you must not miss your train. go by all means." vainly ernest remonstrated with her. "go to him," she said, and again, "go to him." with a heavy heart the boy obeyed. he waved his hat to her once more from below, and then rapidly disappeared in the crowd. for a moment strange misgivings cramped her heart, and something within her called out to him: "do not go! do not return to that house." but no sound issued from her lips. worldly wisdom had sealed them, had stifled the inner voice. and soon the boy's golden head was swallowed up in the distance. xvi while the train sped to new york, ethel brandenbourg was the one object engaging ernest's mind. he still felt the pressure of her lips upon his, and his nostrils dilated at the thought of the fragrance of her hair brushing against his forehead. but the moment his foot touched the ferry-boat that was to take him to manhattan, the past three weeks were, for the time being at least, completely obliterated from his memory. all his other interests that he had suppressed in her company because she had no part in them, came rushing back to him. he anticipated with delight his meeting with reginald clarke. the personal attractiveness of the man had never seemed so powerful to ernest as when he had not heard from him for some time. reginald's letters were always brief. "professional writers," he was wont to say, "cannot afford to put fine feeling into their private correspondence. they must turn it into copy." he longed to sit with the master in the studio when the last rays of the daylight were tremulously falling through the stained window, and to discuss far into the darkening night philosophies young and old. he longed for reginald's voice, his little mannerisms, the very perfume of his rooms. there also was a deluge of letters likely to await him in his apartment. for in his hurried departure he had purposely left his friends in the dark as to his whereabouts. only to jack he had dropped a little note the day after his meeting with ethel. he earnestly hoped to find reginald at home, though it was well nigh ten o'clock in the evening, and he cursed the "rapid transit" for its inability to annihilate space and time. it is indeed disconcerting to think how many months, if not years, of our earthly sojourn the dwellers in cities spend in transportation conveyances that must be set down as a dead loss in the ledger of life. a nervous impatience against things material overcame ernest in the subway. it is ever the mere stupid obstacle of matter that weights down the wings of the soul and prevents it from soaring upward to the sun. when at last he had reached the house, he learned from the hall-boy that clarke had gone out. ruffled in temper he entered his rooms and went over his mail. there were letters from editors with commissions that he could not afford to reject. everywhere newspapers and magazines opened their yawning mouths to swallow up what time he had. he realised at once that he would have to postpone the writing of his novel for several weeks, if not longer. among the letters was one from jack. it bore the postmark of a little place in the adirondacks where he was staying with his parents. ernest opened the missive not without hesitation. on reading and rereading it the fine lines on his forehead, that would some day deepen into wrinkles, became quite pronounced and a look of displeasure darkened his face. something was wrong with jack, a slight change that defied analysis. their souls were out of tune. it might only be a passing disturbance; perhaps it was his own fault. it pained him, nevertheless. somehow it seemed of late that jack was no longer able to follow the vagaries of his mind. only one person in the world possessed a similar mental vision, only one seemed to understand what he said and what he left unsaid. reginald clarke, being a man and poet, read in his soul as in an open book. ethel might have understood, had not love, like a cloud, laid itself between her eyes and the page. it was with exultation that ernest heard near midnight the click of reginald's key in the door. he found him unchanged, completely, radiantly himself. reginald possessed the psychic power of undressing the soul, of seeing it before him in primal nakedness. although no word was said of ethel brandenbourg except the mere mention of her presence in atlantic city, ernest intuitively knew that reginald was aware of the transformation that absence had wrought in him. in the presence of this man he could be absolutely himself, without shame or fear of mis-understanding; and by a strange metamorphosis, all his affection for ethel and jack went out for the time being to reginald clarke. xvii the next day ernest wrote a letter of more or less superficial tenderness to ethel. she had wounded his pride by proving victorious in the end over his passion and hers; besides, he was in the throes of work. when after the third day no answer came, he was inclined to feel aggrieved. it was plain now that she had not cared for him in the least, but had simply played with him for lack of another toy. a flush of shame rose to his cheeks at the thought. he began to analyse his own emotions, and stunned, if not stabbed, his passion step by step. work was calling to him. it was that which gave life its meaning, not the love of a season. how far away, how unreal, she now seemed to him. yes, she was right, he had not cared deeply; and his novel, too, would be written only _at_ her. it was the heroine of his story that absorbed his interest, not the living prototype. once in a conversation with reginald he touched upon the subject. reginald held that modern taste no longer permitted even the photographer to portray life as it is, but insisted upon an individual visualisation. "no man," he remarked, "was ever translated bodily into fiction. in contradiction to life, art is a process of artificial selection." bearing in mind this motive, ernest went to work to mould from the material in hand a new ethel, more real than life. unfortunately he found little time to devote to his novel. it was only when, after a good day's work, a pile of copy for a magazine lay on his desk, that he could think of concentrating his mind upon "leontina." the result was that when he went to bed his imagination was busy with the plan of his book, and the creatures of his own brain laid their fingers on his eyelid so that he could not sleep. when at last sheer weariness overcame him, his mind was still at work, not in orderly sequence but along trails monstrous and grotesque. hobgoblins seemed to steal through the hall, and leering incubi oppressed his soul with terrible burdens. in the morning he awoke unrested. the tan vanished from his face and little lines appeared in the corners of his mouth. it was as if his nervous vitality were sapped from him in some unaccountable way. he became excited, hysterical. often at night when he wrote his pot-boilers for the magazines, fear stood behind his seat, and only the buzzing of the elevator outside brought him back to himself. in one of his morbid moods he wrote a sonnet which he showed to reginald after the latter's return from a short trip out of town. reginald read it, looking at the boy with a curious, lurking expression. _o gentle sleep, turn not thy face away, but place thy finger on my brow, and take all burthens from me and all dreams that ache; upon mine eyes a cooling balsam lay, seeing i am aweary of the day. but, lo! thy lips are ashen and they quake. what spectral vision sees thou that can shake thy sweet composure, and thy heart dismay? perhaps some murderer's cruel eye agleam is fixed upon me, or some monstrous dream might bring such fearful guilt upon the head of my unvigilant soul as would arouse the borgian snake from her envenomed bed, or startle nero in his golden house._ "good stuff," reginald remarked, laying down the manuscript; "when did you write it?" "the night when you were out of town," ernest rejoined. "i see," reginald replied. there was something startling in his intonation that at once aroused ernest's attention. "what do you see?" he asked quickly. "nothing," reginald replied, with immovable calm, "only that your state of nerves is still far from satisfactory." xviii after ernest's departure ethel brandenbourg's heart was swaying hither and thither in a hurricane of conflicting feelings. before she had time to gain an emotional equilibrium, his letter had hurled her back into chaos. a false ring somewhere in ernest's words, reechoing with an ever-increasing volume of sound, stifled the voice of love. his jewelled sentences glittered, but left her cold. they lacked that spontaneity which renders even simple and hackeneyed phrases wonderful and unique. ethel clearly realised that her hold upon the boy's imagination had been a fleeting midsummer night's charm, and that a word from reginald's lips had broken the potency of her spell. she almost saw the shadow of reginald's visage hovering over ernest's letter and leering at her from between the lines in sinister triumph. finally reason came and whispered to her that it was extremely unwise to give her heart into the keeping of a boy. his love, she knew, would have been exacting, irritating at times. he would have asked her to sympathise with every phase of his life, and would have expected active interest on her part in much that she had done with long ago. thus, untruth would have stolen into her life and embittered it. when mates are unequal, love must paint its cheeks and, in certain moods at least, hide its face under a mask. its lips may be honeyed, but it brings fret and sorrow in its train. these things she told herself over and over again while she penned a cool and calculating answer to ernest's letter. she rewrote it many times, and every time it became more difficult to reply. at last she put her letter aside for a few days, and when it fell again into her hand it seemed so unnatural and strained that she destroyed it. thus several weeks had passed, and ernest no longer exclusively occupied her mind when, one day early in september, while glancing over a magazine, she came upon his name in the table of contents. once more she saw the boy's wistful face before her, and a trembling something stirred in her heart. her hand shook as she cut the pages, and a mist of tears clouded her vision as she attempted to read his poem. it was a piece of sombre brilliance. like black-draped monks half crazed with mystic devotion, the poet's thoughts flitted across the page. it was the wail of a soul that feels reason slipping from it and beholds madness rise over its life like a great pale moon. a strange unrest emanated from it and took possession of her. and again, with an insight that was prophetic, she distinctly recognised behind the vague fear that had haunted the poet the figure of reginald clarke. a half-forgotten dream, struggling to consciousness, staggered her by its vividness. she saw clarke as she had seen him in days gone by, grotesquely transformed into a slimy sea-thing, whose hungry mouths shut sucking upon her and whose thousand tentacles encircled her form. she closed her eyes in horror at the reminiscence. and in that moment it became clear to her that she must take into her hands the salvation of ernest fielding from the clutches of the malign power that had mysteriously enveloped his life. xix the summer was brief, and already by the middle of september many had returned to the pleasures of urban life. ethel was among the first-comers; for, after her resolve to enter the life of the young poet once more, it would have been impossible for her to stay away from the city much longer. her plan was all ready. before attempting to see ernest she would go to meet reginald and implore him to free the boy from his hideous spell. an element of curiosity unconsciously entered her determination. when, years ago, she and clarke had parted, the man had seemed, for once, greatly disturbed and had promised, in his agitation, that some day he would communicate to her what would exonerate him in her eyes. she had answered that all words between them were purposeless, and that she hoped never to see his face again. the experience that the years had brought to her, instead of elucidating the mystery of reginald's personality, had, on the contrary, made his behaviour appear more and more unaccountable. she had more than once caught herself wishing to meet him again and to analyse dispassionately the puzzling influences he had exerted upon her. and she could at last view him dispassionately; there was triumph in that. she was dimly aware that something had passed from her, something by which he had held her, and without which his magnetism was unable to play upon her. so when walkham sent her an invitation to one of his artistic "at homes" she accepted, in the hope of meeting reginald. it was his frequentation of walkham's house that had for several years effectively barred her foot from crossing the threshold. it was with a very strange feeling she greeted the many familiar faces at walkham's now; and when, toward ten o'clock, reginald entered, politely bowing in answer to the welcome from all sides, her heart beat in her like a drum. but she calmed herself, and, catching his eye, so arranged it that early in the evening they met in an alcove of the drawing-room. "it was inevitable," reginald said. "i expected it." "yes," she replied, "we were bound to meet." like a great rush of water, memory came back to her. he was still horribly fascinating as of old--only she was no longer susceptible to his fascination. he had changed somewhat in those years. the lines about his mouth had grown harder and a steel-like look had come into his eyes. only for a moment, as he looked at her, a flash of tenderness seemed to come back to them. then he said, with a touch of sadness: "why should the first word between us be a lie?" ethel made no answer. reginald looked at her half in wonder and said: "and is your love for the boy so great that it overcame your hate of me?" ah, he knew! she winced. "he has told you?" "not a word." there was something superhuman in his power of penetration. why should she wear a mask before him, when his eyes, like the eyes of god, pierced to the core of her being? "no," she replied, "it is not love, but compassion for him." "compassion?" "yes, compassion for your victim." "you mean?" "reginald!" "i am all ear." "i implore you." "speak." "you have ruined one life." he raised his eyebrows derogatively. "yes," she continued fiercely, "ruined it! is not that enough?" "i have never wilfully ruined any one's life." "you have ruined mine." "wilfully?" "how else shall i explain your conduct?" "i warned you." "warning, indeed! the warning that the snake gives to the sparrow helpless under its gaze." "ah, but who tells you that the snake is to blame? is it not rather the occult power that prescribes with blood on brazen scroll the law of our being?" "this is no solace to the sparrow. but whatever may be said, let us drop the past. let us consider the present. i beg of you, leave this boy--let him develop without your attempting to stifle the life in him or impressing upon it the stamp of your alien mind." "ethel," he protested, "you are unjust. if you knew--" then an idea seemed to take hold of him. he looked at her curiously. "what if i knew?" she asked. "you shall know," he said, simply. "are you strong?" "strong to withstand anything at your hand. there is nothing that you can give me, nothing that you can take away." "no," he remarked, "nothing. yes, you have changed. still, when i look upon you, the ghosts of the past seem to rise like live things." "we both have changed. we meet now upon equal grounds. you are no longer the idol i made of you." "don't you think that to the idol this might be a relief, not a humiliation? it is a terrible torture to sit in state with lips eternally shut. sometimes there comes over the most reticent of us a desire to break through the eternal loneliness that surrounds the soul. it is this feeling that prompts madmen to tear off their clothes and exhibit their nakedness in the market-place. it's madness on my part, or a whim, or i don't know what; but it pleases me that you should know the truth." "you promised me long ago that i should." "to-day i will redeem my promise, and i will tell you another thing that you will find hard to believe." "and that is?" "that i loved you." ethel smiled a little sceptically. "you have loved often." "no," he replied. "loved, seriously loved, i have, only once." xx they were sitting in a little italian restaurant where they had often, in the old days, lingered late into the night over a glass of lacrimæ christi. but no pale ghost of the past rose from the wine. only a wriggling something, with serpent eyes, that sent cold shivers down her spine and held her speechless and entranced. when their order had been filled and the waiter had posted himself at a respectful distance, reginald began--at first leisurely, a man of the world. but as he proceeded a strange exultation seemed to possess him and from his eyes leaped the flame of the mystic. "you must pardon me," he commenced, "if i monopolise the conversation, but the revelations i have to make are of such a nature that i may well claim your attention. i will start with my earliest childhood. you remember the picture of me that was taken when i was five?" she remembered, indeed. each detail of his life was deeply engraven on her mind. "at that time," he continued, "i was not held to be particularly bright. the reason was that my mind, being pre-eminently and extraordinarily receptive, needed a stimulus from without. the moment i was sent to school, however, a curious metamorphosis took place in me. i may say that i became at once the most brilliant boy in my class. you know that to this day i have always been the most striking figure in any circle in which i have ever moved." ethel nodded assent. silently watching the speaker, she saw a gleam of the truth from afar, but still very distant and very dim. reginald lifted the glass against the light and gulped its contents. then in a lower voice he recommenced: "like the chameleon, i have the power of absorbing the colour of my environment." "do you mean that you have the power of absorbing the special virtues of other people?" she interjected. "that is exactly what i mean." "oh!" she cried, for in a heart-beat many things had become clear to her. for the first time she realised, still vaguely but with increasing vividness, the hidden causes of her ruin and, still more plainly, the horrible danger of ernest fielding. he noticed her agitation, and a look of psychological curiosity came into his eyes. "ah, but that is not all," he observed, smilingly. "that is nothing. we all possess that faculty in a degree. the secret of my strength is my ability to reject every element that is harmful or inessential to the completion of my self. this did not come to me easily, nor without a struggle. but now, looking back upon my life, many things become transparent that were obscure even to me at the time. i can now follow the fine-spun threads in the intricate web of my fate, and discover in the wilderness of meshes a design, awful and grandly planned." his voice shook with conviction, as he uttered these words. there was something strangely gruesome in this man. it was thus that she had pictured to herself the high-priest of some terrible and mysterious religion, demanding a human sacrifice to appease the hunger of his god. she was fascinated by the spell of his personality, and listened with a feeling not far removed from awe. but reginald suddenly changed his tone and proceeded in a more conversational manner. "the first friend i ever cared for was a boy marvellously endowed for the study of mathematics. at the time of our first meeting at school, i was unable to solve even the simplest algebraical problem. but we had been together only for half a month, when we exchanged parts. it was i who was the mathematical genius now, whereas he became hopelessly dull and stuttered through his recitations only with a struggle that brought the tears to his eyes. then i discarded him. heartless, you say? i have come to know better. have you ever tasted a bottle of wine that had been uncorked for a long time? if you have, you have probably found it flat--the essence was gone, evaporated. thus it is when we care for people. probably--no, assuredly--there is some principle prisoned in their souls, or in the windings of their brains, which, when escaped, leaves them insipid, unprofitable and devoid of interest to us. sometimes this essence--not necessarily the finest element in a man's or a woman's nature, but soul-stuff that we lack--disappears. in fact, it invariably disappears. it may be that it has been transformed in the processes of their growth; it may also be that it has utterly vanished by some inadvertence, or that we ourselves have absorbed it." "then we throw them away?" ethel asked, pale, but dry-eyed. a shudder passed through her body and she clinched her glass nervously. at that moment reginald resembled a veritable prince of darkness, sinister and beautiful, painted by the hand of a modern master. then, for a space, he again became the man of the world. smiling and self-possessed, he filled the glasses, took a long sip of the wine and resumed his narrative. "that boy was followed by others. i absorbed many useless things and some that were evil. i realised that i must direct my absorptive propensities. this i did. i selected, selected well. and all the time the terrible power of which i was only half conscious grew within me." "it is indeed a terrible power," she cried; "all the more terrible for its subtlety. had i not myself been its victim, i should not now find it possible to believe in it." "the invisible hand that smites in the dark is certainly more fearful than a visible foe. it is also more merciful. think how much you would have suffered had you been conscious of your loss." "still it seems even now to me that it cannot have been an utter, irreparable loss. there is no action without reaction. even i--even we--must have received from you some compensation for what you have taken away." "in the ordinary processes of life the law of action and reaction is indeed potent. but no law is without exception. think of radium, for instance, with its constant and seemingly inexhaustible outflow of energy. it is a difficult thing to imagine, but our scientific men have accepted it as a fact. why should we find it more difficult to conceive of a tremendous and infinite absorptive element? i feel sure that it must somewhere exist. but every phenomenon in the physical world finds its counterpart in the psychical universe. there are radium-souls that radiate without loss of energy, but also without increase. and there are souls, the reverse of radium, with unlimited absorptive capacities." "vampire-souls," she observed, with a shudder, and her face blanched. "no," he said, "don't say that." and then he suddenly seemed to grow in stature. his face was ablaze, like the face of a god. "in every age," he replied, with solemnity, "there are giants who attain to a greatness which by natural growth no men could ever have reached. but in their youth a vision came to them, which they set out to seek. they take the stones of fancy to build them a palace in the kingdom of truth, projecting into reality dreams, monstrous and impossible. often they fail and, tumbling from their airy heights, end a quixotic career. some succeed. they are the chosen. carpenter's sons they are, who have laid down the law of a world for milleniums to come; or simple corsicans, before whose eagle eye have quaked the kingdoms of the earth. but to accomplish their mission they need a will of iron and the wit of a hundred men. and from the iron they take the strength, and from a hundred men's brains they absorb their wisdom. divine missionaries, they appear in all departments of life. in their hand is gathered to-day the gold of the world. mighty potentates of peace and war, they unlock new seas and from distant continents lift the bars. single-handed, they accomplish what nations dared not hope; with titan strides they scale the stars and succeed where millions fail. in art they live, the makers of new periods, the dreamers of new styles. they make themselves the vocal sun-glasses of god. homer and shakespeare, hugo and balzac--they concentrate the dispersed rays of a thousand lesser luminaries in one singing flame that, like a giant torch, lights up humanity's path." she gazed at him, open-mouthed. the light had gone from his visage. he paused, exhausted, but even then he looked the incarnation of a force no less terrible, no less grand. she grasped the immensity of his conception, but her woman's soul rebelled at the horrible injustice to those whose light is extinguished, as hers had been, to feed an alien flame. and then, for a moment, she saw the pale face of ernest staring at her out of the wine. "cruel," she sobbed, "how cruel!" "what matter?" he asked. "their strength is taken from them, but the spirit of humanity, as embodied in us, triumphantly marches on." xxi reginald's revelations were followed by a long silence, interrupted only by the officiousness of the waiter. the spell once broken, they exchanged a number of more or less irrelevant observations. ethel's mind returned, again and again, to the word he had not spoken. he had said nothing of the immediate bearing of his monstrous power upon her own life and that of ernest fielding. at last, somewhat timidly, she approached the subject. "you said you loved me," she remarked. "i did." "but why, then--" "i could not help it." "did you ever make the slightest attempt?" "in the horrible night hours i struggled against it. i even implored you to leave me." "ah, but i loved you!" "you would not be warned, you would not listen. you stayed with me, and slowly, surely, the creative urge went out of your life." "but what on earth could you find in my poor art to attract you? what were my pictures to you?" "i needed them, i needed you. it was a certain something, a rich colour effect, perhaps. and then, under your very eyes, the colour that vanished from your canvases reappeared in my prose. my style became more luxurious than it had been, while you tortured your soul in the vain attempt of calling back to your brush what was irretrievably lost." "why did you not tell me?" "you would have laughed in my face, and i could not have endured your laugh. besides, i always hoped, until it was too late, that i might yet check the mysterious power within me. soon, however, i became aware that it was beyond my control. the unknown god, whose instrument i am, had wisely made it stronger than me." "but why," retorted ethel, "was it necessary to discard me, like a cast-off garment, like a wanton who has lost the power to please?" her frame shook with the remembered emotion of that moment, when years ago he had politely told her that she was nothing to him. "the law of being," reginald replied, almost sadly, "the law of my being. i should have pitied you, but the eternal reproach of your suffering only provoked my anger. i cared less for you every day, and when i had absorbed all of you that my growth required, you were to me as one dead, as a stranger you were. there was between us no further community of interest; henceforth, i knew, our lives must move in totally different spheres. you remember that day when we said good-bye?" "you mean that day when i lay before you on my knees," she corrected him. "that day i buried my last dream of personal happiness. i would have gladly raised you from the floor, but love was utterly gone. if i am tenderer to-day than i am wont to be, it is because you mean so much to me as the symbol of my renunciation. when i realised that i could not even save the thing i loved from myself, i became hardened and cruel to others. not that i know no kindly feeling, but no qualms of conscience lay their prostrate forms across my path. there is nothing in life for me but my mission." his face was bathed in ecstasy. the pupils were luminous, large and threatening. he had the look of a madman or a prophet. after a while ethel remarked: "but you have grown into one of the master-figures of the age. why not be content with that? is there no limit to your ambition?" reginald smiled: "ambition! shakespeare stopped when he had reached his full growth, when he had exhausted the capacity of his contemporaries. i am not yet ready to lay down my pen and rest." "and will you always continue in this criminal course, a murderer of other lives?" he looked her calmly in the face. "i do not know." "are you the slave of your unknown god?" "we are all slaves, wire-pulled marionettes: you, ernest, i. there is no freedom on the face of the earth nor above. the tiger that tears a lamb is not free, i am not free, you are not free. all that happens must happen; no word that is said is said in vain, in vain is raised no hand." "then," ethel retorted, eagerly, "if i attempted to wrest your victim from you, i should also be the tool of your god?" "assuredly. but i am his chosen." "can you--can you not set him free?" "i need him--a little longer. then he is yours." "but can you not, if i beg you again on my knees, at least loosen his chains before he is utterly ruined?" "it is beyond my power. if i could not rescue you, whom i loved, what in heaven or on earth can save him from his fate? besides, he will not be utterly ruined. it is only a part of him that i absorb. in his soul are chords that i have not touched. they may vibrate one day, when he has gathered new strength. you, too, would have spared yourself much pain had you striven to attain success in different fields--not where i had garnered the harvest of a lifetime. it is only a portion of his talent that i take from him. the rest i cannot harm. why should he bury that remainder?" his eyes strayed through the window to the firmament, as if to say that words could no more bend his indomitable will than alter the changeless course of the stars. ethel had half-forgotten the wrong she herself had suffered at his hands. he could not be measured by ordinary standards, this dazzling madman, whose diseased will-power had assumed such uncanny proportions. but here a young life was at stake. in her mind's eye she saw reginald crush between his relentless hands the delicate soul of ernest fielding, as a magnificent carnivorous flower might close its glorious petals upon a fly. love, all conquering love, welled up in her. she would fight for ernest as a tiger cat fights for its young. she would place herself in the way of the awful force that had shattered her own aspirations, and save, at any cost, the brilliant boy who did not love her. xxii the last rays of the late afternoon sun fell slanting through ernest's window. he was lying on his couch, in a leaden, death-like slumber that, for the moment at least, was not even perturbed by the presence of reginald clarke. the latter was standing at the boy's bedside, calm, unmoved as ever. the excitement of his conversation with ethel had left no trace on the chiselled contour of his forehead. smilingly fastening an orchid of an indefinable purple tint in his evening coat, radiant, buoyant with life, he looked down upon the sleeper. then he passed his hand over ernest's forehead, as if to wipe off beads of sweat. at the touch of his hand the boy stirred uneasily. when it was not withdrawn his countenance twitched in pain. he moaned as men moan under the influence of some anæsthetic, without possessing the power to break through the narrow partition that separates them from death on the one side and from consciousness on the other. at last a sigh struggled to his seemingly paralysed lips, then another. finally the babbling became articulate. "for god's sake," he cried, in his sleep, "take that hand away!" and all at once the benignant smile on reginald's features was changed to a look of savage fierceness. he no longer resembled the man of culture, but a disappointed, snarling beast of prey. he took his hand from ernest's forehead and retired cautiously through the half-open door. hardly had he disappeared when ernest awoke. for a moment he looked around, like a hunted animal, then sighed with relief and buried his head in his hand. at that moment a knock at the door was heard, and reginald re-entered, calm as before. "i declare," he exclaimed, "you have certainly been sleeping the sleep of the just." "it isn't laziness," ernest replied, looking up rather pleased at the interruption. "but i've a splitting headache." "perhaps those naps are not good for your health." "probably. but of late i have frequently found it necessary to exact from the day-hours the sleep which the night refuses me. i suppose it is all due to indigestion, as you have suggested. the stomach is the source of all evil." "it is also the source of all good. the greeks made it the seat of the soul. i have always claimed that the most important item in a great poet's biography is an exact reproduction of his menu." "true, a man who eats a heavy beefsteak for breakfast in the morning is incapable of writing a sonnet in the afternoon." "yes," reginald added, "we are what we eat and what our forefathers have eaten before us. i ascribe the staleness of american poetry to the griddle-cakes of our puritan ancestors. i am sorry we cannot go deeper into the subject at present. but i have an invitation to dinner where i shall study, experimentally, the influence of french sauces on my versification." "good-bye." "au revoir." and, with a wave of the hand, reginald left the room. when the door had closed behind him, ernest's thoughts took a more serious turn. the tone of light bantering in which the preceding conversation had taken place had been assumed on his part. for the last few weeks evil dreams had tortured his sleep and cast their shadow upon his waking hours. they had ever increased in reality, in intensity and in hideousness. even now he could see the long, tapering fingers that every night were groping in the windings of his brain. it was a well-formed, manicured hand that seemed to reach under his skull, carefully feeling its way through the myriad convolutions where thought resides. and, oh, the agony of it all! a human mind is not a thing of stone, but alive, horribly alive to pain. what was it those fingers sought, what mysterious treasures, what jewels hidden in the under-layer of his consciousness? his brain was like a human gold-mine, quaking under the blow of the pick and the tread of the miner. the miner! ah, the miner! ceaselessly, thoroughly, relentlessly, he opened vein after vein and wrested untold riches from the quivering ground; but each vein was a live vein and each nugget of gold a thought! no wonder the boy was a nervous wreck. whenever a tremulous nascent idea was formulating itself, the dream-hand clutched it and took it away, brutally severing the fine threads that bind thought to thought. and when the morning came, how his head ached! it was not an acute pain, but dull, heavy, incessant. these sensations, ernest frequently told himself, were morbid fancies. but then, the monomaniac who imagines that his arms have been mangled or cut from his body, might as well be without arms. mind can annihilate obstacles. it can also create them. psychology was no unfamiliar ground to ernest, and it was not difficult for him to seek in some casual suggestion an explanation for his delusion, the fixed notion that haunted him day and night. but he also realized that to explain a phenomenon is not to explain it away. the man who analyses his emotions cannot wholly escape them, and the shadow of fear--primal, inexplicable fear--may darken at moments of weakness the life of the subtlest psychologist and the clearest thinker. he had never spoken to reginald of his terrible nightmares. coming on the heel of the fancy that he, ernest, had written "the princess with the yellow veil," a fancy that, by the way, had again possessed him of late, this new delusion would certainly arouse suspicion as to his sanity in reginald's mind. he would probably send him to a sanitarium; he certainly would not keep him in the house. beneficence itself in all other things, his host was not to be trifled with in any matter that interfered with his work. he would act swiftly and without mercy. for the first time in many days ernest thought of abel felton. poor boy! what had become of him after he had been turned from the house? he would not wait for any one to tell him to pack his bundle. but then, that was impossible; reginald was fond of him. suddenly ernest's meditations were interrupted by a noise at the outer door. a key was turned in the lock. it must be he--but why so soon? what could have brought him back at this hour? he opened the door and went out into the hall to see what had happened. the figure that he beheld was certainly not the person expected, but a woman, from whose shoulders a theatre-cloak fell in graceful folds,--probably a visitor for reginald. ernest was about to withdraw discreetly, when the electric light that was burning in the hallway fell upon her face and illumined it. then indeed surprise overcame him. "ethel," he cried, "is it you?" xxiii ernest conducted ethel brandenbourg to his room and helped her to remove her cloak. while he was placing the garment upon the back of a chair, she slipped a little key into her hand-bag. he looked at her with a question in his eyes. "yes," she replied, "i kept the key; but i had not dreamed that i would ever again cross this threshold." meanwhile it had grown quite dark. the reflection of the street lanterns without dimly lit the room, and through the twilight fantastic shadows seemed to dance. the perfume of her hair pervaded the room and filled the boy's heart with romance. tenderness long suppressed called with a thousand voices. the hour, the strangeness and unexpectedness of her visit, perhaps even a boy's pardonable vanity, roused passion from its slumbers and once again wrought in ernest's soul the miracle of love. his arm encircled her neck and his lips stammered blind, sweet, crazy and caressing things. "turn on the light," she pleaded. "you were not always so cruel." "no matter, i have not come to speak of love." "why, then, have you come?" ernest felt a little awkward, disappointed, as he uttered these words. what could have induced her to come to his rooms? he loosened his hold on her and did as she asked. how pale she looked in the light, how beautiful! surely, she had sorrowed for him; but why had she not answered his letter? yes, why? "your letter?" she smiled a little sadly. "surely you did not expect me to answer that?" "why not?" he had again approached her and his lips were close to hers. "why not? i have yearned for you. i love you." his breath intoxicated her; it was like a subtle perfume. still she did not yield. "you love me now--you did not love me then. the music of your words was cold--machine-made, strained and superficial. i shall not answer, i told myself: in his heart he has forgotten you. i did not then realise that a dangerous force had possessed your life and crushed in your mind every image but its own." "i don't understand." "do you think i would have come here if it were a light matter? no, i tell you, it is a matter of life and death to you, at least as an artist." "what do you mean by that?" "have you done a stroke of work since i last saw you?" "yes, let me see, surely, magazine articles and a poem." "that is not what i want to know. have you accomplished anything big? have you grown since this summer? how about your novel?" "i--i have almost finished it in my mind, but i have found no chance to begin with the actual writing. i was sick of late, very sick." no doubt of it! his face was pinched and pale, and the lines about the mouth were curiously contorted, like those of a man suffering from a painful internal disease. "tell me," she ventured, "do you ever miss anything?" "do you mean--are there thieves?" "thieves! against thieves one can protect oneself." he stared at her wildly, half-frightened, in anticipation of some dreadful revelation. his dream! his dream! that hand! could it be more than a dream? god! his lips quivered. ethel observed his agitation and continued more quietly, but with the same insistence: "have you ever had ideas, plans that you began without having strength to complete them? have you had glimpses of vocal visions that seemed to vanish no sooner than seen? did it ever seem to you as if some mysterious and superior will brutally interfered with the workings of your brain?" did it seem so to him! he himself could not have stated more plainly the experience of the last few months. each word fell from her lips like the blow of a hammer. shivering, he put his arm around her, seeking solace, not love. this time she did not repulse him and, trustingly, as a child confides to his mother, he depicted to her the suffering that harrowed his life and made it a hell. as she listened, indignation clouded her forehead, while rising tears of anger and of love weighed down her lashes. she could bear the pitiful sight no longer. "child," she cried, "do you know who your tormentor is?" and like a flash the truth passed from her to him. a sudden intimation told him what her words had still concealed. "don't! for christ's sake, do not pronounce his name!" he sobbed. "do not breathe it. i could not endure it. i should go mad." xxiv very quietly, with difficulty restraining her own emotion so as not to excite him further, ethel had related to ernest the story of her remarkable interview with reginald clarke. in the long silence that ensued, the wings of his soul brushed against hers for the first time, and love by a thousand tender chains of common suffering welded their beings into one. caressingly the ivory of her fingers passed through the gold of his hair and over his brow, as if to banish the demon-eyes that stared at him across the hideous spaces of the past. in a rush a thousand incidents came back to him, mute witnesses of a damning truth. his play, the dreams that tormented him, his own inability to concentrate his mind upon his novel which hitherto he had ascribed to nervous disease--all, piling fact on fact, became one monstrous monument of reginald clarke's crime. at last ernest understood the parting words of abel felton and the look in ethel's eye on the night when he had first linked his fate with the other man's. walkham's experience, too, and reginald's remarks on the busts of shakespeare and balzac unmistakably pointed toward the new and horrible spectre that ethel's revelation had raised in place of his host. and then, again, the other reginald appeared, crowned with the lyric wreath. from his lips golden cadences fell, sweeter than the smell of many flowers or the sound of a silver bell. he was once more the divine master, whose godlike features bore no trace of malice and who had raised him to a place very near his heart. "no," he cried, "it is impossible. it's all a dream, a horrible nightmare." "but he has himself confessed it," she interjected. "perhaps he has spoken in symbols. we all absorb to some extent other men's ideas, without robbing them and wrecking their thought-life. reginald may be unscrupulous in the use of his power of impressing upon others the stamp of his master-mind. so was shakespeare. no, no, no! you are mistaken; we were both deluded for the moment by his picturesque account of a common, not even a discreditable, fact. he may himself have played with the idea, but surely he cannot have been serious." "and your own experience, and abel felton's and mine--can they, too, be dismissed with a shrug of the shoulder?" "but, come to think of it, the whole theory seems absurd. it is unscientific. it is not even a case of mesmerism. if he had said that he hypnotised his victims, the matter would assume a totally different aspect. i admit that something is wrong somewhere, and that the home of reginald clarke is no healthful abode for me. but you must also remember that probably we are both unstrung to the point of hysteria." but to ethel his words carried no conviction. "you are still under his spell," she cried, anxiously. a little shaken in his confidence, ernest resumed: "reginald is utterly incapable of such an action, even granting that he possessed the terrible power of which you speak. a man of his splendid resources, a literary midas at whose very touch every word turns into gold, is under no necessity to prey on the thoughts of others. circumstances, i admit, are suspicious. but in the light of common day this fanciful theory shrivels into nothing. any court of law would reject our evidence as madness. it is too utterly fantastic, utterly alien to any human experience." "is it though?" ethel replied with peculiar intonation. "why, what do you mean?" "surely," she answered, "you must know that in the legends of every nation we read of men and women who were called vampires. they are beings, not always wholly evil, whom every night some mysterious impulse leads to steal into unguarded bedchambers, to suck the blood of the sleepers and then, having waxed strong on the life of their victims, cautiously to retreat. thence comes it that their lips are very red. it is even said that they can find no rest in the grave, but return to their former haunts long after they are believed to be dead. those whom they visit, however, pine away for no apparent reason. the physicians shake their wise heads and speak of consumption. but sometimes, ancient chronicles assure us, the people's suspicions were aroused, and under the leadership of a good priest they went in solemn procession to the graves of the persons suspected. and on opening the tombs it was found that their coffins had rotted away and the flowers in their hair were black. but their bodies were white and whole; through no empty sockets crept the vermin, and their sucking lips were still moist with a little blood." ernest was carried away in spite of himself by her account, which vividly resembled his own experience. still he would not give in. "all this is impressive. i admit it is very impressive. but you yourself speak of such stories as legends. they are unfounded upon any tangible fact, and you cannot expect a man schooled in modern sciences to admit, as having any possible bearing upon his life, the crude belief of the middle ages!" "why not?" she responded. "our scientists have proved true the wildest theories of mediæval scholars. the transmutation of metals seems to-day no longer an idle speculation, and radium has transformed into potential reality the dream of perpetual motion. the fundamental notions of mathematics are being undermined. one school of philosophers claims that the number of angles in a triangle is equal to more than two right angles; another propounds that it is less. even great scientists who have studied the soul of nature are turning to spiritism. the world is overcoming the shallow scepticism of the nineteenth century. life has become once more wonderful and very mysterious. but it also seems that, with the miracles of the old days, their terrors, their nightmares and their monsters have come back in a modern guise." ernest became even more thoughtful. "yes," he observed, "there is something in what you say." then, pacing the room nervously, he exclaimed: "and still i find it impossible to believe your explanation. reginald a vampire! it seems so ludicrous. if you had told me that such creatures exist somewhere, far away, i might have discussed the matter; but in this great city, in the shadow of the flatiron building--no!" she replied with warmth: "yet they exist--always have existed. not only in the middle ages, but at all times and in all regions. there is no nation but has some record of them, in one form or another. and don't you think if we find a thought, no matter how absurd it may seem to us, that has ever occupied the minds of men--if we find, i say, such a perennially recurrent thought, are we not justified in assuming that it must have some basis in the actual experience of mankind?" ernest's brow became very clouded, and infinite numbers of hidden premature wrinkles began to show. how wan he looked and how frail! he was as one lost in a labyrinth in which he saw no light, convinced against his will, or rather, against his scientific conviction, that she was not wholly mistaken. "still," he observed triumphantly, "your vampires suck blood; but reginald, if vampire he be, preys upon the soul. how can a man suck from another man's brain a thing as intangible, as quintessential as thought?" "ah," she replied, "you forget, thought is more real than blood!" xxv only three hours had passed since ethel had startled ernest from his sombre reveries, but within this brief space their love had matured as if each hour had been a year. the pallor had vanished from his cheeks and the restiveness from his eyes. the intoxication of her presence had rekindled the light of his countenance and given him strength to combat the mighty forces embodied in reginald clarke. the child in him had made room for the man. he would not hear of surrendering without a struggle, and ethel felt sure she might leave his fate in his own hand. love had lent him a coat of mail. he was warned, and would not succumb. still she made one more attempt to persuade him to leave the house at once with her. "i must go now," she said. "will you not come with me, after all? i am so afraid to think of you still here." "no, dear," he replied. "i shall not desert my post. i must solve the riddle of this man's life; and if, indeed, he is the thing he seems to be, i shall attempt to wrest from him what he has stolen from me. i speak of my unwritten novel." "do not attempt to oppose him openly. you cannot resist him." "be assured that i shall be on my guard. i have in the last few hours lived through so much that makes life worth living, that i would not wantonly expose myself to any danger. still, i cannot go without certainty--cannot, if there is some truth in our fears, leave the best of me behind." "what are you planning to do?" "my play--i am sure now that it is mine--i cannot take from him; that is irretrievably lost. he has read it to his circle and prepared for its publication. and, no matter how firmly convinced you or i may be of his strange power, no one would believe our testimony. they would pronounce us mad. perhaps we _are_ mad!" "no; we are not mad; but it is mad for you to stay here," she asserted. "i shall not stay here one minute longer than is absolutely essential. within a week i shall have conclusive proof of his guilt or innocence." "how will you go about it?" "his writing table--" "ah!" "yes, perhaps i can discover some note, some indication, some proof--" "it's a dangerous game." "i have everything to gain." "i wish i could stay here with you," she said. "have you no friend, no one whom you could trust in this delicate matter?" "why, yes--jack." a shadow passed over her face. "do you know," she said, "i have a feeling that you care more for him than for me?" "nonsense," he said, "he is my friend, you, you--immeasurably more." "are you still as intimate with him as when i first met you?" "not quite; of late a troubling something, like a thin veil, seems to have passed between us. but he will come when i call him. he will not fail me in my hour of need." "when can he be here?" "in two or three days." "meanwhile be very careful. above all, lock your door at night." "i will not only lock, but barricade it. i shall try with all my power to elucidate this mystery without, however, exposing myself to needless risks." "i will go, then. kiss me good-bye." "may i not take you to the car?" "you had better not." at the door she turned back once more. "write me every day, or call me up on the telephone." he straightened himself, as if to convince her of his strength. yet when at last the door had closed behind her, his courage forsook him for a moment. and, if he had not been ashamed to appear a weakling before the woman he loved, who knows if any power on earth could have kept him in that house where from every corner a secret seemed to lurk! there was a misgiving, too, in the woman's heart as she left the boy behind,--a prey to the occult power that, seeking expression in multiple activities, has made and unmade emperors, prophets and poets. as she stepped into a street car she saw from afar, as in a vision, the face of reginald clarke. it seemed very white and hungry. there was no human kindness in it--only a threat and a sneer. xxvi for over an hour ernest paced up and down his room, wildly excited by ethel's revelations. it required an immense amount of self-control for him to pen the following lines to jack: "i need you. come." after he had entrusted the letter to the hall-boy, a reaction set in and he was able to consider the matter, if not with equanimity, at least with a degree of calmness. the strangest thing to him was that he could not bring himself to hate reginald, of whose evil influence upon his life he was now firmly convinced. here was another shattered idol; but one--like the fragment of a great god-face in the desert--intensely fascinating, even in its ruin. then yielding to a natural impulse, ernest looked over his photographs and at once laid hold upon the austere image of his master and friend. no--it was preposterous; there was no evil in this man. there was no trace of malice in this face, the face of a prophet or an inspired madman, a poet. and yet, as he scrutinised the picture closely a curious transformation seemed to take place in the features; a sly little line appeared insinuatingly about reginald's well-formed mouth, and the serene calm of his jupiter-head seemed to turn into the sneak smile of a thief. nevertheless, ernest was not afraid. his anxieties had at last assumed definite shape; it was possible now to be on his guard. it is only invisible, incomprehensible fear, crouching upon us from the night, that drives sensitive natures to the verge of madness and transforms stern warriors into cowards. ernest realised the necessity of postponing the proposed investigation of reginald's papers until the morning, as it was now near eleven, and he expected to hear at any moment the sound of his feet at the door. before retiring he took a number of precautions. carefully he locked the door to his bedroom and placed a chair in front of it. to make doubly sure, he fastened the handle to an exquisite chinese vase, a gift of reginald's, that at the least attempt to force an entrance from without would come down with a crash. then, although sleep seemed out of the question, he went to bed. he had hardly touched the pillow when a leaden weight seemed to fall upon his eyes. the day's commotion had been too much for his delicate frame. by force of habit he pulled the cover over his ear and fell asleep. all night he slept heavily, and the morning was far advanced when a knock at the door that, at first, seemed to come across an immeasurable distance, brought him back to himself. it was reginald's manservant announcing that breakfast was waiting. ernest got up and rubbed his eyes. the barricade at the door at once brought back to his mind with startling clearness the events of the previous evening. everything was as he had left it. evidently no one had attempted to enter the room while he slept. he could not help smiling at the arrangement which reminded him of his childhood, when he had sought by similar means security from burglars and bogeys. and in the broad daylight ethel's tales of vampires seemed once more impossible and absurd. still, he had abundant evidence of reginald's strange influence, and was determined to know the truth before nightfall. her words, that thought is more real than blood, kept ringing in his ears. if such was the case, he would find evidence of reginald's intellectual burglaries, and possibly be able to regain a part of his lost self that had been snatched from him by the relentless dream-hand. but under no circumstances could he face reginald in his present state of mind. he was convinced that if in the fleeting vision of a moment the other man's true nature should reveal itself to him, he would be so terribly afraid as to shriek like a maniac. so he dressed particularly slowly in the hope of avoiding an encounter with his host. but fate thwarted this hope. reginald, too, lingered that morning unusually long over his coffee. he was just taking his last sip when ernest entered the room. his behaviour was of an almost bourgeois kindness. benevolence fairly beamed from his face. but to the boy's eyes it had assumed a new and sinister expression. "you are late this morning, ernest," he remarked in his mildest manner. "have you been about town, or writing poetry? both occupations are equally unhealthy." as he said this he watched the young man with the inscrutable smile that at moments was wont to curl upon his lips. ernest had once likened it to the smile of mona lisa, but now he detected in it the suavity of the hypocrite and the leer of the criminal. he could not endure it; he could not look upon that face any longer. his feet almost gave way under him, cold sweat gathered on his brow, and he sank on a chair trembling and studiously avoiding the other man's gaze. at last reginald rose to go. it seemed impossible to accuse this splendid impersonation of vigorous manhood of cunning and underhand methods, of plagiarisms and of theft. as he stood there he resembled more than anything a beautiful tiger-cat, a wonderful thing of strength and will-power, indomitable and insatiate. yet who could tell whether this strength was not, after all, parasitic. if ethel's suspicions were justified, then, indeed, more had been taken from him than he could ever realise. for in that case it was his life-blood that circled in those veins and the fire of his intellect that set those lips aflame! xxvii reginald clarke had hardly left the room when ernest hastily rose from his seat. while it was likely that he would remain in undisturbed possession of the apartment the whole morning, the stake at hand was too great to permit of delay. palpitating and a little uncertain, he entered the studio where, scarcely a year ago, reginald clarke had bidden him welcome. nothing had changed there since then; only in ernest's mind the room had assumed an aspect of evil. the antinous was there and the faun and the christ-head. but their juxtaposition to-day partook of the nature of the blasphemous. the statues of shakespeare and balzac seemed to frown from their pedestals as his fingers were running through reginald's papers. he brushed against a semblance of napoleon that was standing on the writing-table, so that it toppled over and made a noise that weirdly re-echoed in the silence of the room. at that moment a curious family resemblance between shakespeare, balzac, napoleon--and reginald, forcibly impressed itself upon his mind. it was the indisputable something that marks those who are chosen to give ultimate expression to some gigantic world-purpose. in balzac's face it was diffused with kindliness, in that of napoleon sheer brutality predominated. the image of one who was said to be the richest man of the world also rose before his eyes. perhaps it was only the play of his fevered imagination, but he could have sworn that this man's features, too, bore the mark of those unoriginal, great absorptive minds who, for better or for worse, are born to rob and rule. they seemed to him monsters that know neither justice nor pity, only the law of their being, the law of growth. common weapons would not avail against such forces. being one, they were stronger than armies; nor could they be overcome in single combat. stealth, trickery, the outfit of the knave, were legitimate weapons in such a fight. in this case the end justified the means, even if the latter included burglary. after a brief and fruitless search of the desk, he attempted to force open a secret drawer, the presence of which he had one day accidentally discovered. he tried a number of keys to no account, and was thinking of giving up his researches for the day until he had procured a skeleton key, when at last the lock gave way. the drawer disclosed a large file of manuscript. ernest paused for a moment to draw breath. the paper rustled under his nervous fingers. and there--at last--his eyes lit upon a bulky bundle that bore this legend: "_leontina_, a novel." it was true, then--all, his dream, reginald's confession. and the house that had opened its doors so kindly to him was the house of a vampire! finally curiosity overcame his burning indignation. he attempted to read. the letters seemed to dance before his eyes--his hands trembled. at last he succeeded. the words that had first rolled over like drunken soldiers now marched before his vision in orderly sequence. he was delighted, then stunned. this was indeed authentic literature, there could be no doubt about it. and it was his. he was still a poet, a great poet. he drew a deep breath. sudden joy trembled in his heart. this story set down by a foreign hand had grown chapter by chapter in his brain. there were some slight changes--slight deviations from the original plan. a defter hand than his had retouched it here and there, but for all that it remained his very own. it did not belong to that thief. the blood welled to his cheek as he uttered this word that, applied to reginald, seemed almost sacrilegious. he had nearly reached the last chapter when he heard steps in the hallway. hurriedly he restored the manuscript to its place, closed the drawer and left the room on tiptoe. it was reginald. but he did not come alone. someone was speaking to him. the voice seemed familiar. ernest could not make out what it said. he listened intently and--was it possible? jack? surely he could not yet have come in response to his note! what mysterious power, what dim presentiment of his friend's plight had led him hither? but why did he linger so long in reginald's room, instead of hastening to greet him? cautiously he drew nearer. this time he caught jack's words: "it would be very convenient and pleasant. still, some way, i feel that it is not right for me, of all men, to take his place here." "that need not concern you," reginald deliberately replied; "the dear boy expressed the desire to leave me within a fortnight. i think he will go to some private sanitarium. his nerves are frightfully overstrained." "this seems hardly surprising after the terrible attack he had when you read your play." "that idea has since then developed into a monomania." "i am awfully sorry for him. i cared for him much, perhaps too much. but i always feared that he would come to such an end. of late his letters have been strangely unbalanced." "you will find him very much changed. in fact, he is no longer the same." "no," said jack, "he is no longer the friend i loved." ernest clutched for the wall. his face was contorted with intense agony. each word was like a nail driven into his flesh. crucified upon the cross of his own affection by the hand he loved, all white and trembling he stood there. tears rushed to his eyes, but he could not weep. dry-eyed he reached his room and threw himself upon his bed. thus he lay--uncomforted and alone. xxviii terrible as was his loneliness, a meeting with jack would have been more terrible. and, after all, it was true, a gulf had opened between them. ethel alone could bring solace to his soul. there was a great void in his heart which only she could fill. he hungered for the touch of her hand. he longed for her presence strongly, as a wanton lusts for pleasure and as sad men crave death. noiselessly he stole to the door so as not to arouse the attention of the other two men, whose every whisper pierced his heart like a dagger. when he came to ethel's home, he found that she had gone out for a breath of air. the servant ushered him into the parlor, and there he waited, waited, waited for her. greatly calmed by his walk, he turned the details of clarke's conversation over in his mind, and the conviction grew upon him that the friend of his boyhood was not to blame for his course of action. reginald probably had encircled jack's soul with his demoniacal influence and singled him out for another victim. that must never be. it was his turn to save now. he would warn his friend of the danger that threatened him, even if his words should be spoken into the wind. for reginald, with an ingenuity almost satanic, had already suggested that the delusion of former days had developed into a monomania, and any attempt on his part to warn jack would only seem to confirm this theory. in that case only one way was left open. he must plead with reginald himself, confront at all risks that snatcher of souls. to-night he would not fall asleep. he would keep his vigil. and if reginald should approach his room, if in some way he felt the direful presence, he must speak out, threaten if need be, to save his friend from ruin. he had fully determined upon this course when a cry of joy from ethel, who had just returned from her walk, interrupted his reverie. but her gladness changed to anxiety when she saw how pale he was. ernest recounted to her the happenings of the day, from the discovery of his novel in reginald's desk to the conversation which he had accidentally overheard. he noticed that her features brightened as he drew near the end of his tale. "was your novel finished?" she suddenly asked. "i think so." "then you are out of danger. he will want nothing else of you. but you should have taken it with you." "i had only sufficient presence of mind to slip it back into the drawer. to-morrow i shall simply demand it." "you will do nothing of the kind. it is in his handwriting, and you have no legal proof that it is yours. you must take it away secretly. and he will not dare to reclaim it." "and jack?" she had quite forgotten jack. women are invariably selfish for those they love. "you must warn him," she replied. "he would laugh at me. however, i must speak to reginald." "it is of no avail to speak to him. at least, you must not do so before you have obtained the manuscript. it would unnecessarily jeopardise our plans." "and after?" "after, perhaps. but you must not expose yourself to any danger." "no, dear," he said, and kissed her; "what danger is there, provided i keep my wits about me? he steals upon men only in their sleep and in the dark." "be careful, nevertheless." "i shall. in fact, i think he is not at home at this moment. if i go now i may be able to get hold of the manuscript and hide it before he returns." "i cannot but tremble to think of you in that house." "you shall have no more reason to tremble in a day or two." "shall i see you to-morrow?" "i don't think so. i must go over my papers and things so as to be ready at any moment to leave the house." "and then?" "then--" he took her in his arms and looked long and deeply into her eyes. "yes," she replied--"at least, perhaps." then he turned to go, resolute and happy. how strangely he had matured since the summer! her heart swelled with the consciousness that it was her love that had effected this transformation. "as i cannot expect you to-morrow, i shall probably go to the opera, but i shall be at home before midnight. will you call me up then? a word from you will put me at ease for the night, even if it comes over the telephone." "i will call you up. we moderns have an advantage over the ancients in this respect: the twentieth-century pyramus can speak to thisbe even if innumerable walls sever his body from hers." "a quaint conceit! but let us hope that our love-story will end less tragically," she said, tenderly caressing his hair. "oh, we shall be happy, you and i," she added, after a while. "the iron finger of fate that lay so heavily on our lives is now withdrawn. almost withdrawn. yes, almost. only almost." and then a sudden fear overcame her. "no," she cried, "do not go, do not go! stay with me; stay here. i feel so frightened. i don't know what comes over me. i am afraid--afraid for you." "no, dear," he rejoined, "you need not be afraid. in your heart you don't want me to desert a friend, and, besides, leave the best part of my artistic life in reginald's clutch." "why should you expose yourself to god knows what danger for a friend who is ready to betray you?" "you forget friendship is a gift. if it exacts payment in any form, it is no longer either friendship or a gift. and you yourself have assured me that i have nothing to fear from reginald. i have nothing to give to him." she rallied under his words and had regained her self-possession when the door closed behind him. he walked a few blocks very briskly. then his pace slackened. her words had unsettled him a little, and when he reached home he did not at once resume his exploration of reginald's papers. he had hardly lit a cigarette when, at an unusually early hour, he heard reginald's key in the lock. quickly he turned the light out and in the semi-darkness, lit up by an electric lantern below, barricaded the door as on the previous night. then he went to bed without finding sleep. supreme silence reigned over the house. even the elevator had ceased to run. ernest's brain was all ear. he heard reginald walking up and down in the studio. not the smallest movement escaped his attention. thus hours passed. when the clock struck twelve, he was still walking up and down, down and up, up and down. one o'clock. still the measured beat of his footfall had not ceased. there was something hypnotic in the regular tread. nature at last exacted its toll from the boy. he fell asleep. hardly had he closed his eyes when again that horrible nightmare--no longer a nightmare--tormented him. again he felt the pointed delicate fingers carefully feeling their way along the innumerable tangled threads of nerve-matter that lead to the innermost recesses of self.... a subconscious something strove to arouse him, and he felt the fingers softly withdrawn. he could have sworn that he heard the scurrying of feet in the room. bathed in perspiration he made a leap for the electric light. but there was no sign of any human presence. the barricade at the door was undisturbed. but fear like a great wind filled the wings of his soul. yet there was nothing, nothing to warrant his conviction that reginald clarke had been with him only a few moments ago, plying his horrible trade. the large mirror above the fireplace only showed him his own face, white, excited,--the face of a madman. xxix the next morning's mail brought a letter from ethel, a few lines of encouragement and affection. yes, she was right; it would not do for him to stay under one roof with reginald any longer. he must only obtain the manuscript and, if possible, surprise him in the attempt to exercise his mysterious and criminal power. then he would be in the position to dictate terms and to demand jack's safety as the price of his silence. reginald, however, had closeted himself that day in his studio busily writing. only the clatter of his typewriter announced his presence in the house. there was no chance for conversation or for obtaining the precious manuscript of "leontina." meanwhile ernest was looking over his papers and preparing everything for a quick departure. glancing over old letters and notes, he became readily interested and hardly noticed the passage of the hours. when the night came he only partly undressed and threw himself upon the bed. it was now ten. at twelve he had promised ethel to speak to her over the telephone. he was determined not to sleep at all that night. at last he would discover whether or not on the previous and other nights reginald had secretly entered his room. when one hour had passed without incident, his attention relaxed a little. his eyes were gradually closing when suddenly something seemed to stir at the door. the chinese vase came rattling to the floor. at once ernest sprang up. his face had blanched with terror. it was whiter than the linen in which they wrap the dead. but his soul was resolute. he touched a button and the electric light illuminated the whole chamber. there was no nook for even a shadow to hide. yet there was no one to be seen. from without the door came no sound. suddenly something soft touched his foot. he gathered all his will power so as not to break out into a frenzied shriek. then he laughed, not a hearty laugh, to be sure. a tiny nose and a tail gracefully curled were brushing against him. the source of the disturbance was a little maltese cat, his favourite, that by some chance had remained in his room. after its essay at midnight gymnastics the animal quieted down and lay purring at the foot of his bed. the presence of a living thing was a certain comfort, and the reservoir of his strength was well nigh exhausted. he dimly remembered his promise to ethel, but his lids drooped with sheer weariness. perhaps an hour passed in this way, when suddenly his blood congealed with dread. he felt the presence of the hand of reginald clarke--unmistakably--groping in his brain as if searching for something that had still escaped him. he tried to move, to cry out, but his limbs were paralysed. when, by a superhuman effort, he at last succeeded in shaking off the numbness that held him enchained, he awoke just in time to see a figure, that of a man, disappearing in the wall that separated reginald's apartments from his room.... this time it was no delusion of the senses. he heard something like a secret door softly closing behind retreating steps. a sudden fierce anger seized him. he was oblivious of the danger of the terrible power of the older man, oblivious of the love he had once borne him, oblivious of everything save the sense of outraged humanity and outraged right. the law permits us to shoot a burglar who goes through our pockets at night. must he tolerate the ravages of this a thousand times more dastardly and dangerous spiritual thief? was reginald to enjoy the fruit of other men's labour unpunished? was he to continue growing into the mightiest literary factor of the century by preying upon his betters? abel, walkham, ethel, he, jack, were they all to be victims of this insatiable monster? was this force resistless as it was relentless? no, a thousand times, no! he dashed himself against the wall at the place where the shadow of reginald clarke had disappeared. in doing so he touched upon a secret spring. the wall gave way noiselessly. speechless with rage he crossed the next room and the one adjoining it, and stood in reginald's studio. the room was brilliantly lighted, and reginald, still dressed, was seated at his writing-table scribbling notes upon little scraps of paper in his accustomed manner. at ernest's approach he looked up without evincing the least sign of terror or surprise. calmly, almost majestically, he folded his arms over his breast, but there was a menacing glitter in his eyes as he confronted his victim. xxx silently the two men faced each other. then ernest hissed: "thief!" reginald shrugged his shoulders. "vampire!" "so ethel has infected you with her absurd fancies! poor boy! i am afraid.... i have been wanting to tell you for some time.... but i think... we have reached the parting of our road!" "and that you dare to tell me!" the more he raged, the calmer reginald seemed to become. "really," he said, "i fail to understand.... i must ask you to leave my room!" "you fail to understand? you cad!" ernest cried. he stepped to the writing-table and opened the secret drawer with a blow. a bundle of manuscripts fell on the floor with a strange rustling noise. then, seizing his own story, he hurled it upon the table. and behold--the last pages bore corrections in ink that could have been made only a few minutes ago! reginald smiled. "have you come to play havoc with my manuscripts?" he remarked. "your manuscripts? reginald clarke, you are an impudent impostor! you have written no word that is your own. you are an embezzler of the mind, strutting through life in borrowed and stolen plumes!" and at once the mask fell from reginald's face. "why stolen?" he coolly said, with a slight touch of irritation. "i absorb. i appropriate. that is the most any artist can say for himself. god creates; man moulds. he gives us the colours; we mix them." "that is not the question. i charge you with having wilfully and criminally interfered in my life; i charge you with having robbed me of what was mine; i charge you with being utterly vile and rapacious, a hypocrite and a parasite!" "foolish boy," reginald rejoined austerely. "it is through me that the best in you shall survive, even as the obscure elizabethans live in him of avon. shakespeare absorbed what was great in little men--a greatness that otherwise would have perished--and gave it a setting, a life." "a thief may plead the same. i understand you better. it is your inordinate vanity that prompts you to abuse your monstrous power." "you err. self-love has never entered into my actions. i am careless of personal fame. look at me, boy! as i stand before you i am homer, i am shakespeare ... i am every cosmic manifestation in art. men have doubted in each incarnation my individual existence. historians have more to tell of the meanest athenian scribbler or elizabethan poetaster than of me. the radiance of my work obscured my very self. i care not. i have a mission. i am a servant of the lord. i am the vessel that bears the host!" he stood up at full length, the personification of grandeur and power. a tremendous force trembled in his very finger tips. he was like a gigantic dynamo, charged with the might of ten thousand magnetic storms that shake the earth in its orbit and lash myriads of planets through infinities of space.... under ordinary circumstances ernest or any other man would have quailed before him. but the boy in that epic moment had grown out of his stature. he felt the sword of vengeance in his hands; to him was intrusted the cause of abel and of walkham, of ethel and of jack. his was the struggle of the individual soul against the same blind and cruel fate that in the past had fashioned the ichthyosaurus and the mastodon. "by what right," he cried, "do you assume that you are the literary messiah? who appointed you? what divine power has made you the steward of my mite and of theirs whom you have robbed?" "i am a light-bearer. i tread the high hills of mankind.... i point the way to the future. i light up the abysses of the past. were not my stature gigantic, how could i hold the torch in all men's sight? the very souls that i tread underfoot realise, as their dying gaze follows me, the possibilities with which the future is big.... eternally secure, i carry the essence of what is cosmic ... of what is divine.... i am homer ... goethe ... shakespeare.... i am an embodiment of the same force of which alexander, cæsar, confucius and the christos were also embodiments.... none so strong as to resist me." a sudden madness overcame ernest at this boast. he must strike now or never. he must rid humanity of this dangerous maniac--this demon of strength. with a power ten times intensified, he raised a heavy chair so as to hurl it at reginald's head and crush it. reginald stood there calmly, a smile upon his lips.... primal cruelties rose from the depth of his nature.... still he smiled, turning his luminous gaze upon the boy ... and, behold ... ernest's hand began to shake ... the chair fell from his grasp.... he tried to call for help, but no sound issued from his lips.... utterly paralysed he confronted ... the force.... minutes--eternities passed. and still those eyes were fixed upon him. but this was no longer reginald! it was all brain ... only brain ... a tremendous brain-machine ... infinitely complex ... infinitely strong. not more than a mile away ethel endeavoured to call to him through the night. the telephone rang, once, twice, thrice, insistingly. but ernest heard it not. something dragged him ... dragged the nerves from his body dragged, dragged, dragged.... it was an irresistible suction ... pitiless ... passionless ... immense. sparks, blue, crimson and violet, seemed to play around the living battery. it reached the finest fibres of his mind.... slowly ... every trace of mentality disappeared.... first the will ... then feeling ... judgment ... memory ... fear even.... all that was stored in his brain-cells came forth to be absorbed by that mighty engine.... the princess with the yellow veil appeared ... flitted across the room and melted away. she was followed by childhood memories ... girls' heads, boys' faces.... he saw his dead mother waving her arms to him.... an expression of death-agony distorted the placid features.... then, throwing a kiss to him, she, too, disappeared. picture on picture followed.... words of love that he had spoken ... sins, virtues, magnanimities, meannesses, terrors ... mathematical formulas even, and snatches of songs. leontina came and was swallowed up.... no, it was ethel who was trying to speak to him ... trying to warn.... she waved her hands in frantic despair.... she was gone.... a pale face ... dark, dishevelled hair.... jack.... how he had changed! he was in the circle of the vampire's transforming might. "jack," he cried. surely jack had something to explain ... something to tell him ... some word that if spoken would bring rest to his soul. he saw the words rise to the boy's lips, but before he had time to utter them his image also had vanished. and reginald ... reginald, too, was gone.... there was only the mighty brain ... panting ... whirling.... then there was nothing.... the annihilation of ernest fielding was complete. vacantly he stared at the walls, at the room and at his master. the latter was wiping the sweat from his forehead. he breathed deeply.... the flush of youth spread over his features.... his eyes sparkled with a new and dangerous brilliancy.... he took the thing that had once been ernest fielding by the hand and led it to its room. xxxi with the first flush of the morning ethel appeared at the door of the house on riverside drive. she had not heard from ernest, and had been unable to obtain connection with him at the telephone. anxiety had hastened her steps. she brushed against jack, who was also directing his steps to the abode of reginald clarke. at the same time something that resembled ernest fielding passed from the house of the vampire. it was a dull and brutish thing, hideously transformed, without a vestige of mind. "mr. fielding," cried ethel, beside herself with fear as she saw him descending. "ernest!" jack gasped, no less startled at the change in his friend's appearance. ernest's head followed the source of the sound, but no spark of recognition illumined the deadness of his eyes. without a present and without a past ... blindly ... a gibbering idiot ... he stumbled down the stairs. carmilla j. sheridan lefanu 1872 prologue _upon a paper attached to the narrative which follows, doctor hesselius has written a rather elaborate note, which he accompanies with a reference to his essay on the strange subject which the ms. illuminates. this mysterious subject he treats, in that essay, with his usual learning and acumen, and with remarkable directness and condensation. it will form but one volume of the series of that extraordinary man's collected papers. as i publish the case, in this volume, simply to interest the "laity," i shall forestall the intelligent lady, who relates it, in nothing; and after due consideration, i have determined, therefore, to abstain from presenting any précis of the learned doctor's reasoning, or extract from his statement on a subject which he describes as "involving, not improbably, some of the profoundest arcana of our dual existence, and its intermediates." i was anxious on discovering this paper, to reopen the correspondence commenced by doctor hesselius, so many years before, with a person so clever and careful as his informant seems to have been. much to my regret, however, i found that she had died in the interval. she, probably, could have added little to the narrative _which she communicates in the following pages, with, so far as i can pronounce, such conscientious particularity_. i _an early fright_ in styria, we, though by no means magnificent people, inhabit a castle, or schloss. a small income, in that part of the world, goes a great way. eight or nine hundred a year does wonders. scantily enough ours would have answered among wealthy people at home. my father is english, and i bear an english name, although i never saw england. but here, in this lonely and primitive place, where everything is so marvelously cheap, i really don't see how ever so much more money would at all materially add to our comforts, or even luxuries. my father was in the austrian service, and retired upon a pension and his patrimony, and purchased this feudal residence, and the small estate on which it stands, a bargain. nothing can be more picturesque or solitary. it stands on a slight eminence in a forest. the road, very old and narrow, passes in front of its drawbridge, never raised in my time, and its moat, stocked with perch, and sailed over by many swans, and floating on its surface white fleets of water lilies. over all this the schloss shows its many-windowed front; its towers, and its gothic chapel. the forest opens in an irregular and very picturesque glade before its gate, and at the right a steep gothic bridge carries the road over a stream that winds in deep shadow through the wood. i have said that this is a very lonely place. judge whether i say truth. looking from the hall door towards the road, the forest in which our castle stands extends fifteen miles to the right, and twelve to the left. the nearest inhabited village is about seven of your english miles to the left. the nearest inhabited schloss of any historic associations, is that of old general spielsdorf, nearly twenty miles away to the right. i have said "the nearest _inhabited_ village," because there is, only three miles westward, that is to say in the direction of general spielsdorf's schloss, a ruined village, with its quaint little church, now roofless, in the aisle of which are the moldering tombs of the proud family of karnstein, now extinct, who once owned the equally desolate chateau which, in the thick of the forest, overlooks the silent ruins of the town. respecting the cause of the desertion of this striking and melancholy spot, there is a legend which i shall relate to you another time. i must tell you now, how very small is the party who constitute the inhabitants of our castle. i don't include servants, or those dependents who occupy rooms in the buildings attached to the schloss. listen, and wonder! my father, who is the kindest man on earth, but growing old; and i, at the date of my story, only nineteen. eight years have passed since then. i and my father constituted the family at the schloss. my mother, a styrian lady, died in my infancy, but i had a good-natured governess, who had been with me from, i might almost say, my infancy. i could not remember the time when her fat, benignant face was not a familiar picture in my memory. this was madame perrodon, a native of berne, whose care and good nature now in part supplied to me the loss of my mother, whom i do not even remember, so early i lost her. she made a third at our little dinner party. there was a fourth, mademoiselle de lafontaine, a lady such as you term, i believe, a "finishing governess." she spoke french and german, madame perrodon french and broken english, to which my father and i added english, which, partly to prevent its becoming a lost language among us, and partly from patriotic motives, we spoke every day. the consequence was a babel, at which strangers used to laugh, and which i shall make no attempt to reproduce in this narrative. and there were two or three young lady friends besides, pretty nearly of my own age, who were occasional visitors, for longer or shorter terms; and these visits i sometimes returned. these were our regular social resources; but of course there were chance visits from "neighbors" of only five or six leagues distance. my life was, notwithstanding, rather a solitary one, i can assure you. my gouvernantes had just so much control over me as you might conjecture such sage persons would have in the case of a rather spoiled girl, whose only parent allowed her pretty nearly her own way in everything. the first occurrence in my existence, which produced a terrible impression upon my mind, which, in fact, never has been effaced, was one of the very earliest incidents of my life which i can recollect. some people will think it so trifling that it should not be recorded here. you will see, however, by-and-by, why i mention it. the nursery, as it was called, though i had it all to myself, was a large room in the upper story of the castle, with a steep oak roof. i can't have been more than six years old, when one night i awoke, and looking round the room from my bed, failed to see the nursery maid. neither was my nurse there; and i thought myself alone. i was not frightened, for i was one of those happy children who are studiously kept in ignorance of ghost stories, of fairy tales, and of all such lore as makes us cover up our heads when the door cracks suddenly, or the flicker of an expiring candle makes the shadow of a bedpost dance upon the wall, nearer to our faces. i was vexed and insulted at finding myself, as i conceived, neglected, and i began to whimper, preparatory to a hearty bout of roaring; when to my surprise, i saw a solemn, but very pretty face looking at me from the side of the bed. it was that of a young lady who was kneeling, with her hands under the coverlet. i looked at her with a kind of pleased wonder, and ceased whimpering. she caressed me with her hands, and lay down beside me on the bed, and drew me towards her, smiling; i felt immediately delightfully soothed, and fell asleep again. i was wakened by a sensation as if two needles ran into my breast very deep at the same moment, and i cried loudly. the lady started back, with her eyes fixed on me, and then slipped down upon the floor, and, as i thought, hid herself under the bed. i was now for the first time frightened, and i yelled with all my might and main. nurse, nursery maid, housekeeper, all came running in, and hearing my story, they made light of it, soothing me all they could meanwhile. but, child as i was, i could perceive that their faces were pale with an unwonted look of anxiety, and i saw them look under the bed, and about the room, and peep under tables and pluck open cupboards; and the housekeeper whispered to the nurse: "lay your hand along that hollow in the bed; someone _did_ lie there, so sure as you did not; the place is still warm." i remember the nursery maid petting me, and all three examining my chest, where i told them i felt the puncture, and pronouncing that there was no sign visible that any such thing had happened to me. the housekeeper and the two other servants who were in charge of the nursery, remained sitting up all night; and from that time a servant always sat up in the nursery until i was about fourteen. i was very nervous for a long time after this. a doctor was called in, he was pallid and elderly. how well i remember his long saturnine face, slightly pitted with smallpox, and his chestnut wig. for a good while, every second day, he came and gave me medicine, which of course i hated. the morning after i saw this apparition i was in a state of terror, and could not bear to be left alone, daylight though it was, for a moment. i remember my father coming up and standing at the bedside, and talking cheerfully, and asking the nurse a number of questions, and laughing very heartily at one of the answers; and patting me on the shoulder, and kissing me, and telling me not to be frightened, that it was nothing but a dream and could not hurt me. but i was not comforted, for i knew the visit of the strange woman was _not_ a dream; and i was _awfully_ frightened. i was a little consoled by the nursery maid's assuring me that it was she who had come and looked at me, and lain down beside me in the bed, and that i must have been half-dreaming not to have known her face. but this, though supported by the nurse, did not quite satisfy me. i remembered, in the course of that day, a venerable old man, in a black cassock, coming into the room with the nurse and housekeeper, and talking a little to them, and very kindly to me; his face was very sweet and gentle, and he told me they were going to pray, and joined my hands together, and desired me to say, softly, while they were praying, "lord hear all good prayers for us, for jesus' sake." i think these were the very words, for i often repeated them to myself, and my nurse used for years to make me say them in my prayers. i remembered so well the thoughtful sweet face of that white-haired old man, in his black cassock, as he stood in that rude, lofty, brown room, with the clumsy furniture of a fashion three hundred years old about him, and the scanty light entering its shadowy atmosphere through the small lattice. he kneeled, and the three women with him, and he prayed aloud with an earnest quavering voice for, what appeared to me, a long time. i forget all my life preceding that event, and for some time after it is all obscure also, but the scenes i have just described stand out vivid as the isolated pictures of the phantasmagoria surrounded by darkness. ii _a guest_ i am now going to tell you something so strange that it will require all your faith in my veracity to believe my story. it is not only true, nevertheless, but truth of which i have been an eyewitness. it was a sweet summer evening, and my father asked me, as he sometimes did, to take a little ramble with him along that beautiful forest vista which i have mentioned as lying in front of the schloss. "general spielsdorf cannot come to us so soon as i had hoped," said my father, as we pursued our walk. he was to have paid us a visit of some weeks, and we had expected his arrival next day. he was to have brought with him a young lady, his niece and ward, mademoiselle rheinfeldt, whom i had never seen, but whom i had heard described as a very charming girl, and in whose society i had promised myself many happy days. i was more disappointed than a young lady living in a town, or a bustling neighborhood can possibly imagine. this visit, and the new acquaintance it promised, had furnished my day dream for many weeks. "and how soon does he come?" i asked. "not till autumn. not for two months, i dare say," he answered. "and i am very glad now, dear, that you never knew mademoiselle rheinfeldt." "and why?" i asked, both mortified and curious. "because the poor young lady is dead," he replied. "i quite forgot i had not told you, but you were not in the room when i received the general's letter this evening." i was very much shocked. general spielsdorf had mentioned in his first letter, six or seven weeks before, that she was not so well as he would wish her, but there was nothing to suggest the remotest suspicion of danger. "here is the general's letter," he said, handing it to me. "i am afraid he is in great affliction; the letter appears to me to have been written very nearly in distraction." we sat down on a rude bench, under a group of magnificent lime trees. the sun was setting with all its melancholy splendor behind the sylvan horizon, and the stream that flows beside our home, and passes under the steep old bridge i have mentioned, wound through many a group of noble trees, almost at our feet, reflecting in its current the fading crimson of the sky. general spielsdorf's letter was so extraordinary, so vehement, and in some places so self-contradictory, that i read it twice over--the second time aloud to my father--and was still unable to account for it, except by supposing that grief had unsettled his mind. it said "i have lost my darling daughter, for as such i loved her. during the last days of dear bertha's illness i was not able to write to you. "before then i had no idea of her danger. i have lost her, and now learn _all_, too late. she died in the peace of innocence, and in the glorious hope of a blessed futurity. the fiend who betrayed our infatuated hospitality has done it all. i thought i was receiving into my house innocence, gaiety, a charming companion for my lost bertha. heavens! what a fool have i been! "i thank god my child died without a suspicion of the cause of her sufferings. she is gone without so much as conjecturing the nature of her illness, and the accursed passion of the agent of all this misery. i devote my remaining days to tracking and extinguishing a monster. i am told i may hope to accomplish my righteous and merciful purpose. at present there is scarcely a gleam of light to guide me. i curse my conceited incredulity, my despicable affectation of superiority, my blindness, my obstinacy--all--too late. i cannot write or talk collectedly now. i am distracted. so soon as i shall have a little recovered, i mean to devote myself for a time to enquiry, which may possibly lead me as far as vienna. some time in the autumn, two months hence, or earlier if i live, i will see you--that is, if you permit me; i will then tell you all that i scarce dare put upon paper now. farewell. pray for me, dear friend." in these terms ended this strange letter. though i had never seen bertha rheinfeldt my eyes filled with tears at the sudden intelligence; i was startled, as well as profoundly disappointed. the sun had now set, and it was twilight by the time i had returned the general's letter to my father. it was a soft clear evening, and we loitered, speculating upon the possible meanings of the violent and incoherent sentences which i had just been reading. we had nearly a mile to walk before reaching the road that passes the schloss in front, and by that time the moon was shining brilliantly. at the drawbridge we met madame perrodon and mademoiselle de lafontaine, who had come out, without their bonnets, to enjoy the exquisite moonlight. we heard their voices gabbling in animated dialogue as we approached. we joined them at the drawbridge, and turned about to admire with them the beautiful scene. the glade through which we had just walked lay before us. at our left the narrow road wound away under clumps of lordly trees, and was lost to sight amid the thickening forest. at the right the same road crosses the steep and picturesque bridge, near which stands a ruined tower which once guarded that pass; and beyond the bridge an abrupt eminence rises, covered with trees, and showing in the shadows some grey ivy-clustered rocks. over the sward and low grounds a thin film of mist was stealing like smoke, marking the distances with a transparent veil; and here and there we could see the river faintly flashing in the moonlight. no softer, sweeter scene could be imagined. the news i had just heard made it melancholy; but nothing could disturb its character of profound serenity, and the enchanted glory and vagueness of the prospect. my father, who enjoyed the picturesque, and i, stood looking in silence over the expanse beneath us. the two good governesses, standing a little way behind us, discoursed upon the scene, and were eloquent upon the moon. madame perrodon was fat, middle-aged, and romantic, and talked and sighed poetically. mademoiselle de lafontaine--in right of her father who was a german, assumed to be psychological, metaphysical, and something of a mystic--now declared that when the moon shone with a light so intense it was well known that it indicated a special spiritual activity. the effect of the full moon in such a state of brilliancy was manifold. it acted on dreams, it acted on lunacy, it acted on nervous people, it had marvelous physical influences connected with life. mademoiselle related that her cousin, who was mate of a merchant ship, having taken a nap on deck on such a night, lying on his back, with his face full in the light on the moon, had wakened, after a dream of an old woman clawing him by the cheek, with his features horribly drawn to one side; and his countenance had never quite recovered its equilibrium. "the moon, this night," she said, "is full of idyllic and magnetic influence--and see, when you look behind you at the front of the schloss how all its windows flash and twinkle with that silvery splendor, as if unseen hands had lighted up the rooms to receive fairy guests." there are indolent styles of the spirits in which, indisposed to talk ourselves, the talk of others is pleasant to our listless ears; and i gazed on, pleased with the tinkle of the ladies' conversation. "i have got into one of my moping moods tonight," said my father, after a silence, and quoting shakespeare, whom, by way of keeping up our english, he used to read aloud, he said: "'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.' "i forget the rest. but i feel as if some great misfortune were hanging over us. i suppose the poor general's afflicted letter has had something to do with it." at this moment the unwonted sound of carriage wheels and many hoofs upon the road, arrested our attention. they seemed to be approaching from the high ground overlooking the bridge, and very soon the equipage emerged from that point. two horsemen first crossed the bridge, then came a carriage drawn by four horses, and two men rode behind. it seemed to be the traveling carriage of a person of rank; and we were all immediately absorbed in watching that very unusual spectacle. it became, in a few moments, greatly more interesting, for just as the carriage had passed the summit of the steep bridge, one of the leaders, taking fright, communicated his panic to the rest, and after a plunge or two, the whole team broke into a wild gallop together, and dashing between the horsemen who rode in front, came thundering along the road towards us with the speed of a hurricane. the excitement of the scene was made more painful by the clear, long-drawn screams of a female voice from the carriage window. we all advanced in curiosity and horror; me rather in silence, the rest with various ejaculations of terror. our suspense did not last long. just before you reach the castle drawbridge, on the route they were coming, there stands by the roadside a magnificent lime tree, on the other stands an ancient stone cross, at sight of which the horses, now going at a pace that was perfectly frightful, swerved so as to bring the wheel over the projecting roots of the tree. i knew what was coming. i covered my eyes, unable to see it out, and turned my head away; at the same moment i heard a cry from my lady friends, who had gone on a little. curiosity opened my eyes, and i saw a scene of utter confusion. two of the horses were on the ground, the carriage lay upon its side with two wheels in the air; the men were busy removing the traces, and a lady with a commanding air and figure had got out, and stood with clasped hands, raising the handkerchief that was in them every now and then to her eyes. through the carriage door was now lifted a young lady, who appeared to be lifeless. my dear old father was already beside the elder lady, with his hat in his hand, evidently tendering his aid and the resources of his schloss. the lady did not appear to hear him, or to have eyes for anything but the slender girl who was being placed against the slope of the bank. i approached; the young lady was apparently stunned, but she was certainly not dead. my father, who piqued himself on being something of a physician, had just had his fingers on her wrist and assured the lady, who declared herself her mother, that her pulse, though faint and irregular, was undoubtedly still distinguishable. the lady clasped her hands and looked upward, as if in a momentary transport of gratitude; but immediately she broke out again in that theatrical way which is, i believe, natural to some people. she was what is called a fine looking woman for her time of life, and must have been handsome; she was tall, but not thin, and dressed in black velvet, and looked rather pale, but with a proud and commanding countenance, though now agitated strangely. "who was ever being so born to calamity?" i heard her say, with clasped hands, as i came up. "here am i, on a journey of life and death, in prosecuting which to lose an hour is possibly to lose all. my child will not have recovered sufficiently to resume her route for who can say how long. i must leave her: i cannot, dare not, delay. how far on, sir, can you tell, is the nearest village? i must leave her there; and shall not see my darling, or even hear of her till my return, three months hence." i plucked my father by the coat, and whispered earnestly in his ear: "oh! papa, pray ask her to let her stay with us--it would be so delightful. do, pray." "if madame will entrust her child to the care of my daughter, and of her good gouvernante, madame perrodon, and permit her to remain as our guest, under my charge, until her return, it will confer a distinction and an obligation upon us, and we shall treat her with all the care and devotion which so sacred a trust deserves." "i cannot do that, sir, it would be to task your kindness and chivalry too cruelly," said the lady, distractedly. "it would, on the contrary, be to confer on us a very great kindness at the moment when we most need it. my daughter has just been disappointed by a cruel misfortune, in a visit from which she had long anticipated a great deal of happiness. if you confide this young lady to our care it will be her best consolation. the nearest village on your route is distant, and affords no such inn as you could think of placing your daughter at; you cannot allow her to continue her journey for any considerable distance without danger. if, as you say, you cannot suspend your journey, you must part with her tonight, and nowhere could you do so with more honest assurances of care and tenderness than here." there was something in this lady's air and appearance so distinguished and even imposing, and in her manner so engaging, as to impress one, quite apart from the dignity of her equipage, with a conviction that she was a person of consequence. by this time the carriage was replaced in its upright position, and the horses, quite tractable, in the traces again. the lady threw on her daughter a glance which i fancied was not quite so affectionate as one might have anticipated from the beginning of the scene; then she beckoned slightly to my father, and withdrew two or three steps with him out of hearing; and talked to him with a fixed and stern countenance, not at all like that with which she had hitherto spoken. i was filled with wonder that my father did not seem to perceive the change, and also unspeakably curious to learn what it could be that she was speaking, almost in his ear, with so much earnestness and rapidity. two or three minutes at most i think she remained thus employed, then she turned, and a few steps brought her to where her daughter lay, supported by madame perrodon. she kneeled beside her for a moment and whispered, as madame supposed, a little benediction in her ear; then hastily kissing her she stepped into her carriage, the door was closed, the footmen in stately liveries jumped up behind, the outriders spurred on, the postilions cracked their whips, the horses plunged and broke suddenly into a furious canter that threatened soon again to become a gallop, and the carriage whirled away, followed at the same rapid pace by the two horsemen in the rear. iii _we compare notes_ we followed the _cortege_ with our eyes until it was swiftly lost to sight in the misty wood; and the very sound of the hoofs and the wheels died away in the silent night air. nothing remained to assure us that the adventure had not been an illusion of a moment but the young lady, who just at that moment opened her eyes. i could not see, for her face was turned from me, but she raised her head, evidently looking about her, and i heard a very sweet voice ask complainingly, "where is mamma?" our good madame perrodon answered tenderly, and added some comfortable assurances. i then heard her ask: "where am i? what is this place?" and after that she said, "i don't see the carriage; and matska, where is she?" madame answered all her questions in so far as she understood them; and gradually the young lady remembered how the misadventure came about, and was glad to hear that no one in, or in attendance on, the carriage was hurt; and on learning that her mamma had left her here, till her return in about three months, she wept. i was going to add my consolations to those of madame perrodon when mademoiselle de lafontaine placed her hand upon my arm, saying: "don't approach, one at a time is as much as she can at present converse with; a very little excitement would possibly overpower her now." as soon as she is comfortably in bed, i thought, i will run up to her room and see her. my father in the meantime had sent a servant on horseback for the physician, who lived about two leagues away; and a bedroom was being prepared for the young lady's reception. the stranger now rose, and leaning on madame's arm, walked slowly over the drawbridge and into the castle gate. in the hall, servants waited to receive her, and she was conducted forthwith to her room. the room we usually sat in as our drawing room is long, having four windows, that looked over the moat and drawbridge, upon the forest scene i have just described. it is furnished in old carved oak, with large carved cabinets, and the chairs are cushioned with crimson utrecht velvet. the walls are covered with tapestry, and surrounded with great gold frames, the figures being as large as life, in ancient and very curious costume, and the subjects represented are hunting, hawking, and generally festive. it is not too stately to be extremely comfortable; and here we had our tea, for with his usual patriotic leanings he insisted that the national beverage should make its appearance regularly with our coffee and chocolate. we sat here this night, and with candles lighted, were talking over the adventure of the evening. madame perrodon and mademoiselle de lafontaine were both of our party. the young stranger had hardly lain down in her bed when she sank into a deep sleep; and those ladies had left her in the care of a servant. "how do you like our guest?" i asked, as soon as madame entered. "tell me all about her?" "i like her extremely," answered madame, "she is, i almost think, the prettiest creature i ever saw; about your age, and so gentle and nice." "she is absolutely beautiful," threw in mademoiselle, who had peeped for a moment into the stranger's room. "and such a sweet voice!" added madame perrodon. "did you remark a woman in the carriage, after it was set up again, who did not get out," inquired mademoiselle, "but only looked from the window?" "no, we had not seen her." then she described a hideous black woman, with a sort of colored turban on her head, and who was gazing all the time from the carriage window, nodding and grinning derisively towards the ladies, with gleaming eyes and large white eyeballs, and her teeth set as if in fury. "did you remark what an ill-looking pack of men the servants were?" asked madame. "yes," said my father, who had just come in, "ugly, hang-dog looking fellows as ever i beheld in my life. i hope they mayn't rob the poor lady in the forest. they are clever rogues, however; they got everything to rights in a minute." "i dare say they are worn out with too long traveling," said madame. "besides looking wicked, their faces were so strangely lean, and dark, and sullen. i am very curious, i own; but i dare say the young lady will tell you all about it tomorrow, if she is sufficiently recovered." "i don't think she will," said my father, with a mysterious smile, and a little nod of his head, as if he knew more about it than he cared to tell us. this made us all the more inquisitive as to what had passed between him and the lady in the black velvet, in the brief but earnest interview that had immediately preceded her departure. we were scarcely alone, when i entreated him to tell me. he did not need much pressing. "there is no particular reason why i should not tell you. she expressed a reluctance to trouble us with the care of her daughter, saying she was in delicate health, and nervous, but not subject to any kind of seizure--she volunteered that--nor to any illusion; being, in fact, perfectly sane." "how very odd to say all that!" i interpolated. "it was so unnecessary." "at all events it _was_ said," he laughed, "and as you wish to know all that passed, which was indeed very little, i tell you. she then said, 'i am making a long journey of _vital_ importance--she emphasized the word--rapid and secret; i shall return for my child in three months; in the meantime, she will be silent as to who we are, whence we come, and whither we are traveling.' that is all she said. she spoke very pure french. when she said the word 'secret,' she paused for a few seconds, looking sternly, her eyes fixed on mine. i fancy she makes a great point of that. you saw how quickly she was gone. i hope i have not done a very foolish thing, in taking charge of the young lady." for my part, i was delighted. i was longing to see and talk to her; and only waiting till the doctor should give me leave. you, who live in towns, can have no idea how great an event the introduction of a new friend is, in such a solitude as surrounded us. the doctor did not arrive till nearly one o'clock; but i could no more have gone to my bed and slept, than i could have overtaken, on foot, the carriage in which the princess in black velvet had driven away. when the physician came down to the drawing room, it was to report very favorably upon his patient. she was now sitting up, her pulse quite regular, apparently perfectly well. she had sustained no injury, and the little shock to her nerves had passed away quite harmlessly. there could be no harm certainly in my seeing her, if we both wished it; and, with this permission i sent, forthwith, to know whether she would allow me to visit her for a few minutes in her room. the servant returned immediately to say that she desired nothing more. you may be sure i was not long in availing myself of this permission. our visitor lay in one of the handsomest rooms in the schloss. it was, perhaps, a little stately. there was a somber piece of tapestry opposite the foot of the bed, representing cleopatra with the asps to her bosom; and other solemn classic scenes were displayed, a little faded, upon the other walls. but there was gold carving, and rich and varied color enough in the other decorations of the room, to more than redeem the gloom of the old tapestry. there were candles at the bedside. she was sitting up; her slender pretty figure enveloped in the soft silk dressing gown, embroidered with flowers, and lined with thick quilted silk, which her mother had thrown over her feet as she lay upon the ground. what was it that, as i reached the bedside and had just begun my little greeting, struck me dumb in a moment, and made me recoil a step or two from before her? i will tell you. i saw the very face which had visited me in my childhood at night, which remained so fixed in my memory, and on which i had for so many years so often ruminated with horror, when no one suspected of what i was thinking. it was pretty, even beautiful; and when i first beheld it, wore the same melancholy expression. but this almost instantly lighted into a strange fixed smile of recognition. there was a silence of fully a minute, and then at length she spoke; i could not. "how wonderful!" she exclaimed. "twelve years ago, i saw your face in a dream, and it has haunted me ever since." "wonderful indeed!" i repeated, overcoming with an effort the horror that had for a time suspended my utterances. "twelve years ago, in vision or reality, i certainly saw you. i could not forget your face. it has remained before my eyes ever since." her smile had softened. whatever i had fancied strange in it, was gone, and it and her dimpling cheeks were now delightfully pretty and intelligent. i felt reassured, and continued more in the vein which hospitality indicated, to bid her welcome, and to tell her how much pleasure her accidental arrival had given us all, and especially what a happiness it was to me. i took her hand as i spoke. i was a little shy, as lonely people are, but the situation made me eloquent, and even bold. she pressed my hand, she laid hers upon it, and her eyes glowed, as, looking hastily into mine, she smiled again, and blushed. she answered my welcome very prettily. i sat down beside her, still wondering; and she said: "i must tell you my vision about you; it is so very strange that you and i should have had, each of the other so vivid a dream, that each should have seen, i you and you me, looking as we do now, when of course we both were mere children. i was a child, about six years old, and i awoke from a confused and troubled dream, and found myself in a room, unlike my nursery, wainscoted clumsily in some dark wood, and with cupboards and bedsteads, and chairs, and benches placed about it. the beds were, i thought, all empty, and the room itself without anyone but myself in it; and i, after looking about me for some time, and admiring especially an iron candlestick with two branches, which i should certainly know again, crept under one of the beds to reach the window; but as i got from under the bed, i heard someone crying; and looking up, while i was still upon my knees, i saw you--most assuredly you--as i see you now; a beautiful young lady, with golden hair and large blue eyes, and lips--your lips--you as you are here. "your looks won me; i climbed on the bed and put my arms about you, and i think we both fell asleep. i was aroused by a scream; you were sitting up screaming. i was frightened, and slipped down upon the ground, and, it seemed to me, lost consciousness for a moment; and when i came to myself, i was again in my nursery at home. your face i have never forgotten since. i could not be misled by mere resemblance. _you are_ the lady whom i saw then." it was now my turn to relate my corresponding vision, which i did, to the undisguised wonder of my new acquaintance. "i don't know which should be most afraid of the other," she said, again smiling--"if you were less pretty i think i should be very much afraid of you, but being as you are, and you and i both so young, i feel only that i have made your acquaintance twelve years ago, and have already a right to your intimacy; at all events it does seem as if we were destined, from our earliest childhood, to be friends. i wonder whether you feel as strangely drawn towards me as i do to you; i have never had a friend--shall i find one now?" she sighed, and her fine dark eyes gazed passionately on me. now the truth is, i felt rather unaccountably towards the beautiful stranger. i did feel, as she said, "drawn towards her," but there was also something of repulsion. in this ambiguous feeling, however, the sense of attraction immensely prevailed. she interested and won me; she was so beautiful and so indescribably engaging. i perceived now something of languor and exhaustion stealing over her, and hastened to bid her good night. "the doctor thinks," i added, "that you ought to have a maid to sit up with you tonight; one of ours is waiting, and you will find her a very useful and quiet creature." "how kind of you, but i could not sleep, i never could with an attendant in the room. i shan't require any assistance--and, shall i confess my weakness, i am haunted with a terror of robbers. our house was robbed once, and two servants murdered, so i always lock my door. it has become a habit--and you look so kind i know you will forgive me. i see there is a key in the lock." she held me close in her pretty arms for a moment and whispered in my ear, "good night, darling, it is very hard to part with you, but good night; tomorrow, but not early, i shall see you again." she sank back on the pillow with a sigh, and her fine eyes followed me with a fond and melancholy gaze, and she murmured again "good night, dear friend." young people like, and even love, on impulse. i was flattered by the evident, though as yet undeserved, fondness she showed me. i liked the confidence with which she at once received me. she was determined that we should be very near friends. next day came and we met again. i was delighted with my companion; that is to say, in many respects. her looks lost nothing in daylight--she was certainly the most beautiful creature i had ever seen, and the unpleasant remembrance of the face presented in my early dream, had lost the effect of the first unexpected recognition. she confessed that she had experienced a similar shock on seeing me, and precisely the same faint antipathy that had mingled with my admiration of her. we now laughed together over our momentary horrors. iv _her habits--a saunter_ i told you that i was charmed with her in most particulars. there were some that did not please me so well. she was above the middle height of women. i shall begin by describing her. she was slender, and wonderfully graceful. except that her movements were languid--very languid--indeed, there was nothing in her appearance to indicate an invalid. her complexion was rich and brilliant; her features were small and beautifully formed; her eyes large, dark, and lustrous; her hair was quite wonderful, i never saw hair so magnificently thick and long when it was down about her shoulders; i have often placed my hands under it, and laughed with wonder at its weight. it was exquisitely fine and soft, and in color a rich very dark brown, with something of gold. i loved to let it down, tumbling with its own weight, as, in her room, she lay back in her chair talking in her sweet low voice, i used to fold and braid it, and spread it out and play with it. heavens! if i had but known all! i said there were particulars which did not please me. i have told you that her confidence won me the first night i saw her; but i found that she exercised with respect to herself, her mother, her history, everything in fact connected with her life, plans, and people, an ever wakeful reserve. i dare say i was unreasonable, perhaps i was wrong; i dare say i ought to have respected the solemn injunction laid upon my father by the stately lady in black velvet. but curiosity is a restless and unscrupulous passion, and no one girl can endure, with patience, that hers should be baffled by another. what harm could it do anyone to tell me what i so ardently desired to know? had she no trust in my good sense or honor? why would she not believe me when i assured her, so solemnly, that i would not divulge one syllable of what she told me to any mortal breathing. there was a coldness, it seemed to me, beyond her years, in her smiling melancholy persistent refusal to afford me the least ray of light. i cannot say we quarreled upon this point, for she would not quarrel upon any. it was, of course, very unfair of me to press her, very ill-bred, but i really could not help it; and i might just as well have let it alone. what she did tell me amounted, in my unconscionable estimation--to nothing. it was all summed up in three very vague disclosures: first--her name was carmilla. second--her family was very ancient and noble. third--her home lay in the direction of the west. she would not tell me the name of her family, nor their armorial bearings, nor the name of their estate, nor even that of the country they lived in. you are not to suppose that i worried her incessantly on these subjects. i watched opportunity, and rather insinuated than urged my inquiries. once or twice, indeed, i did attack her more directly. but no matter what my tactics, utter failure was invariably the result. reproaches and caresses were all lost upon her. but i must add this, that her evasion was conducted with so pretty a melancholy and deprecation, with so many, and even passionate declarations of her liking for me, and trust in my honor, and with so many promises that i should at last know all, that i could not find it in my heart long to be offended with her. she used to place her pretty arms about my neck, draw me to her, and laying her cheek to mine, murmur with her lips near my ear, "dearest, your little heart is wounded; think me not cruel because i obey the irresistible law of my strength and weakness; if your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours. in the rapture of my enormous humiliation i live in your warm life, and you shall die--die, sweetly die--into mine. i cannot help it; as i draw near to you, you, in your turn, will draw near to others, and learn the rapture of that cruelty, which yet is love; so, for a while, seek to know no more of me and mine, but trust me with all your loving spirit." and when she had spoken such a rhapsody, she would press me more closely in her trembling embrace, and her lips in soft kisses gently glow upon my cheek. her agitations and her language were unintelligible to me. from these foolish embraces, which were not of very frequent occurrence, i must allow, i used to wish to extricate myself; but my energies seemed to fail me. her murmured words sounded like a lullaby in my ear, and soothed my resistance into a trance, from which i only seemed to recover myself when she withdrew her arms. in these mysterious moods i did not like her. i experienced a strange tumultuous excitement that was pleasurable, ever and anon, mingled with a vague sense of fear and disgust. i had no distinct thoughts about her while such scenes lasted, but i was conscious of a love growing into adoration, and also of abhorrence. this i know is paradox, but i can make no other attempt to explain the feeling. i now write, after an interval of more than ten years, with a trembling hand, with a confused and horrible recollection of certain occurrences and situations, in the ordeal through which i was unconsciously passing; though with a vivid and very sharp remembrance of the main current of my story. but, i suspect, in all lives there are certain emotional scenes, those in which our passions have been most wildly and terribly roused, that are of all others the most vaguely and dimly remembered. sometimes after an hour of apathy, my strange and beautiful companion would take my hand and hold it with a fond pressure, renewed again and again; blushing softly, gazing in my face with languid and burning eyes, and breathing so fast that her dress rose and fell with the tumultuous respiration. it was like the ardor of a lover; it embarrassed me; it was hateful and yet over-powering; and with gloating eyes she drew me to her, and her hot lips traveled along my cheek in kisses; and she would whisper, almost in sobs, "you are mine, you _shall_ be mine, you and i are one for ever." then she had thrown herself back in her chair, with her small hands over her eyes, leaving me trembling. "are we related," i used to ask; "what can you mean by all this? i remind you perhaps of someone whom you love; but you must not, i hate it; i don't know you--i don't know myself when you look so and talk so." she used to sigh at my vehemence, then turn away and drop my hand. respecting these very extraordinary manifestations i strove in vain to form any satisfactory theory--i could not refer them to affectation or trick. it was unmistakably the momentary breaking out of suppressed instinct and emotion. was she, notwithstanding her mother's volunteered denial, subject to brief visitations of insanity; or was there here a disguise and a romance? i had read in old storybooks of such things. what if a boyish lover had found his way into the house, and sought to prosecute his suit in masquerade, with the assistance of a clever old adventuress. but there were many things against this hypothesis, highly interesting as it was to my vanity. i could boast of no little attentions such as masculine gallantry delights to offer. between these passionate moments there were long intervals of commonplace, of gaiety, of brooding melancholy, during which, except that i detected her eyes so full of melancholy fire, following me, at times i might have been as nothing to her. except in these brief periods of mysterious excitement her ways were girlish; and there was always a languor about her, quite incompatible with a masculine system in a state of health. in some respects her habits were odd. perhaps not so singular in the opinion of a town lady like you, as they appeared to us rustic people. she used to come down very late, generally not till one o'clock, she would then take a cup of chocolate, but eat nothing; we then went out for a walk, which was a mere saunter, and she seemed, almost immediately, exhausted, and either returned to the schloss or sat on one of the benches that were placed, here and there, among the trees. this was a bodily languor in which her mind did not sympathize. she was always an animated talker, and very intelligent. she sometimes alluded for a moment to her own home, or mentioned an adventure or situation, or an early recollection, which indicated a people of strange manners, and described customs of which we knew nothing. i gathered from these chance hints that her native country was much more remote than i had at first fancied. as we sat thus one afternoon under the trees a funeral passed us by. it was that of a pretty young girl, whom i had often seen, the daughter of one of the rangers of the forest. the poor man was walking behind the coffin of his darling; she was his only child, and he looked quite heartbroken. peasants walking two-and-two came behind, they were singing a funeral hymn. i rose to mark my respect as they passed, and joined in the hymn they were very sweetly singing. my companion shook me a little roughly, and i turned surprised. she said brusquely, "don't you perceive how discordant that is?" "i think it very sweet, on the contrary," i answered, vexed at the interruption, and very uncomfortable, lest the people who composed the little procession should observe and resent what was passing. i resumed, therefore, instantly, and was again interrupted. "you pierce my ears," said carmilla, almost angrily, and stopping her ears with her tiny fingers. "besides, how can you tell that your religion and mine are the same; your forms wound me, and i hate funerals. what a fuss! why you must die--_everyone_ must die; and all are happier when they do. come home." "my father has gone on with the clergyman to the churchyard. i thought you knew she was to be buried today." "she? i don't trouble my head about peasants. i don't know who she is," answered carmilla, with a flash from her fine eyes. "she is the poor girl who fancied she saw a ghost a fortnight ago, and has been dying ever since, till yesterday, when she expired." "tell me nothing about ghosts. i shan't sleep tonight if you do." "i hope there is no plague or fever coming; all this looks very like it," i continued. "the swineherd's young wife died only a week ago, and she thought something seized her by the throat as she lay in her bed, and nearly strangled her. papa says such horrible fancies do accompany some forms of fever. she was quite well the day before. she sank afterwards, and died before a week." "well, _her_ funeral is over, i hope, and _her_ hymn sung; and our ears shan't be tortured with that discord and jargon. it has made me nervous. sit down here, beside me; sit close; hold my hand; press it hard-hard-harder." we had moved a little back, and had come to another seat. she sat down. her face underwent a change that alarmed and even terrified me for a moment. it darkened, and became horribly livid; her teeth and hands were clenched, and she frowned and compressed her lips, while she stared down upon the ground at her feet, and trembled all over with a continued shudder as irrepressible as ague. all her energies seemed strained to suppress a fit, with which she was then breathlessly tugging; and at length a low convulsive cry of suffering broke from her, and gradually the hysteria subsided. "there! that comes of strangling people with hymns!" she said at last. "hold me, hold me still. it is passing away." and so gradually it did; and perhaps to dissipate the somber impression which the spectacle had left upon me, she became unusually animated and chatty; and so we got home. this was the first time i had seen her exhibit any definable symptoms of that delicacy of health which her mother had spoken of. it was the first time, also, i had seen her exhibit anything like temper. both passed away like a summer cloud; and never but once afterwards did i witness on her part a momentary sign of anger. i will tell you how it happened. she and i were looking out of one of the long drawing room windows, when there entered the courtyard, over the drawbridge, a figure of a wanderer whom i knew very well. he used to visit the schloss generally twice a year. it was the figure of a hunchback, with the sharp lean features that generally accompany deformity. he wore a pointed black beard, and he was smiling from ear to ear, showing his white fangs. he was dressed in buff, black, and scarlet, and crossed with more straps and belts than i could count, from which hung all manner of things. behind, he carried a magic lantern, and two boxes, which i well knew, in one of which was a salamander, and in the other a mandrake. these monsters used to make my father laugh. they were compounded of parts of monkeys, parrots, squirrels, fish, and hedgehogs, dried and stitched together with great neatness and startling effect. he had a fiddle, a box of conjuring apparatus, a pair of foils and masks attached to his belt, several other mysterious cases dangling about him, and a black staff with copper ferrules in his hand. his companion was a rough spare dog, that followed at his heels, but stopped short, suspiciously at the drawbridge, and in a little while began to howl dismally. in the meantime, the mountebank, standing in the midst of the courtyard, raised his grotesque hat, and made us a very ceremonious bow, paying his compliments very volubly in execrable french, and german not much better. then, disengaging his fiddle, he began to scrape a lively air to which he sang with a merry discord, dancing with ludicrous airs and activity, that made me laugh, in spite of the dog's howling. then he advanced to the window with many smiles and salutations, and his hat in his left hand, his fiddle under his arm, and with a fluency that never took breath, he gabbled a long advertisement of all his accomplishments, and the resources of the various arts which he placed at our service, and the curiosities and entertainments which it was in his power, at our bidding, to display. "will your ladyships be pleased to buy an amulet against the oupire, which is going like the wolf, i hear, through these woods," he said dropping his hat on the pavement. "they are dying of it right and left and here is a charm that never fails; only pinned to the pillow, and you may laugh in his face." these charms consisted of oblong slips of vellum, with cabalistic ciphers and diagrams upon them. carmilla instantly purchased one, and so did i. he was looking up, and we were smiling down upon him, amused; at least, i can answer for myself. his piercing black eye, as he looked up in our faces, seemed to detect something that fixed for a moment his curiosity. in an instant he unrolled a leather case, full of all manner of odd little steel instruments. "see here, my lady," he said, displaying it, and addressing me, "i profess, among other things less useful, the art of dentistry. plague take the dog!" he interpolated. "silence, beast! he howls so that your ladyships can scarcely hear a word. your noble friend, the young lady at your right, has the sharpest tooth,--long, thin, pointed, like an awl, like a needle; ha, ha! with my sharp and long sight, as i look up, i have seen it distinctly; now if it happens to hurt the young lady, and i think it must, here am i, here are my file, my punch, my nippers; i will make it round and blunt, if her ladyship pleases; no longer the tooth of a fish, but of a beautiful young lady as she is. hey? is the young lady displeased? have i been too bold? have i offended her?" the young lady, indeed, looked very angry as she drew back from the window. "how dares that mountebank insult us so? where is your father? i shall demand redress from him. my father would have had the wretch tied up to the pump, and flogged with a cart whip, and burnt to the bones with the cattle brand!" she retired from the window a step or two, and sat down, and had hardly lost sight of the offender, when her wrath subsided as suddenly as it had risen, and she gradually recovered her usual tone, and seemed to forget the little hunchback and his follies. my father was out of spirits that evening. on coming in he told us that there had been another case very similar to the two fatal ones which had lately occurred. the sister of a young peasant on his estate, only a mile away, was very ill, had been, as she described it, attacked very nearly in the same way, and was now slowly but steadily sinking. "all this," said my father, "is strictly referable to natural causes. these poor people infect one another with their superstitions, and so repeat in imagination the images of terror that have infested their neighbors." "but that very circumstance frightens one horribly," said carmilla. "how so?" inquired my father. "i am so afraid of fancying i see such things; i think it would be as bad as reality." "we are in god's hands: nothing can happen without his permission, and all will end well for those who love him. he is our faithful creator; he has made us all, and will take care of us." "creator! _nature!_" said the young lady in answer to my gentle father. "and this disease that invades the country is natural. nature. all things proceed from nature--don't they? all things in the heaven, in the earth, and under the earth, act and live as nature ordains? i think so." "the doctor said he would come here today," said my father, after a silence. "i want to know what he thinks about it, and what he thinks we had better do." "doctors never did me any good," said carmilla. "then you have been ill?" i asked. "more ill than ever you were," she answered. "long ago?" "yes, a long time. i suffered from this very illness; but i forget all but my pain and weakness, and they were not so bad as are suffered in other diseases." "you were very young then?" "i dare say, let us talk no more of it. you would not wound a friend?" she looked languidly in my eyes, and passed her arm round my waist lovingly, and led me out of the room. my father was busy over some papers near the window. "why does your papa like to frighten us?" said the pretty girl with a sigh and a little shudder. "he doesn't, dear carmilla, it is the very furthest thing from his mind." "are you afraid, dearest?" "i should be very much if i fancied there was any real danger of my being attacked as those poor people were." "you are afraid to die?" "yes, every one is." "but to die as lovers may--to die together, so that they may live together. "girls are caterpillars while they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes; but in the meantime there are grubs and larvae, don't you see--each with their peculiar propensities, necessities and structure. so says monsieur buffon, in his big book, in the next room." later in the day the doctor came, and was closeted with papa for some time. he was a skilful man, of sixty and upwards, he wore powder, and shaved his pale face as smooth as a pumpkin. he and papa emerged from the room together, and i heard papa laugh, and say as they came out: "well, i do wonder at a wise man like you. what do you say to hippogriffs and dragons?" the doctor was smiling, and made answer, shaking his head-"nevertheless life and death are mysterious states, and we know little of the resources of either." and so they walked on, and i heard no more. i did not then know what the doctor had been broaching, but i think i guess it now. v _a wonderful likeness_ this evening there arrived from gratz the grave, dark-faced son of the picture cleaner, with a horse and cart laden with two large packing cases, having many pictures in each. it was a journey of ten leagues, and whenever a messenger arrived at the schloss from our little capital of gratz, we used to crowd about him in the hall, to hear the news. this arrival created in our secluded quarters quite a sensation. the cases remained in the hall, and the messenger was taken charge of by the servants till he had eaten his supper. then with assistants, and armed with hammer, ripping chisel, and turnscrew, he met us in the hall, where we had assembled to witness the unpacking of the cases. carmilla sat looking listlessly on, while one after the other the old pictures, nearly all portraits, which had undergone the process of renovation, were brought to light. my mother was of an old hungarian family, and most of these pictures, which were about to be restored to their places, had come to us through her. my father had a list in his hand, from which he read, as the artist rummaged out the corresponding numbers. i don't know that the pictures were very good, but they were, undoubtedly, very old, and some of them very curious also. they had, for the most part, the merit of being now seen by me, i may say, for the first time; for the smoke and dust of time had all but obliterated them. "there is a picture that i have not seen yet," said my father. "in one corner, at the top of it, is the name, as well as i could read, 'marcia karnstein,' and the date '1698'; and i am curious to see how it has turned out." i remembered it; it was a small picture, about a foot and a half high, and nearly square, without a frame; but it was so blackened by age that i could not make it out. the artist now produced it, with evident pride. it was quite beautiful; it was startling; it seemed to live. it was the effigy of carmilla! "carmilla, dear, here is an absolute miracle. here you are, living, smiling, ready to speak, in this picture. isn't it beautiful, papa? and see, even the little mole on her throat." my father laughed, and said "certainly it is a wonderful likeness," but he looked away, and to my surprise seemed but little struck by it, and went on talking to the picture cleaner, who was also something of an artist, and discoursed with intelligence about the portraits or other works, which his art had just brought into light and color, while i was more and more lost in wonder the more i looked at the picture. "will you let me hang this picture in my room, papa?" i asked. "certainly, dear," said he, smiling, "i'm very glad you think it so like. it must be prettier even than i thought it, if it is." the young lady did not acknowledge this pretty speech, did not seem to hear it. she was leaning back in her seat, her fine eyes under their long lashes gazing on me in contemplation, and she smiled in a kind of rapture. "and now you can read quite plainly the name that is written in the corner. it is not marcia; it looks as if it was done in gold. the name is mircalla, countess karnstein, and this is a little coronet over and underneath a.d. 1698. i am descended from the karnsteins; that is, mamma was." "ah!" said the lady, languidly, "so am i, i think, a very long descent, very ancient. are there any karnsteins living now?" "none who bear the name, i believe. the family were ruined, i believe, in some civil wars, long ago, but the ruins of the castle are only about three miles away." "how interesting!" she said, languidly. "but see what beautiful moonlight!" she glanced through the hall door, which stood a little open. "suppose you take a little ramble round the court, and look down at the road and river." "it is so like the night you came to us," i said. she sighed; smiling. she rose, and each with her arm about the other's waist, we walked out upon the pavement. in silence, slowly we walked down to the drawbridge, where the beautiful landscape opened before us. "and so you were thinking of the night i came here?" she almost whispered. "are you glad i came?" "delighted, dear carmilla," i answered. "and you asked for the picture you think like me, to hang in your room," she murmured with a sigh, as she drew her arm closer about my waist, and let her pretty head sink upon my shoulder. "how romantic you are, carmilla," i said. "whenever you tell me your story, it will be made up chiefly of some one great romance." she kissed me silently. "i am sure, carmilla, you have been in love; that there is, at this moment, an affair of the heart going on." "i have been in love with no one, and never shall," she whispered, "unless it should be with you." how beautiful she looked in the moonlight! shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled. her soft cheek was glowing against mine. "darling, darling," she murmured, "i live in you; and you would die for me, i love you so." i started from her. she was gazing on me with eyes from which all fire, all meaning had flown, and a face colorless and apathetic. "is there a chill in the air, dear?" she said drowsily. "i almost shiver; have i been dreaming? let us come in. come; come; come in." "you look ill, carmilla; a little faint. you certainly must take some wine," i said. "yes. i will. i'm better now. i shall be quite well in a few minutes. yes, do give me a little wine," answered carmilla, as we approached the door. "let us look again for a moment; it is the last time, perhaps, i shall see the moonlight with you." "how do you feel now, dear carmilla? are you really better?" i asked. i was beginning to take alarm, lest she should have been stricken with the strange epidemic that they said had invaded the country about us. "papa would be grieved beyond measure," i added, "if he thought you were ever so little ill, without immediately letting us know. we have a very skilful doctor near us, the physician who was with papa today." "i'm sure he is. i know how kind you all are; but, dear child, i am quite well again. there is nothing ever wrong with me, but a little weakness. "people say i am languid; i am incapable of exertion; i can scarcely walk as far as a child of three years old: and every now and then the little strength i have falters, and i become as you have just seen me. but after all i am very easily set up again; in a moment i am perfectly myself. see how i have recovered." so, indeed, she had; and she and i talked a great deal, and very animated she was; and the remainder of that evening passed without any recurrence of what i called her infatuations. i mean her crazy talk and looks, which embarrassed, and even frightened me. but there occurred that night an event which gave my thoughts quite a new turn, and seemed to startle even carmilla's languid nature into momentary energy. vi _a very strange agony_ when we got into the drawing room, and had sat down to our coffee and chocolate, although carmilla did not take any, she seemed quite herself again, and madame, and mademoiselle de lafontaine, joined us, and made a little card party, in the course of which papa came in for what he called his "dish of tea." when the game was over he sat down beside carmilla on the sofa, and asked her, a little anxiously, whether she had heard from her mother since her arrival. she answered "no." he then asked whether she knew where a letter would reach her at present. "i cannot tell," she answered ambiguously, "but i have been thinking of leaving you; you have been already too hospitable and too kind to me. i have given you an infinity of trouble, and i should wish to take a carriage tomorrow, and post in pursuit of her; i know where i shall ultimately find her, although i dare not yet tell you." "but you must not dream of any such thing," exclaimed my father, to my great relief. "we can't afford to lose you so, and i won't consent to your leaving us, except under the care of your mother, who was so good as to consent to your remaining with us till she should herself return. i should be quite happy if i knew that you heard from her: but this evening the accounts of the progress of the mysterious disease that has invaded our neighborhood, grow even more alarming; and my beautiful guest, i do feel the responsibility, unaided by advice from your mother, very much. but i shall do my best; and one thing is certain, that you must not think of leaving us without her distinct direction to that effect. we should suffer too much in parting from you to consent to it easily." "thank you, sir, a thousand times for your hospitality," she answered, smiling bashfully. "you have all been too kind to me; i have seldom been so happy in all my life before, as in your beautiful chateau, under your care, and in the society of your dear daughter." so he gallantly, in his old-fashioned way, kissed her hand, smiling and pleased at her little speech. i accompanied carmilla as usual to her room, and sat and chatted with her while she was preparing for bed. "do you think," i said at length, "that you will ever confide fully in me?" she turned round smiling, but made no answer, only continued to smile on me. "you won't answer that?" i said. "you can't answer pleasantly; i ought not to have asked you." "you were quite right to ask me that, or anything. you do not know how dear you are to me, or you could not think any confidence too great to look for. but i am under vows, no nun half so awfully, and i dare not tell my story yet, even to you. the time is very near when you shall know everything. you will think me cruel, very selfish, but love is always selfish; the more ardent the more selfish. how jealous i am you cannot know. you must come with me, loving me, to death; or else hate me and still come with me, and _hating_ me through death and after. there is no such word as indifference in my apathetic nature." "now, carmilla, you are going to talk your wild nonsense again," i said hastily. "not i, silly little fool as i am, and full of whims and fancies; for your sake i'll talk like a sage. were you ever at a ball?" "no; how you do run on. what is it like? how charming it must be." "i almost forget, it is years ago." i laughed. "you are not so old. your first ball can hardly be forgotten yet." "i remember everything about it--with an effort. i see it all, as divers see what is going on above them, through a medium, dense, rippling, but transparent. there occurred that night what has confused the picture, and made its colours faint. i was all but assassinated in my bed, wounded here," she touched her breast, "and never was the same since." "were you near dying?" "yes, very--a cruel love--strange love, that would have taken my life. love will have its sacrifices. no sacrifice without blood. let us go to sleep now; i feel so lazy. how can i get up just now and lock my door?" she was lying with her tiny hands buried in her rich wavy hair, under her cheek, her little head upon the pillow, and her glittering eyes followed me wherever i moved, with a kind of shy smile that i could not decipher. i bid her good night, and crept from the room with an uncomfortable sensation. i often wondered whether our pretty guest ever said her prayers. i certainly had never seen her upon her knees. in the morning she never came down until long after our family prayers were over, and at night she never left the drawing room to attend our brief evening prayers in the hall. if it had not been that it had casually come out in one of our careless talks that she had been baptised, i should have doubted her being a christian. religion was a subject on which i had never heard her speak a word. if i had known the world better, this particular neglect or antipathy would not have so much surprised me. the precautions of nervous people are infectious, and persons of a like temperament are pretty sure, after a time, to imitate them. i had adopted carmilla's habit of locking her bedroom door, having taken into my head all her whimsical alarms about midnight invaders and prowling assassins. i had also adopted her precaution of making a brief search through her room, to satisfy herself that no lurking assassin or robber was "ensconced." these wise measures taken, i got into my bed and fell asleep. a light was burning in my room. this was an old habit, of very early date, and which nothing could have tempted me to dispense with. thus fortified i might take my rest in peace. but dreams come through stone walls, light up dark rooms, or darken light ones, and their persons make their exits and their entrances as they please, and laugh at locksmiths. i had a dream that night that was the beginning of a very strange agony. i cannot call it a nightmare, for i was quite conscious of being asleep. but i was equally conscious of being in my room, and lying in bed, precisely as i actually was. i saw, or fancied i saw, the room and its furniture just as i had seen it last, except that it was very dark, and i saw something moving round the foot of the bed, which at first i could not accurately distinguish. but i soon saw that it was a sooty-black animal that resembled a monstrous cat. it appeared to me about four or five feet long for it measured fully the length of the hearthrug as it passed over it; and it continued to-ing and fro-ing with the lithe, sinister restlessness of a beast in a cage. i could not cry out, although as you may suppose, i was terrified. its pace was growing faster, and the room rapidly darker and darker, and at length so dark that i could no longer see anything of it but its eyes. i felt it spring lightly on the bed. the two broad eyes approached my face, and suddenly i felt a stinging pain as if two large needles darted, an inch or two apart, deep into my breast. i waked with a scream. the room was lighted by the candle that burnt there all through the night, and i saw a female figure standing at the foot of the bed, a little at the right side. it was in a dark loose dress, and its hair was down and covered its shoulders. a block of stone could not have been more still. there was not the slightest stir of respiration. as i stared at it, the figure appeared to have changed its place, and was now nearer the door; then, close to it, the door opened, and it passed out. i was now relieved, and able to breathe and move. my first thought was that carmilla had been playing me a trick, and that i had forgotten to secure my door. i hastened to it, and found it locked as usual on the inside. i was afraid to open it--i was horrified. i sprang into my bed and covered my head up in the bedclothes, and lay there more dead than alive till morning. vii _descending_ it would be vain my attempting to tell you the horror with which, even now, i recall the occurrence of that night. it was no such transitory terror as a dream leaves behind it. it seemed to deepen by time, and communicated itself to the room and the very furniture that had encompassed the apparition. i could not bear next day to be alone for a moment. i should have told papa, but for two opposite reasons. at one time i thought he would laugh at my story, and i could not bear its being treated as a jest; and at another i thought he might fancy that i had been attacked by the mysterious complaint which had invaded our neighborhood. i had myself no misgiving of the kind, and as he had been rather an invalid for some time, i was afraid of alarming him. i was comfortable enough with my good-natured companions, madame perrodon, and the vivacious mademoiselle lafontaine. they both perceived that i was out of spirits and nervous, and at length i told them what lay so heavy at my heart. mademoiselle laughed, but i fancied that madame perrodon looked anxious. "by-the-by," said mademoiselle, laughing, "the long lime tree walk, behind carmilla's bedroom window, is haunted!" "nonsense!" exclaimed madame, who probably thought the theme rather inopportune, "and who tells that story, my dear?" "martin says that he came up twice, when the old yard gate was being repaired, before sunrise, and twice saw the same female figure walking down the lime tree avenue." "so he well might, as long as there are cows to milk in the river fields," said madame. "i daresay; but martin chooses to be frightened, and never did i see fool more frightened." "you must not say a word about it to carmilla, because she can see down that walk from her room window," i interposed, "and she is, if possible, a greater coward than i." carmilla came down rather later than usual that day. "i was so frightened last night," she said, so soon as were together, "and i am sure i should have seen something dreadful if it had not been for that charm i bought from the poor little hunchback whom i called such hard names. i had a dream of something black coming round my bed, and i awoke in a perfect horror, and i really thought, for some seconds, i saw a dark figure near the chimney-piece, but i felt under my pillow for my charm, and the moment my fingers touched it, the figure disappeared, and i felt quite certain, only that i had it by me, that something frightful would have made its appearance, and, perhaps, throttled me, as it did those poor people we heard of. "well, listen to me," i began, and recounted my adventure, at the recital of which she appeared horrified. "and had you the charm near you?" she asked, earnestly. "no, i had dropped it into a china vase in the drawing room, but i shall certainly take it with me tonight, as you have so much faith in it." at this distance of time i cannot tell you, or even understand, how i overcame my horror so effectually as to lie alone in my room that night. i remember distinctly that i pinned the charm to my pillow. i fell asleep almost immediately, and slept even more soundly than usual all night. next night i passed as well. my sleep was delightfully deep and dreamless. but i wakened with a sense of lassitude and melancholy, which, however, did not exceed a degree that was almost luxurious. "well, i told you so," said carmilla, when i described my quiet sleep, "i had such delightful sleep myself last night; i pinned the charm to the breast of my nightdress. it was too far away the night before. i am quite sure it was all fancy, except the dreams. i used to think that evil spirits made dreams, but our doctor told me it is no such thing. only a fever passing by, or some other malady, as they often do, he said, knocks at the door, and not being able to get in, passes on, with that alarm." "and what do you think the charm is?" said i. "it has been fumigated or immersed in some drug, and is an antidote against the malaria," she answered. "then it acts only on the body?" "certainly; you don't suppose that evil spirits are frightened by bits of ribbon, or the perfumes of a druggist's shop? no, these complaints, wandering in the air, begin by trying the nerves, and so infect the brain, but before they can seize upon you, the antidote repels them. that i am sure is what the charm has done for us. it is nothing magical, it is simply natural." i should have been happier if i could have quite agreed with carmilla, but i did my best, and the impression was a little losing its force. for some nights i slept profoundly; but still every morning i felt the same lassitude, and a languor weighed upon me all day. i felt myself a changed girl. a strange melancholy was stealing over me, a melancholy that i would not have interrupted. dim thoughts of death began to open, and an idea that i was slowly sinking took gentle, and, somehow, not unwelcome, possession of me. if it was sad, the tone of mind which this induced was also sweet. whatever it might be, my soul acquiesced in it. i would not admit that i was ill, i would not consent to tell my papa, or to have the doctor sent for. carmilla became more devoted to me than ever, and her strange paroxysms of languid adoration more frequent. she used to gloat on me with increasing ardor the more my strength and spirits waned. this always shocked me like a momentary glare of insanity. without knowing it, i was now in a pretty advanced stage of the strangest illness under which mortal ever suffered. there was an unaccountable fascination in its earlier symptoms that more than reconciled me to the incapacitating effect of that stage of the malady. this fascination increased for a time, until it reached a certain point, when gradually a sense of the horrible mingled itself with it, deepening, as you shall hear, until it discolored and perverted the whole state of my life. the first change i experienced was rather agreeable. it was very near the turning point from which began the descent of avernus. certain vague and strange sensations visited me in my sleep. the prevailing one was of that pleasant, peculiar cold thrill which we feel in bathing, when we move against the current of a river. this was soon accompanied by dreams that seemed interminable, and were so vague that i could never recollect their scenery and persons, or any one connected portion of their action. but they left an awful impression, and a sense of exhaustion, as if i had passed through a long period of great mental exertion and danger. after all these dreams there remained on waking a remembrance of having been in a place very nearly dark, and of having spoken to people whom i could not see; and especially of one clear voice, of a female's, very deep, that spoke as if at a distance, slowly, and producing always the same sensation of indescribable solemnity and fear. sometimes there came a sensation as if a hand was drawn softly along my cheek and neck. sometimes it was as if warm lips kissed me, and longer and longer and more lovingly as they reached my throat, but there the caress fixed itself. my heart beat faster, my breathing rose and fell rapidly and full drawn; a sobbing, that rose into a sense of strangulation, supervened, and turned into a dreadful convulsion, in which my senses left me and i became unconscious. it was now three weeks since the commencement of this unaccountable state. my sufferings had, during the last week, told upon my appearance. i had grown pale, my eyes were dilated and darkened underneath, and the languor which i had long felt began to display itself in my countenance. my father asked me often whether i was ill; but, with an obstinacy which now seems to me unaccountable, i persisted in assuring him that i was quite well. in a sense this was true. i had no pain, i could complain of no bodily derangement. my complaint seemed to be one of the imagination, or the nerves, and, horrible as my sufferings were, i kept them, with a morbid reserve, very nearly to myself. it could not be that terrible complaint which the peasants called the oupire, for i had now been suffering for three weeks, and they were seldom ill for much more than three days, when death put an end to their miseries. carmilla complained of dreams and feverish sensations, but by no means of so alarming a kind as mine. i say that mine were extremely alarming. had i been capable of comprehending my condition, i would have invoked aid and advice on my knees. the narcotic of an unsuspected influence was acting upon me, and my perceptions were benumbed. i am going to tell you now of a dream that led immediately to an odd discovery. one night, instead of the voice i was accustomed to hear in the dark, i heard one, sweet and tender, and at the same time terrible, which said, "your mother warns you to beware of the assassin." at the same time a light unexpectedly sprang up, and i saw carmilla, standing, near the foot of my bed, in her white nightdress, bathed, from her chin to her feet, in one great stain of blood. i wakened with a shriek, possessed with the one idea that carmilla was being murdered. i remember springing from my bed, and my next recollection is that of standing on the lobby, crying for help. madame and mademoiselle came scurrying out of their rooms in alarm; a lamp burned always on the lobby, and seeing me, they soon learned the cause of my terror. i insisted on our knocking at carmilla's door. our knocking was unanswered. it soon became a pounding and an uproar. we shrieked her name, but all was vain. we all grew frightened, for the door was locked. we hurried back, in panic, to my room. there we rang the bell long and furiously. if my father's room had been at that side of the house, we would have called him up at once to our aid. but, alas! he was quite out of hearing, and to reach him involved an excursion for which we none of us had courage. servants, however, soon came running up the stairs; i had got on my dressing gown and slippers meanwhile, and my companions were already similarly furnished. recognizing the voices of the servants on the lobby, we sallied out together; and having renewed, as fruitlessly, our summons at carmilla's door, i ordered the men to force the lock. they did so, and we stood, holding our lights aloft, in the doorway, and so stared into the room. we called her by name; but there was still no reply. we looked round the room. everything was undisturbed. it was exactly in the state in which i had left it on bidding her good night. but carmilla was gone. viii _search_ at sight of the room, perfectly undisturbed except for our violent entrance, we began to cool a little, and soon recovered our senses sufficiently to dismiss the men. it had struck mademoiselle that possibly carmilla had been wakened by the uproar at her door, and in her first panic had jumped from her bed, and hid herself in a press, or behind a curtain, from which she could not, of course, emerge until the majordomo and his myrmidons had withdrawn. we now recommenced our search, and began to call her name again. it was all to no purpose. our perplexity and agitation increased. we examined the windows, but they were secured. i implored of carmilla, if she had concealed herself, to play this cruel trick no longer--to come out and to end our anxieties. it was all useless. i was by this time convinced that she was not in the room, nor in the dressing room, the door of which was still locked on this side. she could not have passed it. i was utterly puzzled. had carmilla discovered one of those secret passages which the old housekeeper said were known to exist in the schloss, although the tradition of their exact situation had been lost? a little time would, no doubt, explain all--utterly perplexed as, for the present, we were. it was past four o'clock, and i preferred passing the remaining hours of darkness in madame's room. daylight brought no solution of the difficulty. the whole household, with my father at its head, was in a state of agitation next morning. every part of the chateau was searched. the grounds were explored. no trace of the missing lady could be discovered. the stream was about to be dragged; my father was in distraction; what a tale to have to tell the poor girl's mother on her return. i, too, was almost beside myself, though my grief was quite of a different kind. the morning was passed in alarm and excitement. it was now one o'clock, and still no tidings. i ran up to carmilla's room, and found her standing at her dressing table. i was astounded. i could not believe my eyes. she beckoned me to her with her pretty finger, in silence. her face expressed extreme fear. i ran to her in an ecstasy of joy; i kissed and embraced her again and again. i ran to the bell and rang it vehemently, to bring others to the spot who might at once relieve my father's anxiety. "dear carmilla, what has become of you all this time? we have been in agonies of anxiety about you," i exclaimed. "where have you been? how did you come back?" "last night has been a night of wonders," she said. "for mercy's sake, explain all you can." "it was past two last night," she said, "when i went to sleep as usual in my bed, with my doors locked, that of the dressing room, and that opening upon the gallery. my sleep was uninterrupted, and, so far as i know, dreamless; but i woke just now on the sofa in the dressing room there, and i found the door between the rooms open, and the other door forced. how could all this have happened without my being wakened? it must have been accompanied with a great deal of noise, and i am particularly easily wakened; and how could i have been carried out of my bed without my sleep having been interrupted, i whom the slightest stir startles?" by this time, madame, mademoiselle, my father, and a number of the servants were in the room. carmilla was, of course, overwhelmed with inquiries, congratulations, and welcomes. she had but one story to tell, and seemed the least able of all the party to suggest any way of accounting for what had happened. my father took a turn up and down the room, thinking. i saw carmilla's eye follow him for a moment with a sly, dark glance. when my father had sent the servants away, mademoiselle having gone in search of a little bottle of valerian and salvolatile, and there being no one now in the room with carmilla, except my father, madame, and myself, he came to her thoughtfully, took her hand very kindly, led her to the sofa, and sat down beside her. "will you forgive me, my dear, if i risk a conjecture, and ask a question?" "who can have a better right?" she said. "ask what you please, and i will tell you everything. but my story is simply one of bewilderment and darkness. i know absolutely nothing. put any question you please, but you know, of course, the limitations mamma has placed me under." "perfectly, my dear child. i need not approach the topics on which she desires our silence. now, the marvel of last night consists in your having been removed from your bed and your room, without being wakened, and this removal having occurred apparently while the windows were still secured, and the two doors locked upon the inside. i will tell you my theory and ask you a question." carmilla was leaning on her hand dejectedly; madame and i were listening breathlessly. "now, my question is this. have you ever been suspected of walking in your sleep?" "never, since i was very young indeed." "but you did walk in your sleep when you were young?" "yes; i know i did. i have been told so often by my old nurse." my father smiled and nodded. "well, what has happened is this. you got up in your sleep, unlocked the door, not leaving the key, as usual, in the lock, but taking it out and locking it on the outside; you again took the key out, and carried it away with you to some one of the five-and-twenty rooms on this floor, or perhaps upstairs or downstairs. there are so many rooms and closets, so much heavy furniture, and such accumulations of lumber, that it would require a week to search this old house thoroughly. do you see, now, what i mean?" "i do, but not all," she answered. "and how, papa, do you account for her finding herself on the sofa in the dressing room, which we had searched so carefully?" "she came there after you had searched it, still in her sleep, and at last awoke spontaneously, and was as much surprised to find herself where she was as any one else. i wish all mysteries were as easily and innocently explained as yours, carmilla," he said, laughing. "and so we may congratulate ourselves on the certainty that the most natural explanation of the occurrence is one that involves no drugging, no tampering with locks, no burglars, or poisoners, or witches--nothing that need alarm carmilla, or anyone else, for our safety." carmilla was looking charmingly. nothing could be more beautiful than her tints. her beauty was, i think, enhanced by that graceful languor that was peculiar to her. i think my father was silently contrasting her looks with mine, for he said: "i wish my poor laura was looking more like herself"; and he sighed. so our alarms were happily ended, and carmilla restored to her friends. ix _the doctor_ as carmilla would not hear of an attendant sleeping in her room, my father arranged that a servant should sleep outside her door, so that she would not attempt to make another such excursion without being arrested at her own door. that night passed quietly; and next morning early, the doctor, whom my father had sent for without telling me a word about it, arrived to see me. madame accompanied me to the library; and there the grave little doctor, with white hair and spectacles, whom i mentioned before, was waiting to receive me. i told him my story, and as i proceeded he grew graver and graver. we were standing, he and i, in the recess of one of the windows, facing one another. when my statement was over, he leaned with his shoulders against the wall, and with his eyes fixed on me earnestly, with an interest in which was a dash of horror. after a minute's reflection, he asked madame if he could see my father. he was sent for accordingly, and as he entered, smiling, he said: "i dare say, doctor, you are going to tell me that i am an old fool for having brought you here; i hope i am." but his smile faded into shadow as the doctor, with a very grave face, beckoned him to him. he and the doctor talked for some time in the same recess where i had just conferred with the physician. it seemed an earnest and argumentative conversation. the room is very large, and i and madame stood together, burning with curiosity, at the farther end. not a word could we hear, however, for they spoke in a very low tone, and the deep recess of the window quite concealed the doctor from view, and very nearly my father, whose foot, arm, and shoulder only could we see; and the voices were, i suppose, all the less audible for the sort of closet which the thick wall and window formed. after a time my father's face looked into the room; it was pale, thoughtful, and, i fancied, agitated. "laura, dear, come here for a moment. madame, we shan't trouble you, the doctor says, at present." accordingly i approached, for the first time a little alarmed; for, although i felt very weak, i did not feel ill; and strength, one always fancies, is a thing that may be picked up when we please. my father held out his hand to me, as i drew near, but he was looking at the doctor, and he said: "it certainly is very odd; i don't understand it quite. laura, come here, dear; now attend to doctor spielsberg, and recollect yourself." "you mentioned a sensation like that of two needles piercing the skin, somewhere about your neck, on the night when you experienced your first horrible dream. is there still any soreness?" "none at all," i answered. "can you indicate with your finger about the point at which you think this occurred?" "very little below my throat--here," i answered. i wore a morning dress, which covered the place i pointed to. "now you can satisfy yourself," said the doctor. "you won't mind your papa's lowering your dress a very little. it is necessary, to detect a symptom of the complaint under which you have been suffering." i acquiesced. it was only an inch or two below the edge of my collar. "god bless me!--so it is," exclaimed my father, growing pale. "you see it now with your own eyes," said the doctor, with a gloomy triumph. "what is it?" i exclaimed, beginning to be frightened. "nothing, my dear young lady, but a small blue spot, about the size of the tip of your little finger; and now," he continued, turning to papa, "the question is what is best to be done?" "is there any danger?" i urged, in great trepidation. "i trust not, my dear," answered the doctor. "i don't see why you should not recover. i don't see why you should not begin immediately to get better. that is the point at which the sense of strangulation begins?" "yes," i answered. "and--recollect as well as you can--the same point was a kind of center of that thrill which you described just now, like the current of a cold stream running against you?" "it may have been; i think it was." "ay, you see?" he added, turning to my father. "shall i say a word to madame?" "certainly," said my father. he called madame to him, and said: "i find my young friend here far from well. it won't be of any great consequence, i hope; but it will be necessary that some steps be taken, which i will explain by-and-by; but in the meantime, madame, you will be so good as not to let miss laura be alone for one moment. that is the only direction i need give for the present. it is indispensable." "we may rely upon your kindness, madame, i know," added my father. madame satisfied him eagerly. "and you, dear laura, i know you will observe the doctor's direction." "i shall have to ask your opinion upon another patient, whose symptoms slightly resemble those of my daughter, that have just been detailed to you--very much milder in degree, but i believe quite of the same sort. she is a young lady--our guest; but as you say you will be passing this way again this evening, you can't do better than take your supper here, and you can then see her. she does not come down till the afternoon." "i thank you," said the doctor. "i shall be with you, then, at about seven this evening." and then they repeated their directions to me and to madame, and with this parting charge my father left us, and walked out with the doctor; and i saw them pacing together up and down between the road and the moat, on the grassy platform in front of the castle, evidently absorbed in earnest conversation. the doctor did not return. i saw him mount his horse there, take his leave, and ride away eastward through the forest. nearly at the same time i saw the man arrive from dranfield with the letters, and dismount and hand the bag to my father. in the meantime, madame and i were both busy, lost in conjecture as to the reasons of the singular and earnest direction which the doctor and my father had concurred in imposing. madame, as she afterwards told me, was afraid the doctor apprehended a sudden seizure, and that, without prompt assistance, i might either lose my life in a fit, or at least be seriously hurt. the interpretation did not strike me; and i fancied, perhaps luckily for my nerves, that the arrangement was prescribed simply to secure a companion, who would prevent my taking too much exercise, or eating unripe fruit, or doing any of the fifty foolish things to which young people are supposed to be prone. about half an hour after my father came in--he had a letter in his hand--and said: "this letter had been delayed; it is from general spielsdorf. he might have been here yesterday, he may not come till tomorrow or he may be here today." he put the open letter into my hand; but he did not look pleased, as he used when a guest, especially one so much loved as the general, was coming. on the contrary, he looked as if he wished him at the bottom of the red sea. there was plainly something on his mind which he did not choose to divulge. "papa, darling, will you tell me this?" said i, suddenly laying my hand on his arm, and looking, i am sure, imploringly in his face. "perhaps," he answered, smoothing my hair caressingly over my eyes. "does the doctor think me very ill?" "no, dear; he thinks, if right steps are taken, you will be quite well again, at least, on the high road to a complete recovery, in a day or two," he answered, a little dryly. "i wish our good friend, the general, had chosen any other time; that is, i wish you had been perfectly well to receive him." "but do tell me, papa," i insisted, "what does he think is the matter with me?" "nothing; you must not plague me with questions," he answered, with more irritation than i ever remember him to have displayed before; and seeing that i looked wounded, i suppose, he kissed me, and added, "you shall know all about it in a day or two; that is, all that i know. in the meantime you are not to trouble your head about it." he turned and left the room, but came back before i had done wondering and puzzling over the oddity of all this; it was merely to say that he was going to karnstein, and had ordered the carriage to be ready at twelve, and that i and madame should accompany him; he was going to see the priest who lived near those picturesque grounds, upon business, and as carmilla had never seen them, she could follow, when she came down, with mademoiselle, who would bring materials for what you call a picnic, which might be laid for us in the ruined castle. at twelve o'clock, accordingly, i was ready, and not long after, my father, madame and i set out upon our projected drive. passing the drawbridge we turn to the right, and follow the road over the steep gothic bridge, westward, to reach the deserted village and ruined castle of karnstein. no sylvan drive can be fancied prettier. the ground breaks into gentle hills and hollows, all clothed with beautiful wood, totally destitute of the comparative formality which artificial planting and early culture and pruning impart. the irregularities of the ground often lead the road out of its course, and cause it to wind beautifully round the sides of broken hollows and the steeper sides of the hills, among varieties of ground almost inexhaustible. turning one of these points, we suddenly encountered our old friend, the general, riding towards us, attended by a mounted servant. his portmanteaus were following in a hired wagon, such as we term a cart. the general dismounted as we pulled up, and, after the usual greetings, was easily persuaded to accept the vacant seat in the carriage and send his horse on with his servant to the schloss. x _bereaved_ it was about ten months since we had last seen him: but that time had sufficed to make an alteration of years in his appearance. he had grown thinner; something of gloom and anxiety had taken the place of that cordial serenity which used to characterize his features. his dark blue eyes, always penetrating, now gleamed with a sterner light from under his shaggy grey eyebrows. it was not such a change as grief alone usually induces, and angrier passions seemed to have had their share in bringing it about. we had not long resumed our drive, when the general began to talk, with his usual soldierly directness, of the bereavement, as he termed it, which he had sustained in the death of his beloved niece and ward; and he then broke out in a tone of intense bitterness and fury, inveighing against the "hellish arts" to which she had fallen a victim, and expressing, with more exasperation than piety, his wonder that heaven should tolerate so monstrous an indulgence of the lusts and malignity of hell. my father, who saw at once that something very extraordinary had befallen, asked him, if not too painful to him, to detail the circumstances which he thought justified the strong terms in which he expressed himself. "i should tell you all with pleasure," said the general, "but you would not believe me." "why should i not?" he asked. "because," he answered testily, "you believe in nothing but what consists with your own prejudices and illusions. i remember when i was like you, but i have learned better." "try me," said my father; "i am not such a dogmatist as you suppose. besides which, i very well know that you generally require proof for what you believe, and am, therefore, very strongly predisposed to respect your conclusions." "you are right in supposing that i have not been led lightly into a belief in the marvelous--for what i have experienced is marvelous--and i have been forced by extraordinary evidence to credit that which ran counter, diametrically, to all my theories. i have been made the dupe of a preternatural conspiracy." notwithstanding his professions of confidence in the general's penetration, i saw my father, at this point, glance at the general, with, as i thought, a marked suspicion of his sanity. the general did not see it, luckily. he was looking gloomily and curiously into the glades and vistas of the woods that were opening before us. "you are going to the ruins of karnstein?" he said. "yes, it is a lucky coincidence; do you know i was going to ask you to bring me there to inspect them. i have a special object in exploring. there is a ruined chapel, ain't there, with a great many tombs of that extinct family?" "so there are--highly interesting," said my father. "i hope you are thinking of claiming the title and estates?" my father said this gaily, but the general did not recollect the laugh, or even the smile, which courtesy exacts for a friend's joke; on the contrary, he looked grave and even fierce, ruminating on a matter that stirred his anger and horror. "something very different," he said, gruffly. "i mean to unearth some of those fine people. i hope, by god's blessing, to accomplish a pious sacrilege here, which will relieve our earth of certain monsters, and enable honest people to sleep in their beds without being assailed by murderers. i have strange things to tell you, my dear friend, such as i myself would have scouted as incredible a few months since." my father looked at him again, but this time not with a glance of suspicion--with an eye, rather, of keen intelligence and alarm. "the house of karnstein," he said, "has been long extinct: a hundred years at least. my dear wife was maternally descended from the karnsteins. but the name and title have long ceased to exist. the castle is a ruin; the very village is deserted; it is fifty years since the smoke of a chimney was seen there; not a roof left." "quite true. i have heard a great deal about that since i last saw you; a great deal that will astonish you. but i had better relate everything in the order in which it occurred," said the general. "you saw my dear ward--my child, i may call her. no creature could have been more beautiful, and only three months ago none more blooming." "yes, poor thing! when i saw her last she certainly was quite lovely," said my father. "i was grieved and shocked more than i can tell you, my dear friend; i knew what a blow it was to you." he took the general's hand, and they exchanged a kind pressure. tears gathered in the old soldier's eyes. he did not seek to conceal them. he said: "we have been very old friends; i knew you would feel for me, childless as i am. she had become an object of very near interest to me, and repaid my care by an affection that cheered my home and made my life happy. that is all gone. the years that remain to me on earth may not be very long; but by god's mercy i hope to accomplish a service to mankind before i die, and to subserve the vengeance of heaven upon the fiends who have murdered my poor child in the spring of her hopes and beauty!" "you said, just now, that you intended relating everything as it occurred," said my father. "pray do; i assure you that it is not mere curiosity that prompts me." by this time we had reached the point at which the drunstall road, by which the general had come, diverges from the road which we were traveling to karnstein. "how far is it to the ruins?" inquired the general, looking anxiously forward. "about half a league," answered my father. "pray let us hear the story you were so good as to promise." xi _the story_ "with all my heart," said the general, with an effort; and after a short pause in which to arrange his subject, he commenced one of the strangest narratives i ever heard. "my dear child was looking forward with great pleasure to the visit you had been so good as to arrange for her to your charming daughter." here he made me a gallant but melancholy bow. "in the meantime we had an invitation to my old friend the count carlsfeld, whose schloss is about six leagues to the other side of karnstein. it was to attend the series of fetes which, you remember, were given by him in honor of his illustrious visitor, the grand duke charles." "yes; and very splendid, i believe, they were," said my father. "princely! but then his hospitalities are quite regal. he has aladdin's lamp. the night from which my sorrow dates was devoted to a magnificent masquerade. the grounds were thrown open, the trees hung with colored lamps. there was such a display of fireworks as paris itself had never witnessed. and such music--music, you know, is my weakness--such ravishing music! the finest instrumental band, perhaps, in the world, and the finest singers who could be collected from all the great operas in europe. as you wandered through these fantastically illuminated grounds, the moon-lighted chateau throwing a rosy light from its long rows of windows, you would suddenly hear these ravishing voices stealing from the silence of some grove, or rising from boats upon the lake. i felt myself, as i looked and listened, carried back into the romance and poetry of my early youth. "when the fireworks were ended, and the ball beginning, we returned to the noble suite of rooms that were thrown open to the dancers. a masked ball, you know, is a beautiful sight; but so brilliant a spectacle of the kind i never saw before. "it was a very aristocratic assembly. i was myself almost the only 'nobody' present. "my dear child was looking quite beautiful. she wore no mask. her excitement and delight added an unspeakable charm to her features, always lovely. i remarked a young lady, dressed magnificently, but wearing a mask, who appeared to me to be observing my ward with extraordinary interest. i had seen her, earlier in the evening, in the great hall, and again, for a few minutes, walking near us, on the terrace under the castle windows, similarly employed. a lady, also masked, richly and gravely dressed, and with a stately air, like a person of rank, accompanied her as a chaperon. "had the young lady not worn a mask, i could, of course, have been much more certain upon the question whether she was really watching my poor darling. "i am now well assured that she was. "we were now in one of the salons. my poor dear child had been dancing, and was resting a little in one of the chairs near the door; i was standing near. the two ladies i have mentioned had approached and the younger took the chair next my ward; while her companion stood beside me, and for a little time addressed herself, in a low tone, to her charge. "availing herself of the privilege of her mask, she turned to me, and in the tone of an old friend, and calling me by my name, opened a conversation with me, which piqued my curiosity a good deal. she referred to many scenes where she had met me--at court, and at distinguished houses. she alluded to little incidents which i had long ceased to think of, but which, i found, had only lain in abeyance in my memory, for they instantly started into life at her touch. "i became more and more curious to ascertain who she was, every moment. she parried my attempts to discover very adroitly and pleasantly. the knowledge she showed of many passages in my life seemed to me all but unaccountable; and she appeared to take a not unnatural pleasure in foiling my curiosity, and in seeing me flounder in my eager perplexity, from one conjecture to another. "in the meantime the young lady, whom her mother called by the odd name of millarca, when she once or twice addressed her, had, with the same ease and grace, got into conversation with my ward. "she introduced herself by saying that her mother was a very old acquaintance of mine. she spoke of the agreeable audacity which a mask rendered practicable; she talked like a friend; she admired her dress, and insinuated very prettily her admiration of her beauty. she amused her with laughing criticisms upon the people who crowded the ballroom, and laughed at my poor child's fun. she was very witty and lively when she pleased, and after a time they had grown very good friends, and the young stranger lowered her mask, displaying a remarkably beautiful face. i had never seen it before, neither had my dear child. but though it was new to us, the features were so engaging, as well as lovely, that it was impossible not to feel the attraction powerfully. my poor girl did so. i never saw anyone more taken with another at first sight, unless, indeed, it was the stranger herself, who seemed quite to have lost her heart to her. "in the meantime, availing myself of the license of a masquerade, i put not a few questions to the elder lady. "'you have puzzled me utterly,' i said, laughing. 'is that not enough? won't you, now, consent to stand on equal terms, and do me the kindness to remove your mask?' "'can any request be more unreasonable?' she replied. 'ask a lady to yield an advantage! beside, how do you know you should recognize me? years make changes.' "'as you see,' i said, with a bow, and, i suppose, a rather melancholy little laugh. "'as philosophers tell us,' she said; 'and how do you know that a sight of my face would help you?' "'i should take chance for that,' i answered. 'it is vain trying to make yourself out an old woman; your figure betrays you.' "'years, nevertheless, have passed since i saw you, rather since you saw me, for that is what i am considering. millarca, there, is my daughter; i cannot then be young, even in the opinion of people whom time has taught to be indulgent, and i may not like to be compared with what you remember me. you have no mask to remove. you can offer me nothing in exchange.' "'my petition is to your pity, to remove it.' "'and mine to yours, to let it stay where it is,' she replied. "'well, then, at least you will tell me whether you are french or german; you speak both languages so perfectly.' "'i don't think i shall tell you that, general; you intend a surprise, and are meditating the particular point of attack.' "'at all events, you won't deny this,' i said, 'that being honored by your permission to converse, i ought to know how to address you. shall i say madame la comtesse?' "she laughed, and she would, no doubt, have met me with another evasion--if, indeed, i can treat any occurrence in an interview every circumstance of which was prearranged, as i now believe, with the profoundest cunning, as liable to be modified by accident. "'as to that,' she began; but she was interrupted, almost as she opened her lips, by a gentleman, dressed in black, who looked particularly elegant and distinguished, with this drawback, that his face was the most deadly pale i ever saw, except in death. he was in no masquerade--in the plain evening dress of a gentleman; and he said, without a smile, but with a courtly and unusually low bow:-"'will madame la comtesse permit me to say a very few words which may interest her?' "the lady turned quickly to him, and touched her lip in token of silence; she then said to me, 'keep my place for me, general; i shall return when i have said a few words.' "and with this injunction, playfully given, she walked a little aside with the gentleman in black, and talked for some minutes, apparently very earnestly. they then walked away slowly together in the crowd, and i lost them for some minutes. "i spent the interval in cudgeling my brains for a conjecture as to the identity of the lady who seemed to remember me so kindly, and i was thinking of turning about and joining in the conversation between my pretty ward and the countess's daughter, and trying whether, by the time she returned, i might not have a surprise in store for her, by having her name, title, chateau, and estates at my fingers' ends. but at this moment she returned, accompanied by the pale man in black, who said: "'i shall return and inform madame la comtesse when her carriage is at the door.' "he withdrew with a bow." xii _a petition_ "'then we are to lose madame la comtesse, but i hope only for a few hours,' i said, with a low bow. "'it may be that only, or it may be a few weeks. it was very unlucky his speaking to me just now as he did. do you now know me?' "i assured her i did not. "'you shall know me,' she said, 'but not at present. we are older and better friends than, perhaps, you suspect. i cannot yet declare myself. i shall in three weeks pass your beautiful schloss, about which i have been making enquiries. i shall then look in upon you for an hour or two, and renew a friendship which i never think of without a thousand pleasant recollections. this moment a piece of news has reached me like a thunderbolt. i must set out now, and travel by a devious route, nearly a hundred miles, with all the dispatch i can possibly make. my perplexities multiply. i am only deterred by the compulsory reserve i practice as to my name from making a very singular request of you. my poor child has not quite recovered her strength. her horse fell with her, at a hunt which she had ridden out to witness, her nerves have not yet recovered the shock, and our physician says that she must on no account exert herself for some time to come. we came here, in consequence, by very easy stages--hardly six leagues a day. i must now travel day and night, on a mission of life and death--a mission the critical and momentous nature of which i shall be able to explain to you when we meet, as i hope we shall, in a few weeks, without the necessity of any concealment.' "she went on to make her petition, and it was in the tone of a person from whom such a request amounted to conferring, rather than seeking a favor. "this was only in manner, and, as it seemed, quite unconsciously. than the terms in which it was expressed, nothing could be more deprecatory. it was simply that i would consent to take charge of her daughter during her absence. "this was, all things considered, a strange, not to say, an audacious request. she in some sort disarmed me, by stating and admitting everything that could be urged against it, and throwing herself entirely upon my chivalry. at the same moment, by a fatality that seems to have predetermined all that happened, my poor child came to my side, and, in an undertone, besought me to invite her new friend, millarca, to pay us a visit. she had just been sounding her, and thought, if her mamma would allow her, she would like it extremely. "at another time i should have told her to wait a little, until, at least, we knew who they were. but i had not a moment to think in. the two ladies assailed me together, and i must confess the refined and beautiful face of the young lady, about which there was something extremely engaging, as well as the elegance and fire of high birth, determined me; and, quite overpowered, i submitted, and undertook, too easily, the care of the young lady, whom her mother called millarca. "the countess beckoned to her daughter, who listened with grave attention while she told her, in general terms, how suddenly and peremptorily she had been summoned, and also of the arrangement she had made for her under my care, adding that i was one of her earliest and most valued friends. "i made, of course, such speeches as the case seemed to call for, and found myself, on reflection, in a position which i did not half like. "the gentleman in black returned, and very ceremoniously conducted the lady from the room. "the demeanor of this gentleman was such as to impress me with the conviction that the countess was a lady of very much more importance than her modest title alone might have led me to assume. "her last charge to me was that no attempt was to be made to learn more about her than i might have already guessed, until her return. our distinguished host, whose guest she was, knew her reasons. "'but here,' she said, 'neither i nor my daughter could safely remain for more than a day. i removed my mask imprudently for a moment, about an hour ago, and, too late, i fancied you saw me. so i resolved to seek an opportunity of talking a little to you. had i found that you had seen me, i would have thrown myself on your high sense of honor to keep my secret some weeks. as it is, i am satisfied that you did not see me; but if you now suspect, or, on reflection, should suspect, who i am, i commit myself, in like manner, entirely to your honor. my daughter will observe the same secrecy, and i well know that you will, from time to time, remind her, lest she should thoughtlessly disclose it.' "she whispered a few words to her daughter, kissed her hurriedly twice, and went away, accompanied by the pale gentleman in black, and disappeared in the crowd. "'in the next room,' said millarca, 'there is a window that looks upon the hall door. i should like to see the last of mamma, and to kiss my hand to her.' "we assented, of course, and accompanied her to the window. we looked out, and saw a handsome old-fashioned carriage, with a troop of couriers and footmen. we saw the slim figure of the pale gentleman in black, as he held a thick velvet cloak, and placed it about her shoulders and threw the hood over her head. she nodded to him, and just touched his hand with hers. he bowed low repeatedly as the door closed, and the carriage began to move. "'she is gone,' said millarca, with a sigh. "'she is gone,' i repeated to myself, for the first time--in the hurried moments that had elapsed since my consent--reflecting upon the folly of my act. "'she did not look up,' said the young lady, plaintively. "'the countess had taken off her mask, perhaps, and did not care to show her face,' i said; 'and she could not know that you were in the window.' "she sighed, and looked in my face. she was so beautiful that i relented. i was sorry i had for a moment repented of my hospitality, and i determined to make her amends for the unavowed churlishness of my reception. "the young lady, replacing her mask, joined my ward in persuading me to return to the grounds, where the concert was soon to be renewed. we did so, and walked up and down the terrace that lies under the castle windows. "millarca became very intimate with us, and amused us with lively descriptions and stories of most of the great people whom we saw upon the terrace. i liked her more and more every minute. her gossip without being ill-natured, was extremely diverting to me, who had been so long out of the great world. i thought what life she would give to our sometimes lonely evenings at home. "this ball was not over until the morning sun had almost reached the horizon. it pleased the grand duke to dance till then, so loyal people could not go away, or think of bed. "we had just got through a crowded saloon, when my ward asked me what had become of millarca. i thought she had been by her side, and she fancied she was by mine. the fact was, we had lost her. "all my efforts to find her were vain. i feared that she had mistaken, in the confusion of a momentary separation from us, other people for her new friends, and had, possibly, pursued and lost them in the extensive grounds which were thrown open to us. "now, in its full force, i recognized a new folly in my having undertaken the charge of a young lady without so much as knowing her name; and fettered as i was by promises, of the reasons for imposing which i knew nothing, i could not even point my inquiries by saying that the missing young lady was the daughter of the countess who had taken her departure a few hours before. "morning broke. it was clear daylight before i gave up my search. it was not till near two o'clock next day that we heard anything of my missing charge. "at about that time a servant knocked at my niece's door, to say that he had been earnestly requested by a young lady, who appeared to be in great distress, to make out where she could find the general baron spielsdorf and the young lady his daughter, in whose charge she had been left by her mother. "there could be no doubt, notwithstanding the slight inaccuracy, that our young friend had turned up; and so she had. would to heaven we had lost her! "she told my poor child a story to account for her having failed to recover us for so long. very late, she said, she had got to the housekeeper's bedroom in despair of finding us, and had then fallen into a deep sleep which, long as it was, had hardly sufficed to recruit her strength after the fatigues of the ball. "that day millarca came home with us. i was only too happy, after all, to have secured so charming a companion for my dear girl." xiii _the woodman_ "there soon, however, appeared some drawbacks. in the first place, millarca complained of extreme languor--the weakness that remained after her late illness--and she never emerged from her room till the afternoon was pretty far advanced. in the next place, it was accidentally discovered, although she always locked her door on the inside, and never disturbed the key from its place till she admitted the maid to assist at her toilet, that she was undoubtedly sometimes absent from her room in the very early morning, and at various times later in the day, before she wished it to be understood that she was stirring. she was repeatedly seen from the windows of the schloss, in the first faint grey of the morning, walking through the trees, in an easterly direction, and looking like a person in a trance. this convinced me that she walked in her sleep. but this hypothesis did not solve the puzzle. how did she pass out from her room, leaving the door locked on the inside? how did she escape from the house without unbarring door or window? "in the midst of my perplexities, an anxiety of a far more urgent kind presented itself. "my dear child began to lose her looks and health, and that in a manner so mysterious, and even horrible, that i became thoroughly frightened. "she was at first visited by appalling dreams; then, as she fancied, by a specter, sometimes resembling millarca, sometimes in the shape of a beast, indistinctly seen, walking round the foot of her bed, from side to side. "lastly came sensations. one, not unpleasant, but very peculiar, she said, resembled the flow of an icy stream against her breast. at a later time, she felt something like a pair of large needles pierce her, a little below the throat, with a very sharp pain. a few nights after, followed a gradual and convulsive sense of strangulation; then came unconsciousness." i could hear distinctly every word the kind old general was saying, because by this time we were driving upon the short grass that spreads on either side of the road as you approach the roofless village which had not shown the smoke of a chimney for more than half a century. you may guess how strangely i felt as i heard my own symptoms so exactly described in those which had been experienced by the poor girl who, but for the catastrophe which followed, would have been at that moment a visitor at my father's chateau. you may suppose, also, how i felt as i heard him detail habits and mysterious peculiarities which were, in fact, those of our beautiful guest, carmilla! a vista opened in the forest; we were on a sudden under the chimneys and gables of the ruined village, and the towers and battlements of the dismantled castle, round which gigantic trees are grouped, overhung us from a slight eminence. in a frightened dream i got down from the carriage, and in silence, for we had each abundant matter for thinking; we soon mounted the ascent, and were among the spacious chambers, winding stairs, and dark corridors of the castle. "and this was once the palatial residence of the karnsteins!" said the old general at length, as from a great window he looked out across the village, and saw the wide, undulating expanse of forest. "it was a bad family, and here its bloodstained annals were written," he continued. "it is hard that they should, after death, continue to plague the human race with their atrocious lusts. that is the chapel of the karnsteins, down there." he pointed down to the grey walls of the gothic building partly visible through the foliage, a little way down the steep. "and i hear the axe of a woodman," he added, "busy among the trees that surround it; he possibly may give us the information of which i am in search, and point out the grave of mircalla, countess of karnstein. these rustics preserve the local traditions of great families, whose stories die out among the rich and titled so soon as the families themselves become extinct." "we have a portrait, at home, of mircalla, the countess karnstein; should you like to see it?" asked my father. "time enough, dear friend," replied the general. "i believe that i have seen the original; and one motive which has led me to you earlier than i at first intended, was to explore the chapel which we are now approaching." "what! see the countess mircalla," exclaimed my father; "why, she has been dead more than a century!" "not so dead as you fancy, i am told," answered the general. "i confess, general, you puzzle me utterly," replied my father, looking at him, i fancied, for a moment with a return of the suspicion i detected before. but although there was anger and detestation, at times, in the old general's manner, there was nothing flighty. "there remains to me," he said, as we passed under the heavy arch of the gothic church--for its dimensions would have justified its being so styled--"but one object which can interest me during the few years that remain to me on earth, and that is to wreak on her the vengeance which, i thank god, may still be accomplished by a mortal arm." "what vengeance can you mean?" asked my father, in increasing amazement. "i mean, to decapitate the monster," he answered, with a fierce flush, and a stamp that echoed mournfully through the hollow ruin, and his clenched hand was at the same moment raised, as if it grasped the handle of an axe, while he shook it ferociously in the air. "what?" exclaimed my father, more than ever bewildered. "to strike her head off." "cut her head off!" "aye, with a hatchet, with a spade, or with anything that can cleave through her murderous throat. you shall hear," he answered, trembling with rage. and hurrying forward he said: "that beam will answer for a seat; your dear child is fatigued; let her be seated, and i will, in a few sentences, close my dreadful story." the squared block of wood, which lay on the grass-grown pavement of the chapel, formed a bench on which i was very glad to seat myself, and in the meantime the general called to the woodman, who had been removing some boughs which leaned upon the old walls; and, axe in hand, the hardy old fellow stood before us. he could not tell us anything of these monuments; but there was an old man, he said, a ranger of this forest, at present sojourning in the house of the priest, about two miles away, who could point out every monument of the old karnstein family; and, for a trifle, he undertook to bring him back with him, if we would lend him one of our horses, in little more than half an hour. "have you been long employed about this forest?" asked my father of the old man. "i have been a woodman here," he answered in his patois, "under the forester, all my days; so has my father before me, and so on, as many generations as i can count up. i could show you the very house in the village here, in which my ancestors lived." "how came the village to be deserted?" asked the general. "it was troubled by revenants, sir; several were tracked to their graves, there detected by the usual tests, and extinguished in the usual way, by decapitation, by the stake, and by burning; but not until many of the villagers were killed. "but after all these proceedings according to law," he continued--"so many graves opened, and so many vampires deprived of their horrible animation--the village was not relieved. but a moravian nobleman, who happened to be traveling this way, heard how matters were, and being skilled--as many people are in his country--in such affairs, he offered to deliver the village from its tormentor. he did so thus: there being a bright moon that night, he ascended, shortly after sunset, the towers of the chapel here, from whence he could distinctly see the churchyard beneath him; you can see it from that window. from this point he watched until he saw the vampire come out of his grave, and place near it the linen clothes in which he had been folded, and then glide away towards the village to plague its inhabitants. "the stranger, having seen all this, came down from the steeple, took the linen wrappings of the vampire, and carried them up to the top of the tower, which he again mounted. when the vampire returned from his prowlings and missed his clothes, he cried furiously to the moravian, whom he saw at the summit of the tower, and who, in reply, beckoned him to ascend and take them. whereupon the vampire, accepting his invitation, began to climb the steeple, and so soon as he had reached the battlements, the moravian, with a stroke of his sword, clove his skull in twain, hurling him down to the churchyard, whither, descending by the winding stairs, the stranger followed and cut his head off, and next day delivered it and the body to the villagers, who duly impaled and burnt them. "this moravian nobleman had authority from the then head of the family to remove the tomb of mircalla, countess karnstein, which he did effectually, so that in a little while its site was quite forgotten." "can you point out where it stood?" asked the general, eagerly. the forester shook his head, and smiled. "not a soul living could tell you that now," he said; "besides, they say her body was removed; but no one is sure of that either." having thus spoken, as time pressed, he dropped his axe and departed, leaving us to hear the remainder of the general's strange story. xiv _the meeting_ "my beloved child," he resumed, "was now growing rapidly worse. the physician who attended her had failed to produce the slightest impression on her disease, for such i then supposed it to be. he saw my alarm, and suggested a consultation. i called in an abler physician, from gratz. "several days elapsed before he arrived. he was a good and pious, as well as a learned man. having seen my poor ward together, they withdrew to my library to confer and discuss. i, from the adjoining room, where i awaited their summons, heard these two gentlemen's voices raised in something sharper than a strictly philosophical discussion. i knocked at the door and entered. i found the old physician from gratz maintaining his theory. his rival was combating it with undisguised ridicule, accompanied with bursts of laughter. this unseemly manifestation subsided and the altercation ended on my entrance. "'sir,' said my first physician, 'my learned brother seems to think that you want a conjuror, and not a doctor.' "'pardon me,' said the old physician from gratz, looking displeased, 'i shall state my own view of the case in my own way another time. i grieve, monsieur le general, that by my skill and science i can be of no use. before i go i shall do myself the honor to suggest something to you.' "he seemed thoughtful, and sat down at a table and began to write. "profoundly disappointed, i made my bow, and as i turned to go, the other doctor pointed over his shoulder to his companion who was writing, and then, with a shrug, significantly touched his forehead. "this consultation, then, left me precisely where i was. i walked out into the grounds, all but distracted. the doctor from gratz, in ten or fifteen minutes, overtook me. he apologized for having followed me, but said that he could not conscientiously take his leave without a few words more. he told me that he could not be mistaken; no natural disease exhibited the same symptoms; and that death was already very near. there remained, however, a day, or possibly two, of life. if the fatal seizure were at once arrested, with great care and skill her strength might possibly return. but all hung now upon the confines of the irrevocable. one more assault might extinguish the last spark of vitality which is, every moment, ready to die. "'and what is the nature of the seizure you speak of?' i entreated. "'i have stated all fully in this note, which i place in your hands upon the distinct condition that you send for the nearest clergyman, and open my letter in his presence, and on no account read it till he is with you; you would despise it else, and it is a matter of life and death. should the priest fail you, then, indeed, you may read it.' "he asked me, before taking his leave finally, whether i would wish to see a man curiously learned upon the very subject, which, after i had read his letter, would probably interest me above all others, and he urged me earnestly to invite him to visit him there; and so took his leave. "the ecclesiastic was absent, and i read the letter by myself. at another time, or in another case, it might have excited my ridicule. but into what quackeries will not people rush for a last chance, where all accustomed means have failed, and the life of a beloved object is at stake? "nothing, you will say, could be more absurd than the learned man's letter. "it was monstrous enough to have consigned him to a madhouse. he said that the patient was suffering from the visits of a vampire! the punctures which she described as having occurred near the throat, were, he insisted, the insertion of those two long, thin, and sharp teeth which, it is well known, are peculiar to vampires; and there could be no doubt, he added, as to the well-defined presence of the small livid mark which all concurred in describing as that induced by the demon's lips, and every symptom described by the sufferer was in exact conformity with those recorded in every case of a similar visitation. "being myself wholly skeptical as to the existence of any such portent as the vampire, the supernatural theory of the good doctor furnished, in my opinion, but another instance of learning and intelligence oddly associated with some one hallucination. i was so miserable, however, that, rather than try nothing, i acted upon the instructions of the letter. "i concealed myself in the dark dressing room, that opened upon the poor patient's room, in which a candle was burning, and watched there till she was fast asleep. i stood at the door, peeping through the small crevice, my sword laid on the table beside me, as my directions prescribed, until, a little after one, i saw a large black object, very ill-defined, crawl, as it seemed to me, over the foot of the bed, and swiftly spread itself up to the poor girl's throat, where it swelled, in a moment, into a great, palpitating mass. "for a few moments i had stood petrified. i now sprang forward, with my sword in my hand. the black creature suddenly contracted towards the foot of the bed, glided over it, and, standing on the floor about a yard below the foot of the bed, with a glare of skulking ferocity and horror fixed on me, i saw millarca. speculating i know not what, i struck at her instantly with my sword; but i saw her standing near the door, unscathed. horrified, i pursued, and struck again. she was gone; and my sword flew to shivers against the door. "i can't describe to you all that passed on that horrible night. the whole house was up and stirring. the specter millarca was gone. but her victim was sinking fast, and before the morning dawned, she died." the old general was agitated. we did not speak to him. my father walked to some little distance, and began reading the inscriptions on the tombstones; and thus occupied, he strolled into the door of a side chapel to prosecute his researches. the general leaned against the wall, dried his eyes, and sighed heavily. i was relieved on hearing the voices of carmilla and madame, who were at that moment approaching. the voices died away. in this solitude, having just listened to so strange a story, connected, as it was, with the great and titled dead, whose monuments were moldering among the dust and ivy round us, and every incident of which bore so awfully upon my own mysterious case--in this haunted spot, darkened by the towering foliage that rose on every side, dense and high above its noiseless walls--a horror began to steal over me, and my heart sank as i thought that my friends were, after all, not about to enter and disturb this triste and ominous scene. the old general's eyes were fixed on the ground, as he leaned with his hand upon the basement of a shattered monument. under a narrow, arched doorway, surmounted by one of those demoniacal grotesques in which the cynical and ghastly fancy of old gothic carving delights, i saw very gladly the beautiful face and figure of carmilla enter the shadowy chapel. i was just about to rise and speak, and nodded smiling, in answer to her peculiarly engaging smile; when with a cry, the old man by my side caught up the woodman's hatchet, and started forward. on seeing him a brutalized change came over her features. it was an instantaneous and horrible transformation, as she made a crouching step backwards. before i could utter a scream, he struck at her with all his force, but she dived under his blow, and unscathed, caught him in her tiny grasp by the wrist. he struggled for a moment to release his arm, but his hand opened, the axe fell to the ground, and the girl was gone. he staggered against the wall. his grey hair stood upon his head, and a moisture shone over his face, as if he were at the point of death. the frightful scene had passed in a moment. the first thing i recollect after, is madame standing before me, and impatiently repeating again and again, the question, "where is mademoiselle carmilla?" i answered at length, "i don't know--i can't tell--she went there," and i pointed to the door through which madame had just entered; "only a minute or two since." "but i have been standing there, in the passage, ever since mademoiselle carmilla entered; and she did not return." she then began to call "carmilla," through every door and passage and from the windows, but no answer came. "she called herself carmilla?" asked the general, still agitated. "carmilla, yes," i answered. "aye," he said; "that is millarca. that is the same person who long ago was called mircalla, countess karnstein. depart from this accursed ground, my poor child, as quickly as you can. drive to the clergyman's house, and stay there till we come. begone! may you never behold carmilla more; you will not find her here." xv _ordeal and execution_ as he spoke one of the strangest looking men i ever beheld entered the chapel at the door through which carmilla had made her entrance and her exit. he was tall, narrow-chested, stooping, with high shoulders, and dressed in black. his face was brown and dried in with deep furrows; he wore an oddly-shaped hat with a broad leaf. his hair, long and grizzled, hung on his shoulders. he wore a pair of gold spectacles, and walked slowly, with an odd shambling gait, with his face sometimes turned up to the sky, and sometimes bowed down towards the ground, seemed to wear a perpetual smile; his long thin arms were swinging, and his lank hands, in old black gloves ever so much too wide for them, waving and gesticulating in utter abstraction. "the very man!" exclaimed the general, advancing with manifest delight. "my dear baron, how happy i am to see you, i had no hope of meeting you so soon." he signed to my father, who had by this time returned, and leading the fantastic old gentleman, whom he called the baron to meet him. he introduced him formally, and they at once entered into earnest conversation. the stranger took a roll of paper from his pocket, and spread it on the worn surface of a tomb that stood by. he had a pencil case in his fingers, with which he traced imaginary lines from point to point on the paper, which from their often glancing from it, together, at certain points of the building, i concluded to be a plan of the chapel. he accompanied, what i may term, his lecture, with occasional readings from a dirty little book, whose yellow leaves were closely written over. they sauntered together down the side aisle, opposite to the spot where i was standing, conversing as they went; then they began measuring distances by paces, and finally they all stood together, facing a piece of the sidewall, which they began to examine with great minuteness; pulling off the ivy that clung over it, and rapping the plaster with the ends of their sticks, scraping here, and knocking there. at length they ascertained the existence of a broad marble tablet, with letters carved in relief upon it. with the assistance of the woodman, who soon returned, a monumental inscription, and carved escutcheon, were disclosed. they proved to be those of the long lost monument of mircalla, countess karnstein. the old general, though not i fear given to the praying mood, raised his hands and eyes to heaven, in mute thanksgiving for some moments. "tomorrow," i heard him say; "the commissioner will be here, and the inquisition will be held according to law." then turning to the old man with the gold spectacles, whom i have described, he shook him warmly by both hands and said: "baron, how can i thank you? how can we all thank you? you will have delivered this region from a plague that has scourged its inhabitants for more than a century. the horrible enemy, thank god, is at last tracked." my father led the stranger aside, and the general followed. i know that he had led them out of hearing, that he might relate my case, and i saw them glance often quickly at me, as the discussion proceeded. my father came to me, kissed me again and again, and leading me from the chapel, said: "it is time to return, but before we go home, we must add to our party the good priest, who lives but a little way from this; and persuade him to accompany us to the schloss." in this quest we were successful: and i was glad, being unspeakably fatigued when we reached home. but my satisfaction was changed to dismay, on discovering that there were no tidings of carmilla. of the scene that had occurred in the ruined chapel, no explanation was offered to me, and it was clear that it was a secret which my father for the present determined to keep from me. the sinister absence of carmilla made the remembrance of the scene more horrible to me. the arrangements for the night were singular. two servants, and madame were to sit up in my room that night; and the ecclesiastic with my father kept watch in the adjoining dressing room. the priest had performed certain solemn rites that night, the purport of which i did not understand any more than i comprehended the reason of this extraordinary precaution taken for my safety during sleep. i saw all clearly a few days later. the disappearance of carmilla was followed by the discontinuance of my nightly sufferings. you have heard, no doubt, of the appalling superstition that prevails in upper and lower styria, in moravia, silesia, in turkish serbia, in poland, even in russia; the superstition, so we must call it, of the vampire. if human testimony, taken with every care and solemnity, judicially, before commissions innumerable, each consisting of many members, all chosen for integrity and intelligence, and constituting reports more voluminous perhaps than exist upon any one other class of cases, is worth anything, it is difficult to deny, or even to doubt the existence of such a phenomenon as the vampire. for my part i have heard no theory by which to explain what i myself have witnessed and experienced, other than that supplied by the ancient and well-attested belief of the country. the next day the formal proceedings took place in the chapel of karnstein. the grave of the countess mircalla was opened; and the general and my father recognized each his perfidious and beautiful guest, in the face now disclosed to view. the features, though a hundred and fifty years had passed since her funeral, were tinted with the warmth of life. her eyes were open; no cadaverous smell exhaled from the coffin. the two medical men, one officially present, the other on the part of the promoter of the inquiry, attested the marvelous fact that there was a faint but appreciable respiration, and a corresponding action of the heart. the limbs were perfectly flexible, the flesh elastic; and the leaden coffin floated with blood, in which to a depth of seven inches, the body lay immersed. here then, were all the admitted signs and proofs of vampirism. the body, therefore, in accordance with the ancient practice, was raised, and a sharp stake driven through the heart of the vampire, who uttered a piercing shriek at the moment, in all respects such as might escape from a living person in the last agony. then the head was struck off, and a torrent of blood flowed from the severed neck. the body and head was next placed on a pile of wood, and reduced to ashes, which were thrown upon the river and borne away, and that territory has never since been plagued by the visits of a vampire. my father has a copy of the report of the imperial commission, with the signatures of all who were present at these proceedings, attached in verification of the statement. it is from this official paper that i have summarized my account of this last shocking scene. xvi _conclusion_ i write all this you suppose with composure. but far from it; i cannot think of it without agitation. nothing but your earnest desire so repeatedly expressed, could have induced me to sit down to a task that has unstrung my nerves for months to come, and reinduced a shadow of the unspeakable horror which years after my deliverance continued to make my days and nights dreadful, and solitude insupportably terrific. let me add a word or two about that quaint baron vordenburg, to whose curious lore we were indebted for the discovery of the countess mircalla's grave. he had taken up his abode in gratz, where, living upon a mere pittance, which was all that remained to him of the once princely estates of his family, in upper styria, he devoted himself to the minute and laborious investigation of the marvelously authenticated tradition of vampirism. he had at his fingers' ends all the great and little works upon the subject. "magia posthuma," "phlegon de mirabilibus," "augustinus de cura pro mortuis," "philosophicae et christianae cogitationes de vampiris," by john christofer herenberg; and a thousand others, among which i remember only a few of those which he lent to my father. he had a voluminous digest of all the judicial cases, from which he had extracted a system of principles that appear to govern--some always, and others occasionally only--the condition of the vampire. i may mention, in passing, that the deadly pallor attributed to that sort of revenants, is a mere melodramatic fiction. they present, in the grave, and when they show themselves in human society, the appearance of healthy life. when disclosed to light in their coffins, they exhibit all the symptoms that are enumerated as those which proved the vampire-life of the long-dead countess karnstein. how they escape from their graves and return to them for certain hours every day, without displacing the clay or leaving any trace of disturbance in the state of the coffin or the cerements, has always been admitted to be utterly inexplicable. the amphibious existence of the vampire is sustained by daily renewed slumber in the grave. its horrible lust for living blood supplies the vigor of its waking existence. the vampire is prone to be fascinated with an engrossing vehemence, resembling the passion of love, by particular persons. in pursuit of these it will exercise inexhaustible patience and stratagem, for access to a particular object may be obstructed in a hundred ways. it will never desist until it has satiated its passion, and drained the very life of its coveted victim. but it will, in these cases, husband and protract its murderous enjoyment with the refinement of an epicure, and heighten it by the gradual approaches of an artful courtship. in these cases it seems to yearn for something like sympathy and consent. in ordinary ones it goes direct to its object, overpowers with violence, and strangles and exhausts often at a single feast. the vampire is, apparently, subject, in certain situations, to special conditions. in the particular instance of which i have given you a relation, mircalla seemed to be limited to a name which, if not her real one, should at least reproduce, without the omission or addition of a single letter, those, as we say, anagrammatically, which compose it. carmilla did this; so did millarca. my father related to the baron vordenburg, who remained with us for two or three weeks after the expulsion of carmilla, the story about the moravian nobleman and the vampire at karnstein churchyard, and then he asked the baron how he had discovered the exact position of the long-concealed tomb of the countess mircalla? the baron's grotesque features puckered up into a mysterious smile; he looked down, still smiling on his worn spectacle case and fumbled with it. then looking up, he said: "i have many journals, and other papers, written by that remarkable man; the most curious among them is one treating of the visit of which you speak, to karnstein. the tradition, of course, discolors and distorts a little. he might have been termed a moravian nobleman, for he had changed his abode to that territory, and was, beside, a noble. but he was, in truth, a native of upper styria. it is enough to say that in very early youth he had been a passionate and favored lover of the beautiful mircalla, countess karnstein. her early death plunged him into inconsolable grief. it is the nature of vampires to increase and multiply, but according to an ascertained and ghostly law. "assume, at starting, a territory perfectly free from that pest. how does it begin, and how does it multiply itself? i will tell you. a person, more or less wicked, puts an end to himself. a suicide, under certain circumstances, becomes a vampire. that specter visits living people in their slumbers; they die, and almost invariably, in the grave, develop into vampires. this happened in the case of the beautiful mircalla, who was haunted by one of those demons. my ancestor, vordenburg, whose title i still bear, soon discovered this, and in the course of the studies to which he devoted himself, learned a great deal more. "among other things, he concluded that suspicion of vampirism would probably fall, sooner or later, upon the dead countess, who in life had been his idol. he conceived a horror, be she what she might, of her remains being profaned by the outrage of a posthumous execution. he has left a curious paper to prove that the vampire, on its expulsion from its amphibious existence, is projected into a far more horrible life; and he resolved to save his once beloved mircalla from this. "he adopted the stratagem of a journey here, a pretended removal of her remains, and a real obliteration of her monument. when age had stolen upon him, and from the vale of years, he looked back on the scenes he was leaving, he considered, in a different spirit, what he had done, and a horror took possession of him. he made the tracings and notes which have guided me to the very spot, and drew up a confession of the deception that he had practiced. if he had intended any further action in this matter, death prevented him; and the hand of a remote descendant has, too late for many, directed the pursuit to the lair of the beast." we talked a little more, and among other things he said was this: "one sign of the vampire is the power of the hand. the slender hand of mircalla closed like a vice of steel on the general's wrist when he raised the hatchet to strike. but its power is not confined to its grasp; it leaves a numbness in the limb it seizes, which is slowly, if ever, recovered from." the following spring my father took me a tour through italy. we remained away for more than a year. it was long before the terror of recent events subsided; and to this hour the image of carmilla returns to memory with ambiguous alternations--sometimes the playful, languid, beautiful girl; sometimes the writhing fiend i saw in the ruined church; and often from a reverie i have started, fancying i heard the light step of carmilla at the drawing room door. * * * * * other books by j. sheridan lefanu the cock and anchor torlogh o'brien the house by the churchyard uncle silas checkmate carmilla the wyvern mystery guy deverell ghost stories and tales of mystery the chronicles of golden friars in a glass darkly the purcell papers the watcher and other weird stories a chronicle of golden friars and other stories madam growl's ghost and other tales of mystery green tea and other stories sheridan lefanu: the diabolic genius best ghost stories of j.s. lefanu the best horror stories the vampire lovers and other stories ghost stories and mysteries the hours after midnight j.s. lefanu: ghost stories and mysteries ghost and horror stories green tea and other ghost stones carmilla and other classic tales of mystery dracula dracula _by_ bram stoker [illustration: colophon] new york grosset & dunlap _publishers_ copyright, 1897, in the united states of america, according to act of congress, by bram stoker [_all rights reserved._] printed in the united states at the country life press, garden city, n.y. to my dear friend hommy-beg contents chapter i page jonathan harker's journal 1 chapter ii jonathan harker's journal 14 chapter iii jonathan harker's journal 26 chapter iv jonathan harker's journal 38 chapter v letters--lucy and mina 51 chapter vi mina murray's journal 59 chapter vii cutting from "the dailygraph," 8 august 71 chapter viii mina murray's journal 84 chapter ix mina murray's journal 98 chapter x mina murray's journal 111 chapter xi lucy westenra's diary 124 chapter xii dr. seward's diary 136 chapter xiii dr. seward's diary 152 chapter xiv mina harker's journal 167 chapter xv dr. seward's diary 181 chapter xvi dr. seward's diary 194 chapter xvii dr. seward's diary 204 chapter xviii dr. seward's diary 216 chapter xix jonathan harker's journal 231 chapter xx jonathan harker's journal 243 chapter xxi dr. seward's diary 256 chapter xxii jonathan harker's journal 269 chapter xxiii dr. seward's diary 281 chapter xxiv dr. seward's phonograph diary, spoken by van helsing 294 chapter xxv dr. seward's diary 308 chapter xxvi dr. seward's diary 322 chapter xxvii mina harker's journal 338 dracula chapter i jonathan harker's journal (_kept in shorthand._) _3 may. bistritz._--left munich at 8:35 p. m., on 1st may, arriving at vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late. buda-pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse which i got of it from the train and the little i could walk through the streets. i feared to go very far from the station, as we had arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible. the impression i had was that we were leaving the west and entering the east; the most western of splendid bridges over the danube, which is here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of turkish rule. we left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to klausenburgh. here i stopped for the night at the hotel royale. i had for dinner, or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which was very good but thirsty. (_mem._, get recipe for mina.) i asked the waiter, and he said it was called "paprika hendl," and that, as it was a national dish, i should be able to get it anywhere along the carpathians. i found my smattering of german very useful here; indeed, i don't know how i should be able to get on without it. having had some time at my disposal when in london, i had visited the british museum, and made search among the books and maps in the library regarding transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with a nobleman of that country. i find that the district he named is in the extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states, transylvania, moldavia and bukovina, in the midst of the carpathian mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of europe. i was not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the castle dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare with our own ordnance survey maps; but i found that bistritz, the post town named by count dracula, is a fairly well-known place. i shall enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when i talk over my travels with mina. in the population of transylvania there are four distinct nationalities: saxons in the south, and mixed with them the wallachs, who are the descendants of the dacians; magyars in the west, and szekelys in the east and north. i am going among the latter, who claim to be descended from attila and the huns. this may be so, for when the magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they found the huns settled in it. i read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very interesting. (_mem._, i must ask the count all about them.) i did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for i had all sorts of queer dreams. there was a dog howling all night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for i had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty. towards morning i slept and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so i guess i must have been sleeping soundly then. i had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge of maize flour which they said was "mamaliga," and egg-plant stuffed with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call "impletata." (_mem._, get recipe for this also.) i had to hurry breakfast, for the train started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have done so, for after rushing to the station at 7:30 i had to sit in the carriage for more than an hour before we began to move. it seems to me that the further east you go the more unpunctual are the trains. what ought they to be in china? all day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of beauty of every kind. sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the top of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side of them to be subject to great floods. it takes a lot of water, and running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. at every station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts of attire. some of them were just like the peasants at home or those i saw coming through france and germany, with short jackets and round hats and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque. the women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very clumsy about the waist. they had all full white sleeves of some kind or other, and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course there were petticoats under them. the strangest figures we saw were the slovaks, who were more barbarian than the rest, with their big cow-boy hats, great baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass nails. they wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into them, and had long black hair and heavy black moustaches. they are very picturesque, but do not look prepossessing. on the stage they would be set down at once as some old oriental band of brigands. they are, however, i am told, very harmless and rather wanting in natural self-assertion. it was on the dark side of twilight when we got to bistritz, which is a very interesting old place. being practically on the frontier--for the borgo pass leads from it into bukovina--it has had a very stormy existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. fifty years ago a series of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five separate occasions. at the very beginning of the seventeenth century it underwent a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the casualties of war proper being assisted by famine and disease. count dracula had directed me to go to the golden krone hotel, which i found, to my great delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of course i wanted to see all i could of the ways of the country. i was evidently expected, for when i got near the door i faced a cheery-looking elderly woman in the usual peasant dress--white undergarment with long double apron, front, and back, of coloured stuff fitting almost too tight for modesty. when i came close she bowed and said, "the herr englishman?" "yes," i said, "jonathan harker." she smiled, and gave some message to an elderly man in white shirt-sleeves, who had followed her to the door. he went, but immediately returned with a letter:- "my friend.--welcome to the carpathians. i am anxiously expecting you. sleep well to-night. at three to-morrow the diligence will start for bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. at the borgo pass my carriage will await you and will bring you to me. i trust that your journey from london has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your stay in my beautiful land. "your friend, "dracula." _4 may._--i found that my landlord had got a letter from the count, directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and pretended that he could not understand my german. this could not be true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he answered my questions exactly as if he did. he and his wife, the old lady who had received me, looked at each other in a frightened sort of way. he mumbled out that the money had been sent in a letter, and that was all he knew. when i asked him if he knew count dracula, and could tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed themselves, and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused to speak further. it was so near the time of starting that i had no time to ask any one else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any means comforting. just before i was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in a very hysterical way: "must you go? oh! young herr, must you go?" she was in such an excited state that she seemed to have lost her grip of what german she knew, and mixed it all up with some other language which i did not know at all. i was just able to follow her by asking many questions. when i told her that i must go at once, and that i was engaged on important business, she asked again: "do you know what day it is?" i answered that it was the fourth of may. she shook her head as she said again: "oh, yes! i know that! i know that, but do you know what day it is?" on my saying that i did not understand, she went on: "it is the eve of st. george's day. do you not know that to-night, when the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have full sway? do you know where you are going, and what you are going to?" she was in such evident distress that i tried to comfort her, but without effect. finally she went down on her knees and implored me not to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting. it was all very ridiculous but i did not feel comfortable. however, there was business to be done, and i could allow nothing to interfere with it. i therefore tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as i could, that i thanked her, but my duty was imperative, and that i must go. she then rose and dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to me. i did not know what to do, for, as an english churchman, i have been taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in such a state of mind. she saw, i suppose, the doubt in my face, for she put the rosary round my neck, and said, "for your mother's sake," and went out of the room. i am writing up this part of the diary whilst i am waiting for the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix is still round my neck. whether it is the old lady's fear, or the many ghostly traditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, i do not know, but i am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. if this book should ever reach mina before i do, let it bring my good-bye. here comes the coach! * * * * * _5 may. the castle._--the grey of the morning has passed, and the sun is high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with trees or hills i know not, for it is so far off that big things and little are mixed. i am not sleepy, and, as i am not to be called till i awake, naturally i write till sleep comes. there are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that i dined too well before i left bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. i dined on what they called "robber steak"--bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the simple style of the london cat's meat! the wine was golden mediasch, which produces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not disagreeable. i had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else. when i got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and i saw him talking with the landlady. they were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door--which they call by a name meaning "word-bearer"--came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them pityingly. i could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd; so i quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. i must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were "ordog"--satan, "pokol"--hell, "stregoica"--witch, "vrolok" and "vlkoslak"--both of which mean the same thing, one being slovak and the other servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire. (_mem._, i must ask the count about these superstitions) when we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards me. with some difficulty i got a fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he would not answer at first, but on learning that i was english, he explained that it was a charm or guard against the evil eye. this was not very pleasant for me, just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man; but every one seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic that i could not but be touched. i shall never forget the last glimpse which i had of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures, all crossing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with its background of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green tubs clustered in the centre of the yard. then our driver, whose wide linen drawers covered the whole front of the box-seat--"gotza" they call them--cracked his big whip over his four small horses, which ran abreast, and we set off on our journey. i soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of the scene as we drove along, although had i known the language, or rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, i might not have been able to throw them off so easily. before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road. there was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom--apple, plum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by i could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. in and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the "mittel land" ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillsides like tongues of flame. the road was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. i could not understand then what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing no time in reaching borgo prund. i was told that this road is in summertime excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after the winter snows. in this respect it is different from the general run of roads in the carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be kept in too good order. of old the hospadars would not repair them, lest the turk should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so hasten the war which was always really at loading point. beyond the green swelling hills of the mittel land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the carpathians themselves. right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water. one of my companions touched my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty, snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our serpentine way, to be right before us:-"look! isten szek!"--"god's seat!"--and he crossed himself reverently. as we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. this was emphasised by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink. here and there we passed cszeks and slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but i noticed that goitre was painfully prevalent. by the roadside were many crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves. here and there was a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine, who did not even turn round as we approached, but seemed in the self-surrender of devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world. there were many things new to me: for instance, hay-ricks in the trees, and here and there very beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white stems shining like silver through the delicate green of the leaves. now and again we passed a leiter-wagon--the ordinary peasant's cart--with its long, snake-like vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities of the road. on this were sure to be seated quite a group of home-coming peasants, the cszeks with their white, and the slovaks with their coloured, sheepskins, the latter carrying lance-fashion their long staves, with axe at end. as the evening fell it began to get very cold, and the growing twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness the gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the valleys which ran deep between the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through the pass, the dark firs stood out here and there against the background of late-lying snow. sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys. sometimes the hills were so steep that, despite our driver's haste, the horses could only go slowly. i wished to get down and walk up them, as we do at home, but the driver would not hear of it. "no, no," he said; "you must not walk here; the dogs are too fierce"; and then he added, with what he evidently meant for grim pleasantry--for he looked round to catch the approving smile of the rest--"and you may have enough of such matters before you go to sleep." the only stop he would make was a moment's pause to light his lamps. when it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as though urging him to further speed. he lashed the horses unmercifully with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on to further exertions. then through the darkness i could see a sort of patch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the hills. the excitement of the passengers grew greater; the crazy coach rocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat tossed on a stormy sea. i had to hold on. the road grew more level, and we appeared to fly along. then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each side and to frown down upon us; we were entering on the borgo pass. one by one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed upon me with an earnestness which would take no denial; these were certainly of an odd and varied kind, but each was given in simple good faith, with a kindly word, and a blessing, and that strange mixture of fear-meaning movements which i had seen outside the hotel at bistritz--the sign of the cross and the guard against the evil eye. then, as we flew along, the driver leaned forward, and on each side the passengers, craning over the edge of the coach, peered eagerly into the darkness. it was evident that something very exciting was either happening or expected, but though i asked each passenger, no one would give me the slightest explanation. this state of excitement kept on for some little time; and at last we saw before us the pass opening out on the eastern side. there were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. it seemed as though the mountain range had separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got into the thunderous one. i was now myself looking out for the conveyance which was to take me to the count. each moment i expected to see the glare of lamps through the blackness; but all was dark. the only light was the flickering rays of our own lamps, in which the steam from our hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. we could see now the sandy road lying white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle. the passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock my own disappointment. i was already thinking what i had best do, when the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something which i could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone; i thought it was "an hour less than the time." then turning to me, he said in german worse than my own:-"there is no carriage here. the herr is not expected after all. he will now come on to bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day; better the next day." whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up. then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal crossing of themselves, a calã¨che, with four horses, drove up behind us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. i could see from the flash of our lamps, as the rays fell on them, that the horses were coal-black and splendid animals. they were driven by a tall man, with a long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face from us. i could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes, which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us. he said to the driver:-"you are early to-night, my friend." the man stammered in reply:-"the english herr was in a hurry," to which the stranger replied:-"that is why, i suppose, you wished him to go on to bukovina. you cannot deceive me, my friend; i know too much, and my horses are swift." as he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. one of my companions whispered to another the line from burger's "lenore":- "denn die todten reiten schnell"- ("for the dead travel fast.") the strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a gleaming smile. the passenger turned his face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself. "give me the herr's luggage," said the driver; and with exceeding alacrity my bags were handed out and put in the calã¨che. then i descended from the side of the coach, as the calã¨che was close alongside, the driver helping me with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel; his strength must have been prodigious. without a word he shook his reins, the horses turned, and we swept into the darkness of the pass. as i looked back i saw the steam from the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps, and projected against it the figures of my late companions crossing themselves. then the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses, and off they swept on their way to bukovina. as they sank into the darkness i felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling came over me; but a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug across my knees, and the driver said in excellent german:-"the night is chill, mein herr, and my master the count bade me take all care of you. there is a flask of slivovitz (the plum brandy of the country) underneath the seat, if you should require it." i did not take any, but it was a comfort to know it was there all the same. i felt a little strangely, and not a little frightened. i think had there been any alternative i should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown night journey. the carriage went at a hard pace straight along, then we made a complete turn and went along another straight road. it seemed to me that we were simply going over and over the same ground again; and so i took note of some salient point, and found that this was so. i would have liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but i really feared to do so, for i thought that, placed as i was, any protest would have had no effect in case there had been an intention to delay. by-and-by, however, as i was curious to know how time was passing, i struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch; it was within a few minutes of midnight. this gave me a sort of shock, for i suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my recent experiences. i waited with a sick feeling of suspense. then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road--a long, agonised wailing, as if from fear. the sound was taken up by another dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind which now sighed softly through the pass, a wild howling began, which seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination could grasp it through the gloom of the night. at the first howl the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver spoke to them soothingly, and they quieted down, but shivered and sweated as though after a runaway from sudden fright. then, far off in the distance, from the mountains on each side of us began a louder and a sharper howling--that of wolves--which affected both the horses and myself in the same way--for i was minded to jump from the calã¨che and run, whilst they reared again and plunged madly, so that the driver had to use all his great strength to keep them from bolting. in a few minutes, however, my own ears got accustomed to the sound, and the horses so far became quiet that the driver was able to descend and to stand before them. he petted and soothed them, and whispered something in their ears, as i have heard of horse-tamers doing, and with extraordinary effect, for under his caresses they became quite manageable again, though they still trembled. the driver again took his seat, and shaking his reins, started off at a great pace. this time, after going to the far side of the pass, he suddenly turned down a narrow roadway which ran sharply to the right. soon we were hemmed in with trees, which in places arched right over the roadway till we passed as through a tunnel; and again great frowning rocks guarded us boldly on either side. though we were in shelter, we could hear the rising wind, for it moaned and whistled through the rocks, and the branches of the trees crashed together as we swept along. it grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery snow began to fall, so that soon we and all around us were covered with a white blanket. the keen wind still carried the howling of the dogs, though this grew fainter as we went on our way. the baying of the wolves sounded nearer and nearer, as though they were closing round on us from every side. i grew dreadfully afraid, and the horses shared my fear. the driver, however, was not in the least disturbed; he kept turning his head to left and right, but i could not see anything through the darkness. suddenly, away on our left, i saw a faint flickering blue flame. the driver saw it at the same moment; he at once checked the horses, and, jumping to the ground, disappeared into the darkness. i did not know what to do, the less as the howling of the wolves grew closer; but while i wondered the driver suddenly appeared again, and without a word took his seat, and we resumed our journey. i think i must have fallen asleep and kept dreaming of the incident, for it seemed to be repeated endlessly, and now looking back, it is like a sort of awful nightmare. once the flame appeared so near the road, that even in the darkness around us i could watch the driver's motions. he went rapidly to where the blue flame arose--it must have been very faint, for it did not seem to illumine the place around it at all--and gathering a few stones, formed them into some device. once there appeared a strange optical effect: when he stood between me and the flame he did not obstruct it, for i could see its ghostly flicker all the same. this startled me, but as the effect was only momentary, i took it that my eyes deceived me straining through the darkness. then for a time there were no blue flames, and we sped onwards through the gloom, with the howling of the wolves around us, as though they were following in a moving circle. at last there came a time when the driver went further afield than he had yet gone, and during his absence, the horses began to tremble worse than ever and to snort and scream with fright. i could not see any cause for it, for the howling of the wolves had ceased altogether; but just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light i saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair. they were a hundred times more terrible in the grim silence which held them than even when they howled. for myself, i felt a sort of paralysis of fear. it is only when a man feels himself face to face with such horrors that he can understand their true import. all at once the wolves began to howl as though the moonlight had had some peculiar effect on them. the horses jumped about and reared, and looked helplessly round with eyes that rolled in a way painful to see; but the living ring of terror encompassed them on every side; and they had perforce to remain within it. i called to the coachman to come, for it seemed to me that our only chance was to try to break out through the ring and to aid his approach. i shouted and beat the side of the calã¨che, hoping by the noise to scare the wolves from that side, so as to give him a chance of reaching the trap. how he came there, i know not, but i heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway. as he swept his long arms, as though brushing aside some impalpable obstacle, the wolves fell back and back further still. just then a heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon, so that we were again in darkness. when i could see again the driver was climbing into the calã¨che, and the wolves had disappeared. this was all so strange and uncanny that a dreadful fear came upon me, and i was afraid to speak or move. the time seemed interminable as we swept on our way, now in almost complete darkness, for the rolling clouds obscured the moon. we kept on ascending, with occasional periods of quick descent, but in the main always ascending. suddenly, i became conscious of the fact that the driver was in the act of pulling up the horses in the courtyard of a vast ruined castle, from whose tall black windows came no ray of light, and whose broken battlements showed a jagged line against the moonlit sky. chapter ii jonathan harker's journal--_continued_ _5 may._--i must have been asleep, for certainly if i had been fully awake i must have noticed the approach of such a remarkable place. in the gloom the courtyard looked of considerable size, and as several dark ways led from it under great round arches, it perhaps seemed bigger than it really is. i have not yet been able to see it by daylight. when the calã¨che stopped, the driver jumped down and held out his hand to assist me to alight. again i could not but notice his prodigious strength. his hand actually seemed like a steel vice that could have crushed mine if he had chosen. then he took out my traps, and placed them on the ground beside me as i stood close to a great door, old and studded with large iron nails, and set in a projecting doorway of massive stone. i could see even in the dim light that the stone was massively carved, but that the carving had been much worn by time and weather. as i stood, the driver jumped again into his seat and shook the reins; the horses started forward, and trap and all disappeared down one of the dark openings. i stood in silence where i was, for i did not know what to do. of bell or knocker there was no sign; through these frowning walls and dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate. the time i waited seemed endless, and i felt doubts and fears crowding upon me. what sort of place had i come to, and among what kind of people? what sort of grim adventure was it on which i had embarked? was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor's clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a london estate to a foreigner? solicitor's clerk! mina would not like that. solicitor--for just before leaving london i got word that my examination was successful; and i am now a full-blown solicitor! i began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if i were awake. it all seemed like a horrible nightmare to me, and i expected that i should suddenly awake, and find myself at home, with the dawn struggling in through the windows, as i had now and again felt in the morning after a day of overwork. but my flesh answered the pinching test, and my eyes were not to be deceived. i was indeed awake and among the carpathians. all i could do now was to be patient, and to wait the coming of the morning. just as i had come to this conclusion i heard a heavy step approaching behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming light. then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts drawn back. a key was turned with the loud grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back. within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere. he held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned without chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open door. the old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly gesture, saying in excellent english, but with a strange intonation:-"welcome to my house! enter freely and of your own will!" he made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone. the instant, however, that i had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed as cold as ice--more like the hand of a dead than a living man. again he said:-"welcome to my house. come freely. go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring!" the strength of the handshake was so much akin to that which i had noticed in the driver, whose face i had not seen, that for a moment i doubted if it were not the same person to whom i was speaking; so to make sure, i said interrogatively:-"count dracula?" he bowed in a courtly way as he replied:-"i am dracula; and i bid you welcome, mr. harker, to my house. come in; the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest." as he was speaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage; he had carried it in before i could forestall him. i protested but he insisted:-"nay, sir, you are my guest. it is late, and my people are not available. let me see to your comfort myself." he insisted on carrying my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and along another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang heavily. at the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and i rejoiced to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper, and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly replenished, flamed and flared. the count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing the room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room lit by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort. passing through this, he opened another door, and motioned me to enter. it was a welcome sight; for here was a great bedroom well lighted and warmed with another log fire,--also added to but lately, for the top logs were fresh--which sent a hollow roar up the wide chimney. the count himself left my luggage inside and withdrew, saying, before he closed the door:-"you will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your toilet. i trust you will find all you wish. when you are ready, come into the other room, where you will find your supper prepared." the light and warmth and the count's courteous welcome seemed to have dissipated all my doubts and fears. having then reached my normal state, i discovered that i was half famished with hunger; so making a hasty toilet, i went into the other room. i found supper already laid out. my host, who stood on one side of the great fireplace, leaning against the stonework, made a graceful wave of his hand to the table, and said:-"i pray you, be seated and sup how you please. you will, i trust, excuse me that i do not join you; but i have dined already, and i do not sup." i handed to him the sealed letter which mr. hawkins had entrusted to me. he opened it and read it gravely; then, with a charming smile, he handed it to me to read. one passage of it, at least, gave me a thrill of pleasure. "i must regret that an attack of gout, from which malady i am a constant sufferer, forbids absolutely any travelling on my part for some time to come; but i am happy to say i can send a sufficient substitute, one in whom i have every possible confidence. he is a young man, full of energy and talent in his own way, and of a very faithful disposition. he is discreet and silent, and has grown into manhood in my service. he shall be ready to attend on you when you will during his stay, and shall take your instructions in all matters." the count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and i fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken. this, with some cheese and a salad and a bottle of old tokay, of which i had two glasses, was my supper. during the time i was eating it the count asked me many questions as to my journey, and i told him by degrees all i had experienced. by this time i had finished my supper, and by my host's desire had drawn up a chair by the fire and begun to smoke a cigar which he offered me, at the same time excusing himself that he did not smoke. i had now an opportunity of observing him, and found him of a very marked physiognomy. his face was a strong--a very strong--aquiline, with high bridge of the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temples but profusely elsewhere. his eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion. the mouth, so far as i could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a man of his years. for the rest, his ears were pale, and at the tops extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm though thin. the general effect was one of extraordinary pallor. hitherto i had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing them now close to me, i could not but notice that they were rather coarse--broad, with squat fingers. strange to say, there were hairs in the centre of the palm. the nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp point. as the count leaned over me and his hands touched me, i could not repress a shudder. it may have been that his breath was rank, but a horrible feeling of nausea came over me, which, do what i would, i could not conceal. the count, evidently noticing it, drew back; and with a grim sort of smile, which showed more than he had yet done his protuberant teeth, sat himself down again on his own side of the fireplace. we were both silent for a while; and as i looked towards the window i saw the first dim streak of the coming dawn. there seemed a strange stillness over everything; but as i listened i heard as if from down below in the valley the howling of many wolves. the count's eyes gleamed, and he said:-"listen to them--the children of the night. what music they make!" seeing, i suppose, some expression in my face strange to him, he added:-"ah, sir, you dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter." then he rose and said:-"but you must be tired. your bedroom is all ready, and to-morrow you shall sleep as late as you will. i have to be away till the afternoon; so sleep well and dream well!" with a courteous bow, he opened for me himself the door to the octagonal room, and i entered my bedroom.... i am all in a sea of wonders. i doubt; i fear; i think strange things, which i dare not confess to my own soul. god keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me! * * * * * _7 may._--it is again early morning, but i have rested and enjoyed the last twenty-four hours. i slept till late in the day, and awoke of my own accord. when i had dressed myself i went into the room where we had supped, and found a cold breakfast laid out, with coffee kept hot by the pot being placed on the hearth. there was a card on the table, on which was written:-"i have to be absent for a while. do not wait for me.--d." i set to and enjoyed a hearty meal. when i had done, i looked for a bell, so that i might let the servants know i had finished; but i could not find one. there are certainly odd deficiencies in the house, considering the extraordinary evidences of wealth which are round me. the table service is of gold, and so beautifully wrought that it must be of immense value. the curtains and upholstery of the chairs and sofas and the hangings of my bed are of the costliest and most beautiful fabrics, and must have been of fabulous value when they were made, for they are centuries old, though in excellent order. i saw something like them in hampton court, but there they were worn and frayed and moth-eaten. but still in none of the rooms is there a mirror. there is not even a toilet glass on my table, and i had to get the little shaving glass from my bag before i could either shave or brush my hair. i have not yet seen a servant anywhere, or heard a sound near the castle except the howling of wolves. some time after i had finished my meal--i do not know whether to call it breakfast or dinner, for it was between five and six o'clock when i had it--i looked about for something to read, for i did not like to go about the castle until i had asked the count's permission. there was absolutely nothing in the room, book, newspaper, or even writing materials; so i opened another door in the room and found a sort of library. the door opposite mine i tried, but found it locked. in the library i found, to my great delight, a vast number of english books, whole shelves full of them, and bound volumes of magazines and newspapers. a table in the centre was littered with english magazines and newspapers, though none of them were of very recent date. the books were of the most varied kind--history, geography, politics, political economy, botany, geology, law--all relating to england and english life and customs and manners. there were even such books of reference as the london directory, the "red" and "blue" books, whitaker's almanac, the army and navy lists, and--it somehow gladdened my heart to see it--the law list. whilst i was looking at the books, the door opened, and the count entered. he saluted me in a hearty way, and hoped that i had had a good night's rest. then he went on:-"i am glad you found your way in here, for i am sure there is much that will interest you. these companions"--and he laid his hand on some of the books--"have been good friends to me, and for some years past, ever since i had the idea of going to london, have given me many, many hours of pleasure. through them i have come to know your great england; and to know her is to love her. i long to go through the crowded streets of your mighty london, to be in the midst of the whirl and rush of humanity, to share its life, its change, its death, and all that makes it what it is. but alas! as yet i only know your tongue through books. to you, my friend, i look that i know it to speak." "but, count," i said, "you know and speak english thoroughly!" he bowed gravely. "i thank you, my friend, for your all too-flattering estimate, but yet i fear that i am but a little way on the road i would travel. true, i know the grammar and the words, but yet i know not how to speak them." "indeed," i said, "you speak excellently." "not so," he answered. "well, i know that, did i move and speak in your london, none there are who would not know me for a stranger. that is not enough for me. here i am noble; i am _boyar_; the common people know me, and i am master. but a stranger in a strange land, he is no one; men know him not--and to know not is to care not for. i am content if i am like the rest, so that no man stops if he see me, or pause in his speaking if he hear my words, 'ha, ha! a stranger!' i have been so long master that i would be master still--or at least that none other should be master of me. you come to me not alone as agent of my friend peter hawkins, of exeter, to tell me all about my new estate in london. you shall, i trust, rest here with me awhile, so that by our talking i may learn the english intonation; and i would that you tell me when i make error, even of the smallest, in my speaking. i am sorry that i had to be away so long to-day; but you will, i know, forgive one who has so many important affairs in hand." of course i said all i could about being willing, and asked if i might come into that room when i chose. he answered: "yes, certainly," and added:-"you may go anywhere you wish in the castle, except where the doors are locked, where of course you will not wish to go. there is reason that all things are as they are, and did you see with my eyes and know with my knowledge, you would perhaps better understand." i said i was sure of this, and then he went on:-"we are in transylvania; and transylvania is not england. our ways are not your ways, and there shall be to you many strange things. nay, from what you have told me of your experiences already, you know something of what strange things there may be." this led to much conversation; and as it was evident that he wanted to talk, if only for talking's sake, i asked him many questions regarding things that had already happened to me or come within my notice. sometimes he sheered off the subject, or turned the conversation by pretending not to understand; but generally he answered all i asked most frankly. then as time went on, and i had got somewhat bolder, i asked him of some of the strange things of the preceding night, as, for instance, why the coachman went to the places where he had seen the blue flames. he then explained to me that it was commonly believed that on a certain night of the year--last night, in fact, when all evil spirits are supposed to have unchecked sway--a blue flame is seen over any place where treasure has been concealed. "that treasure has been hidden," he went on, "in the region through which you came last night, there can be but little doubt; for it was the ground fought over for centuries by the wallachian, the saxon, and the turk. why, there is hardly a foot of soil in all this region that has not been enriched by the blood of men, patriots or invaders. in old days there were stirring times, when the austrian and the hungarian came up in hordes, and the patriots went out to meet them--men and women, the aged and the children too--and waited their coming on the rocks above the passes, that they might sweep destruction on them with their artificial avalanches. when the invader was triumphant he found but little, for whatever there was had been sheltered in the friendly soil." "but how," said i, "can it have remained so long undiscovered, when there is a sure index to it if men will but take the trouble to look?" the count smiled, and as his lips ran back over his gums, the long, sharp, canine teeth showed out strangely; he answered:-"because your peasant is at heart a coward and a fool! those flames only appear on one night; and on that night no man of this land will, if he can help it, stir without his doors. and, dear sir, even if he did he would not know what to do. why, even the peasant that you tell me of who marked the place of the flame would not know where to look in daylight even for his own work. even you would not, i dare be sworn, be able to find these places again?" "there you are right," i said. "i know no more than the dead where even to look for them." then we drifted into other matters. "come," he said at last, "tell me of london and of the house which you have procured for me." with an apology for my remissness, i went into my own room to get the papers from my bag. whilst i was placing them in order i heard a rattling of china and silver in the next room, and as i passed through, noticed that the table had been cleared and the lamp lit, for it was by this time deep into the dark. the lamps were also lit in the study or library, and i found the count lying on the sofa, reading, of all things in the world, an english bradshaw's guide. when i came in he cleared the books and papers from the table; and with him i went into plans and deeds and figures of all sorts. he was interested in everything, and asked me a myriad questions about the place and its surroundings. he clearly had studied beforehand all he could get on the subject of the neighbourhood, for he evidently at the end knew very much more than i did. when i remarked this, he answered:-"well, but, my friend, is it not needful that i should? when i go there i shall be all alone, and my friend harker jonathan--nay, pardon me, i fall into my country's habit of putting your patronymic first--my friend jonathan harker will not be by my side to correct and aid me. he will be in exeter, miles away, probably working at papers of the law with my other friend, peter hawkins. so!" we went thoroughly into the business of the purchase of the estate at purfleet. when i had told him the facts and got his signature to the necessary papers, and had written a letter with them ready to post to mr. hawkins, he began to ask me how i had come across so suitable a place. i read to him the notes which i had made at the time, and which i inscribe here:-"at purfleet, on a by-road, i came across just such a place as seemed to be required, and where was displayed a dilapidated notice that the place was for sale. it is surrounded by a high wall, of ancient structure, built of heavy stones, and has not been repaired for a large number of years. the closed gates are of heavy old oak and iron, all eaten with rust. "the estate is called carfax, no doubt a corruption of the old _quatre face_, as the house is four-sided, agreeing with the cardinal points of the compass. it contains in all some twenty acres, quite surrounded by the solid stone wall above mentioned. there are many trees on it, which make it in places gloomy, and there is a deep, dark-looking pond or small lake, evidently fed by some springs, as the water is clear and flows away in a fair-sized stream. the house is very large and of all periods back, i should say, to mediã¦val times, for one part is of stone immensely thick, with only a few windows high up and heavily barred with iron. it looks like part of a keep, and is close to an old chapel or church. i could not enter it, as i had not the key of the door leading to it from the house, but i have taken with my kodak views of it from various points. the house has been added to, but in a very straggling way, and i can only guess at the amount of ground it covers, which must be very great. there are but few houses close at hand, one being a very large house only recently added to and formed into a private lunatic asylum. it is not, however, visible from the grounds." when i had finished, he said:-"i am glad that it is old and big. i myself am of an old family, and to live in a new house would kill me. a house cannot be made habitable in a day; and, after all, how few days go to make up a century. i rejoice also that there is a chapel of old times. we transylvanian nobles love not to think that our bones may lie amongst the common dead. i seek not gaiety nor mirth, not the bright voluptuousness of much sunshine and sparkling waters which please the young and gay. i am no longer young; and my heart, through weary years of mourning over the dead, is not attuned to mirth. moreover, the walls of my castle are broken; the shadows are many, and the wind breathes cold through the broken battlements and casements. i love the shade and the shadow, and would be alone with my thoughts when i may." somehow his words and his look did not seem to accord, or else it was that his cast of face made his smile look malignant and saturnine. presently, with an excuse, he left me, asking me to put all my papers together. he was some little time away, and i began to look at some of the books around me. one was an atlas, which i found opened naturally at england, as if that map had been much used. on looking at it i found in certain places little rings marked, and on examining these i noticed that one was near london on the east side, manifestly where his new estate was situated; the other two were exeter, and whitby on the yorkshire coast. it was the better part of an hour when the count returned. "aha!" he said; "still at your books? good! but you must not work always. come; i am informed that your supper is ready." he took my arm, and we went into the next room, where i found an excellent supper ready on the table. the count again excused himself, as he had dined out on his being away from home. but he sat as on the previous night, and chatted whilst i ate. after supper i smoked, as on the last evening, and the count stayed with me, chatting and asking questions on every conceivable subject, hour after hour. i felt that it was getting very late indeed, but i did not say anything, for i felt under obligation to meet my host's wishes in every way. i was not sleepy, as the long sleep yesterday had fortified me; but i could not help experiencing that chill which comes over one at the coming of the dawn, which is like, in its way, the turn of the tide. they say that people who are near death die generally at the change to the dawn or at the turn of the tide; any one who has when tired, and tied as it were to his post, experienced this change in the atmosphere can well believe it. all at once we heard the crow of a cock coming up with preternatural shrillness through the clear morning air; count dracula, jumping to his feet, said:-"why, there is the morning again! how remiss i am to let you stay up so long. you must make your conversation regarding my dear new country of england less interesting, so that i may not forget how time flies by us," and, with a courtly bow, he quickly left me. i went into my own room and drew the curtains, but there was little to notice; my window opened into the courtyard, all i could see was the warm grey of quickening sky. so i pulled the curtains again, and have written of this day. * * * * * _8 may._--i began to fear as i wrote in this book that i was getting too diffuse; but now i am glad that i went into detail from the first, for there is something so strange about this place and all in it that i cannot but feel uneasy. i wish i were safe out of it, or that i had never come. it may be that this strange night-existence is telling on me; but would that that were all! if there were any one to talk to i could bear it, but there is no one. i have only the count to speak with, and he!--i fear i am myself the only living soul within the place. let me be prosaic so far as facts can be; it will help me to bear up, and imagination must not run riot with me. if it does i am lost. let me say at once how i stand--or seem to. i only slept a few hours when i went to bed, and feeling that i could not sleep any more, got up. i had hung my shaving glass by the window, and was just beginning to shave. suddenly i felt a hand on my shoulder, and heard the count's voice saying to me, "good-morning." i started, for it amazed me that i had not seen him, since the reflection of the glass covered the whole room behind me. in starting i had cut myself slightly, but did not notice it at the moment. having answered the count's salutation, i turned to the glass again to see how i had been mistaken. this time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and i could see him over my shoulder. but there was no reflection of him in the mirror! the whole room behind me was displayed; but there was no sign of a man in it, except myself. this was startling, and, coming on the top of so many strange things, was beginning to increase that vague feeling of uneasiness which i always have when the count is near; but at the instant i saw that the cut had bled a little, and the blood was trickling over my chin. i laid down the razor, turning as i did so half round to look for some sticking plaster. when the count saw my face, his eyes blazed with a sort of demoniac fury, and he suddenly made a grab at my throat. i drew away, and his hand touched the string of beads which held the crucifix. it made an instant change in him, for the fury passed so quickly that i could hardly believe that it was ever there. "take care," he said, "take care how you cut yourself. it is more dangerous than you think in this country." then seizing the shaving glass, he went on: "and this is the wretched thing that has done the mischief. it is a foul bauble of man's vanity. away with it!" and opening the heavy window with one wrench of his terrible hand, he flung out the glass, which was shattered into a thousand pieces on the stones of the courtyard far below. then he withdrew without a word. it is very annoying, for i do not see how i am to shave, unless in my watch-case or the bottom of the shaving-pot, which is fortunately of metal. when i went into the dining-room, breakfast was prepared; but i could not find the count anywhere. so i breakfasted alone. it is strange that as yet i have not seen the count eat or drink. he must be a very peculiar man! after breakfast i did a little exploring in the castle. i went out on the stairs, and found a room looking towards the south. the view was magnificent, and from where i stood there was every opportunity of seeing it. the castle is on the very edge of a terrible precipice. a stone falling from the window would fall a thousand feet without touching anything! as far as the eye can reach is a sea of green tree tops, with occasionally a deep rift where there is a chasm. here and there are silver threads where the rivers wind in deep gorges through the forests. but i am not in heart to describe beauty, for when i had seen the view i explored further; doors, doors, doors everywhere, and all locked and bolted. in no place save from the windows in the castle walls is there an available exit. the castle is a veritable prison, and i am a prisoner! chapter iii jonathan harker's journal--_continued_ when i found that i was a prisoner a sort of wild feeling came over me. i rushed up and down the stairs, trying every door and peering out of every window i could find; but after a little the conviction of my helplessness overpowered all other feelings. when i look back after a few hours i think i must have been mad for the time, for i behaved much as a rat does in a trap. when, however, the conviction had come to me that i was helpless i sat down quietly--as quietly as i have ever done anything in my life--and began to think over what was best to be done. i am thinking still, and as yet have come to no definite conclusion. of one thing only am i certain; that it is no use making my ideas known to the count. he knows well that i am imprisoned; and as he has done it himself, and has doubtless his own motives for it, he would only deceive me if i trusted him fully with the facts. so far as i can see, my only plan will be to keep my knowledge and my fears to myself, and my eyes open. i am, i know, either being deceived, like a baby, by my own fears, or else i am in desperate straits; and if the latter be so, i need, and shall need, all my brains to get through. i had hardly come to this conclusion when i heard the great door below shut, and knew that the count had returned. he did not come at once into the library, so i went cautiously to my own room and found him making the bed. this was odd, but only confirmed what i had all along thought--that there were no servants in the house. when later i saw him through the chink of the hinges of the door laying the table in the dining-room, i was assured of it; for if he does himself all these menial offices, surely it is proof that there is no one else to do them. this gave me a fright, for if there is no one else in the castle, it must have been the count himself who was the driver of the coach that brought me here. this is a terrible thought; for if so, what does it mean that he could control the wolves, as he did, by only holding up his hand in silence. how was it that all the people at bistritz and on the coach had some terrible fear for me? what meant the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash? bless that good, good woman who hung the crucifix round my neck! for it is a comfort and a strength to me whenever i touch it. it is odd that a thing which i have been taught to regard with disfavour and as idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. is it that there is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? some time, if it may be, i must examine this matter and try to make up my mind about it. in the meantime i must find out all i can about count dracula, as it may help me to understand. to-night he may talk of himself, if i turn the conversation that way. i must be very careful, however, not to awake his suspicion. * * * * * _midnight._--i have had a long talk with the count. i asked him a few questions on transylvania history, and he warmed up to the subject wonderfully. in his speaking of things and people, and especially of battles, he spoke as if he had been present at them all. this he afterwards explained by saying that to a _boyar_ the pride of his house and name is his own pride, that their glory is his glory, that their fate is his fate. whenever he spoke of his house he always said "we," and spoke almost in the plural, like a king speaking. i wish i could put down all he said exactly as he said it, for to me it was most fascinating. it seemed to have in it a whole history of the country. he grew excited as he spoke, and walked about the room pulling his great white moustache and grasping anything on which he laid his hands as though he would crush it by main strength. one thing he said which i shall put down as nearly as i can; for it tells in its way the story of his race:-"we szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. here, in the whirlpool of european races, the ugric tribe bore down from iceland the fighting spirit which thor and wodin gave them, which their berserkers displayed to such fell intent on the seaboards of europe, ay, and of asia and africa too, till the peoples thought that the were-wolves themselves had come. here, too, when they came, they found the huns, whose warlike fury had swept the earth like a living flame, till the dying peoples held that in their veins ran the blood of those old witches, who, expelled from scythia had mated with the devils in the desert. fools, fools! what devil or what witch was ever so great as attila, whose blood is in these veins?" he held up his arms. "is it a wonder that we were a conquering race; that we were proud; that when the magyar, the lombard, the avar, the bulgar, or the turk poured his thousands on our frontiers, we drove them back? is it strange that when arpad and his legions swept through the hungarian fatherland he found us here when he reached the frontier; that the honfoglalas was completed there? and when the hungarian flood swept eastward, the szekelys were claimed as kindred by the victorious magyars, and to us for centuries was trusted the guarding of the frontier of turkey-land; ay, and more than that, endless duty of the frontier guard, for, as the turks say, 'water sleeps, and enemy is sleepless.' who more gladly than we throughout the four nations received the 'bloody sword,' or at its warlike call flocked quicker to the standard of the king? when was redeemed that great shame of my nation, the shame of cassova, when the flags of the wallach and the magyar went down beneath the crescent? who was it but one of my own race who as voivode crossed the danube and beat the turk on his own ground? this was a dracula indeed! woe was it that his own unworthy brother, when he had fallen, sold his people to the turk and brought the shame of slavery on them! was it not this dracula, indeed, who inspired that other of his race who in a later age again and again brought his forces over the great river into turkey-land; who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph! they said that he thought only of himself. bah! what good are peasants without a leader? where ends the war without a brain and heart to conduct it? again, when, after the battle of mohã¡cs, we threw off the hungarian yoke, we of the dracula blood were amongst their leaders, for our spirit would not brook that we were not free. ah, young sir, the szekelys--and the dracula as their heart's blood, their brains, and their swords--can boast a record that mushroom growths like the hapsburgs and the romanoffs can never reach. the warlike days are over. blood is too precious a thing in these days of dishonourable peace; and the glories of the great races are as a tale that is told." it was by this time close on morning, and we went to bed. (_mem._, this diary seems horribly like the beginning of the "arabian nights," for everything has to break off at cockcrow--or like the ghost of hamlet's father.) * * * * * _12 may._--let me begin with facts--bare, meagre facts, verified by books and figures, and of which there can be no doubt. i must not confuse them with experiences which will have to rest on my own observation, or my memory of them. last evening when the count came from his room he began by asking me questions on legal matters and on the doing of certain kinds of business. i had spent the day wearily over books, and, simply to keep my mind occupied, went over some of the matters i had been examined in at lincoln's inn. there was a certain method in the count's inquiries, so i shall try to put them down in sequence; the knowledge may somehow or some time be useful to me. first, he asked if a man in england might have two solicitors or more. i told him he might have a dozen if he wished, but that it would not be wise to have more than one solicitor engaged in one transaction, as only one could act at a time, and that to change would be certain to militate against his interest. he seemed thoroughly to understand, and went on to ask if there would be any practical difficulty in having one man to attend, say, to banking, and another to look after shipping, in case local help were needed in a place far from the home of the banking solicitor. i asked him to explain more fully, so that i might not by any chance mislead him, so he said:-"i shall illustrate. your friend and mine, mr. peter hawkins, from under the shadow of your beautiful cathedral at exeter, which is far from london, buys for me through your good self my place at london. good! now here let me say frankly, lest you should think it strange that i have sought the services of one so far off from london instead of some one resident there, that my motive was that no local interest might be served save my wish only; and as one of london residence might, perhaps, have some purpose of himself or friend to serve, i went thus afield to seek my agent, whose labours should be only to my interest. now, suppose i, who have much of affairs, wish to ship goods, say, to newcastle, or durham, or harwich, or dover, might it not be that it could with more ease be done by consigning to one in these ports?" i answered that certainly it would be most easy, but that we solicitors had a system of agency one for the other, so that local work could be done locally on instruction from any solicitor, so that the client, simply placing himself in the hands of one man, could have his wishes carried out by him without further trouble. "but," said he, "i could be at liberty to direct myself. is it not so?" "of course," i replied; and "such is often done by men of business, who do not like the whole of their affairs to be known by any one person." "good!" he said, and then went on to ask about the means of making consignments and the forms to be gone through, and of all sorts of difficulties which might arise, but by forethought could be guarded against. i explained all these things to him to the best of my ability, and he certainly left me under the impression that he would have made a wonderful solicitor, for there was nothing that he did not think of or foresee. for a man who was never in the country, and who did not evidently do much in the way of business, his knowledge and acumen were wonderful. when he had satisfied himself on these points of which he had spoken, and i had verified all as well as i could by the books available, he suddenly stood up and said:-"have you written since your first letter to our friend mr. peter hawkins, or to any other?" it was with some bitterness in my heart that i answered that i had not, that as yet i had not seen any opportunity of sending letters to anybody. "then write now, my young friend," he said, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder: "write to our friend and to any other; and say, if it will please you, that you shall stay with me until a month from now." "do you wish me to stay so long?" i asked, for my heart grew cold at the thought. "i desire it much; nay, i will take no refusal. when your master, employer, what you will, engaged that someone should come on his behalf, it was understood that my needs only were to be consulted. i have not stinted. is it not so?" what could i do but bow acceptance? it was mr. hawkins's interest, not mine, and i had to think of him, not myself; and besides, while count dracula was speaking, there was that in his eyes and in his bearing which made me remember that i was a prisoner, and that if i wished it i could have no choice. the count saw his victory in my bow, and his mastery in the trouble of my face, for he began at once to use them, but in his own smooth, resistless way:-"i pray you, my good young friend, that you will not discourse of things other than business in your letters. it will doubtless please your friends to know that you are well, and that you look forward to getting home to them. is it not so?" as he spoke he handed me three sheets of note-paper and three envelopes. they were all of the thinnest foreign post, and looking at them, then at him, and noticing his quiet smile, with the sharp, canine teeth lying over the red underlip, i understood as well as if he had spoken that i should be careful what i wrote, for he would be able to read it. so i determined to write only formal notes now, but to write fully to mr. hawkins in secret, and also to mina, for to her i could write in shorthand, which would puzzle the count, if he did see it. when i had written my two letters i sat quiet, reading a book whilst the count wrote several notes, referring as he wrote them to some books on his table. then he took up my two and placed them with his own, and put by his writing materials, after which, the instant the door had closed behind him, i leaned over and looked at the letters, which were face down on the table. i felt no compunction in doing so, for under the circumstances i felt that i should protect myself in every way i could. one of the letters was directed to samuel f. billington, no. 7, the crescent, whitby, another to herr leutner, varna; the third was to coutts & co., london, and the fourth to herren klopstock & billreuth, bankers, buda-pesth. the second and fourth were unsealed. i was just about to look at them when i saw the door-handle move. i sank back in my seat, having just had time to replace the letters as they had been and to resume my book before the count, holding still another letter in his hand, entered the room. he took up the letters on the table and stamped them carefully, and then turning to me, said:-"i trust you will forgive me, but i have much work to do in private this evening. you will, i hope, find all things as you wish." at the door he turned, and after a moment's pause said:-"let me advise you, my dear young friend--nay, let me warn you with all seriousness, that should you leave these rooms you will not by any chance go to sleep in any other part of the castle. it is old, and has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely. be warned! should sleep now or ever overcome you, or be like to do, then haste to your own chamber or to these rooms, for your rest will then be safe. but if you be not careful in this respect, then"--he finished his speech in a gruesome way, for he motioned with his hands as if he were washing them. i quite understood; my only doubt was as to whether any dream could be more terrible than the unnatural, horrible net of gloom and mystery which seemed closing around me. * * * * * _later._--i endorse the last words written, but this time there is no doubt in question. i shall not fear to sleep in any place where he is not. i have placed the crucifix over the head of my bed--i imagine that my rest is thus freer from dreams; and there it shall remain. when he left me i went to my room. after a little while, not hearing any sound, i came out and went up the stone stair to where i could look out towards the south. there was some sense of freedom in the vast expanse, inaccessible though it was to me, as compared with the narrow darkness of the courtyard. looking out on this, i felt that i was indeed in prison, and i seemed to want a breath of fresh air, though it were of the night. i am beginning to feel this nocturnal existence tell on me. it is destroying my nerve. i start at my own shadow, and am full of all sorts of horrible imaginings. god knows that there is ground for my terrible fear in this accursed place! i looked out over the beautiful expanse, bathed in soft yellow moonlight till it was almost as light as day. in the soft light the distant hills became melted, and the shadows in the valleys and gorges of velvety blackness. the mere beauty seemed to cheer me; there was peace and comfort in every breath i drew. as i leaned from the window my eye was caught by something moving a storey below me, and somewhat to my left, where i imagined, from the order of the rooms, that the windows of the count's own room would look out. the window at which i stood was tall and deep, stone-mullioned, and though weatherworn, was still complete; but it was evidently many a day since the case had been there. i drew back behind the stonework, and looked carefully out. what i saw was the count's head coming out from the window. i did not see the face, but i knew the man by the neck and the movement of his back and arms. in any case i could not mistake the hands which i had had so many opportunities of studying. i was at first interested and somewhat amused, for it is wonderful how small a matter will interest and amuse a man when he is a prisoner. but my very feelings changed to repulsion and terror when i saw the whole man slowly emerge from the window and begin to crawl down the castle wall over that dreadful abyss, _face down_ with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings. at first i could not believe my eyes. i thought it was some trick of the moonlight, some weird effect of shadow; but i kept looking, and it could be no delusion. i saw the fingers and toes grasp the corners of the stones, worn clear of the mortar by the stress of years, and by thus using every projection and inequality move downwards with considerable speed, just as a lizard moves along a wall. what manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance of man? i feel the dread of this horrible place overpowering me; i am in fear--in awful fear--and there is no escape for me; i am encompassed about with terrors that i dare not think of.... * * * * * _15 may._--once more have i seen the count go out in his lizard fashion. he moved downwards in a sidelong way, some hundred feet down, and a good deal to the left. he vanished into some hole or window. when his head had disappeared, i leaned out to try and see more, but without avail--the distance was too great to allow a proper angle of sight. i knew he had left the castle now, and thought to use the opportunity to explore more than i had dared to do as yet. i went back to the room, and taking a lamp, tried all the doors. they were all locked, as i had expected, and the locks were comparatively new; but i went down the stone stairs to the hall where i had entered originally. i found i could pull back the bolts easily enough and unhook the great chains; but the door was locked, and the key was gone! that key must be in the count's room; i must watch should his door be unlocked, so that i may get it and escape. i went on to make a thorough examination of the various stairs and passages, and to try the doors that opened from them. one or two small rooms near the hall were open, but there was nothing to see in them except old furniture, dusty with age and moth-eaten. at last, however, i found one door at the top of the stairway which, though it seemed to be locked, gave a little under pressure. i tried it harder, and found that it was not really locked, but that the resistance came from the fact that the hinges had fallen somewhat, and the heavy door rested on the floor. here was an opportunity which i might not have again, so i exerted myself, and with many efforts forced it back so that i could enter. i was now in a wing of the castle further to the right than the rooms i knew and a storey lower down. from the windows i could see that the suite of rooms lay along to the south of the castle, the windows of the end room looking out both west and south. on the latter side, as well as to the former, there was a great precipice. the castle was built on the corner of a great rock, so that on three sides it was quite impregnable, and great windows were placed here where sling, or bow, or culverin could not reach, and consequently light and comfort, impossible to a position which had to be guarded, were secured. to the west was a great valley, and then, rising far away, great jagged mountain fastnesses, rising peak on peak, the sheer rock studded with mountain ash and thorn, whose roots clung in cracks and crevices and crannies of the stone. this was evidently the portion of the castle occupied by the ladies in bygone days, for the furniture had more air of comfort than any i had seen. the windows were curtainless, and the yellow moonlight, flooding in through the diamond panes, enabled one to see even colours, whilst it softened the wealth of dust which lay over all and disguised in some measure the ravages of time and the moth. my lamp seemed to be of little effect in the brilliant moonlight, but i was glad to have it with me, for there was a dread loneliness in the place which chilled my heart and made my nerves tremble. still, it was better than living alone in the rooms which i had come to hate from the presence of the count, and after trying a little to school my nerves, i found a soft quietude come over me. here i am, sitting at a little oak table where in old times possibly some fair lady sat to pen, with much thought and many blushes, her ill-spelt love-letter, and writing in my diary in shorthand all that has happened since i closed it last. it is nineteenth century up-to-date with a vengeance. and yet, unless my senses deceive me, the old centuries had, and have, powers of their own which mere "modernity" cannot kill. * * * * * _later: the morning of 16 may._--god preserve my sanity, for to this i am reduced. safety and the assurance of safety are things of the past. whilst i live on here there is but one thing to hope for, that i may not go mad, if, indeed, i be not mad already. if i be sane, then surely it is maddening to think that of all the foul things that lurk in this hateful place the count is the least dreadful to me; that to him alone i can look for safety, even though this be only whilst i can serve his purpose. great god! merciful god! let me be calm, for out of that way lies madness indeed. i begin to get new lights on certain things which have puzzled me. up to now i never quite knew what shakespeare meant when he made hamlet say:- "my tablets! quick, my tablets! 'tis meet that i put it down," etc., for now, feeling as though my own brain were unhinged or as if the shock had come which must end in its undoing, i turn to my diary for repose. the habit of entering accurately must help to soothe me. the count's mysterious warning frightened me at the time; it frightens me more now when i think of it, for in future he has a fearful hold upon me. i shall fear to doubt what he may say! when i had written in my diary and had fortunately replaced the book and pen in my pocket i felt sleepy. the count's warning came into my mind, but i took a pleasure in disobeying it. the sense of sleep was upon me, and with it the obstinacy which sleep brings as outrider. the soft moonlight soothed, and the wide expanse without gave a sense of freedom which refreshed me. i determined not to return to-night to the gloom-haunted rooms, but to sleep here, where, of old, ladies had sat and sung and lived sweet lives whilst their gentle breasts were sad for their menfolk away in the midst of remorseless wars. i drew a great couch out of its place near the corner, so that as i lay, i could look at the lovely view to east and south, and unthinking of and uncaring for the dust, composed myself for sleep. i suppose i must have fallen asleep; i hope so, but i fear, for all that followed was startlingly real--so real that now sitting here in the broad, full sunlight of the morning, i cannot in the least believe that it was all sleep. i was not alone. the room was the same, unchanged in any way since i came into it; i could see along the floor, in the brilliant moonlight, my own footsteps marked where i had disturbed the long accumulation of dust. in the moonlight opposite me were three young women, ladies by their dress and manner. i thought at the time that i must be dreaming when i saw them, for, though the moonlight was behind them, they threw no shadow on the floor. they came close to me, and looked at me for some time, and then whispered together. two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like the count, and great dark, piercing eyes that seemed to be almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow moon. the other was fair, as fair as can be, with great wavy masses of golden hair and eyes like pale sapphires. i seemed somehow to know her face, and to know it in connection with some dreamy fear, but i could not recollect at the moment how or where. all three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. there was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. i felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips. it is not good to note this down, lest some day it should meet mina's eyes and cause her pain; but it is the truth. they whispered together, and then they all three laughed--such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound never could have come through the softness of human lips. it was like the intolerable, tingling sweetness of water-glasses when played on by a cunning hand. the fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other two urged her on. one said:-"go on! you are first, and we shall follow; yours is the right to begin." the other added:-"he is young and strong; there are kisses for us all." i lay quiet, looking out under my eyelashes in an agony of delightful anticipation. the fair girl advanced and bent over me till i could feel the movement of her breath upon me. sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood. i was afraid to raise my eyelids, but looked out and saw perfectly under the lashes. the girl went on her knees, and bent over me, simply gloating. there was a deliberate voluptuousness which was both thrilling and repulsive, and as she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal, till i could see in the moonlight the moisture shining on the scarlet lips and on the red tongue as it lapped the white sharp teeth. lower and lower went her head as the lips went below the range of my mouth and chin and seemed about to fasten on my throat. then she paused, and i could hear the churning sound of her tongue as it licked her teeth and lips, and could feel the hot breath on my neck. then the skin of my throat began to tingle as one's flesh does when the hand that is to tickle it approaches nearer--nearer. i could feel the soft, shivering touch of the lips on the super-sensitive skin of my throat, and the hard dents of two sharp teeth, just touching and pausing there. i closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited--waited with beating heart. but at that instant, another sensation swept through me as quick as lightning. i was conscious of the presence of the count, and of his being as if lapped in a storm of fury. as my eyes opened involuntarily i saw his strong hand grasp the slender neck of the fair woman and with giant's power draw it back, the blue eyes transformed with fury, the white teeth champing with rage, and the fair cheeks blazing red with passion. but the count! never did i imagine such wrath and fury, even to the demons of the pit. his eyes were positively blazing. the red light in them was lurid, as if the flames of hell-fire blazed behind them. his face was deathly pale, and the lines of it were hard like drawn wires; the thick eyebrows that met over the nose now seemed like a heaving bar of white-hot metal. with a fierce sweep of his arm, he hurled the woman from him, and then motioned to the others, as though he were beating them back; it was the same imperious gesture that i had seen used to the wolves. in a voice which, though low and almost in a whisper seemed to cut through the air and then ring round the room he said:-"how dare you touch him, any of you? how dare you cast eyes on him when i had forbidden it? back, i tell you all! this man belongs to me! beware how you meddle with him, or you'll have to deal with me." the fair girl, with a laugh of ribald coquetry, turned to answer him:-"you yourself never loved; you never love!" on this the other women joined, and such a mirthless, hard, soulless laughter rang through the room that it almost made me faint to hear; it seemed like the pleasure of fiends. then the count turned, after looking at my face attentively, and said in a soft whisper:-"yes, i too can love; you yourselves can tell it from the past. is it not so? well, now i promise you that when i am done with him you shall kiss him at your will. now go! go! i must awaken him, for there is work to be done." "are we to have nothing to-night?" said one of them, with a low laugh, as she pointed to the bag which he had thrown upon the floor, and which moved as though there were some living thing within it. for answer he nodded his head. one of the women jumped forward and opened it. if my ears did not deceive me there was a gasp and a low wail, as of a half-smothered child. the women closed round, whilst i was aghast with horror; but as i looked they disappeared, and with them the dreadful bag. there was no door near them, and they could not have passed me without my noticing. they simply seemed to fade into the rays of the moonlight and pass out through the window, for i could see outside the dim, shadowy forms for a moment before they entirely faded away. then the horror overcame me, and i sank down unconscious. chapter iv jonathan harker's journal--_continued_ i awoke in my own bed. if it be that i had not dreamt, the count must have carried me here. i tried to satisfy myself on the subject, but could not arrive at any unquestionable result. to be sure, there were certain small evidences, such as that my clothes were folded and laid by in a manner which was not my habit. my watch was still unwound, and i am rigorously accustomed to wind it the last thing before going to bed, and many such details. but these things are no proof, for they may have been evidences that my mind was not as usual, and, from some cause or another, i had certainly been much upset. i must watch for proof. of one thing i am glad: if it was that the count carried me here and undressed me, he must have been hurried in his task, for my pockets are intact. i am sure this diary would have been a mystery to him which he would not have brooked. he would have taken or destroyed it. as i look round this room, although it has been to me so full of fear, it is now a sort of sanctuary, for nothing can be more dreadful than those awful women, who were--who _are_--waiting to suck my blood. * * * * * _18 may._--i have been down to look at that room again in daylight, for i _must_ know the truth. when i got to the doorway at the top of the stairs i found it closed. it had been so forcibly driven against the jamb that part of the woodwork was splintered. i could see that the bolt of the lock had not been shot, but the door is fastened from the inside. i fear it was no dream, and must act on this surmise. * * * * * _19 may._--i am surely in the toils. last night the count asked me in the suavest tones to write three letters, one saying that my work here was nearly done, and that i should start for home within a few days, another that i was starting on the next morning from the time of the letter, and the third that i had left the castle and arrived at bistritz. i would fain have rebelled, but felt that in the present state of things it would be madness to quarrel openly with the count whilst i am so absolutely in his power; and to refuse would be to excite his suspicion and to arouse his anger. he knows that i know too much, and that i must not live, lest i be dangerous to him; my only chance is to prolong my opportunities. something may occur which will give me a chance to escape. i saw in his eyes something of that gathering wrath which was manifest when he hurled that fair woman from him. he explained to me that posts were few and uncertain, and that my writing now would ensure ease of mind to my friends; and he assured me with so much impressiveness that he would countermand the later letters, which would be held over at bistritz until due time in case chance would admit of my prolonging my stay, that to oppose him would have been to create new suspicion. i therefore pretended to fall in with his views, and asked him what dates i should put on the letters. he calculated a minute, and then said:-"the first should be june 12, the second june 19, and the third june 29." i know now the span of my life. god help me! * * * * * _28 may._--there is a chance of escape, or at any rate of being able to send word home. a band of szgany have come to the castle, and are encamped in the courtyard. these szgany are gipsies; i have notes of them in my book. they are peculiar to this part of the world, though allied to the ordinary gipsies all the world over. there are thousands of them in hungary and transylvania, who are almost outside all law. they attach themselves as a rule to some great noble or _boyar_, and call themselves by his name. they are fearless and without religion, save superstition, and they talk only their own varieties of the romany tongue. i shall write some letters home, and shall try to get them to have them posted. i have already spoken them through my window to begin acquaintanceship. they took their hats off and made obeisance and many signs, which, however, i could not understand any more than i could their spoken language.... * * * * * i have written the letters. mina's is in shorthand, and i simply ask mr. hawkins to communicate with her. to her i have explained my situation, but without the horrors which i may only surmise. it would shock and frighten her to death were i to expose my heart to her. should the letters not carry, then the count shall not yet know my secret or the extent of my knowledge.... * * * * * i have given the letters; i threw them through the bars of my window with a gold piece, and made what signs i could to have them posted. the man who took them pressed them to his heart and bowed, and then put them in his cap. i could do no more. i stole back to the study, and began to read. as the count did not come in, i have written here.... * * * * * the count has come. he sat down beside me, and said in his smoothest voice as he opened two letters:-"the szgany has given me these, of which, though i know not whence they come, i shall, of course, take care. see!"--he must have looked at it--"one is from you, and to my friend peter hawkins; the other"--here he caught sight of the strange symbols as he opened the envelope, and the dark look came into his face, and his eyes blazed wickedly--"the other is a vile thing, an outrage upon friendship and hospitality! it is not signed. well! so it cannot matter to us." and he calmly held letter and envelope in the flame of the lamp till they were consumed. then he went on:-"the letter to hawkins--that i shall, of course, send on, since it is yours. your letters are sacred to me. your pardon, my friend, that unknowingly i did break the seal. will you not cover it again?" he held out the letter to me, and with a courteous bow handed me a clean envelope. i could only redirect it and hand it to him in silence. when he went out of the room i could hear the key turn softly. a minute later i went over and tried it, and the door was locked. when, an hour or two after, the count came quietly into the room, his coming awakened me, for i had gone to sleep on the sofa. he was very courteous and very cheery in his manner, and seeing that i had been sleeping, he said:-"so, my friend, you are tired? get to bed. there is the surest rest. i may not have the pleasure to talk to-night, since there are many labours to me; but you will sleep, i pray." i passed to my room and went to bed, and, strange to say, slept without dreaming. despair has its own calms. * * * * * _31 may._--this morning when i woke i thought i would provide myself with some paper and envelopes from my bag and keep them in my pocket, so that i might write in case i should get an opportunity, but again a surprise, again a shock! every scrap of paper was gone, and with it all my notes, my memoranda, relating to railways and travel, my letter of credit, in fact all that might be useful to me were i once outside the castle. i sat and pondered awhile, and then some thought occurred to me, and i made search of my portmanteau and in the wardrobe where i had placed my clothes. the suit in which i had travelled was gone, and also my overcoat and rug; i could find no trace of them anywhere. this looked like some new scheme of villainy.... * * * * * _17 june._--this morning, as i was sitting on the edge of my bed cudgelling my brains, i heard without a cracking of whips and pounding and scraping of horses' feet up the rocky path beyond the courtyard. with joy i hurried to the window, and saw drive into the yard two great leiter-wagons, each drawn by eight sturdy horses, and at the head of each pair a slovak, with his wide hat, great nail-studded belt, dirty sheepskin, and high boots. they had also their long staves in hand. i ran to the door, intending to descend and try and join them through the main hall, as i thought that way might be opened for them. again a shock: my door was fastened on the outside. then i ran to the window and cried to them. they looked up at me stupidly and pointed, but just then the "hetman" of the szgany came out, and seeing them pointing to my window, said something, at which they laughed. henceforth no effort of mine, no piteous cry or agonised entreaty, would make them even look at me. they resolutely turned away. the leiter-wagons contained great, square boxes, with handles of thick rope; these were evidently empty by the ease with which the slovaks handled them, and by their resonance as they were roughly moved. when they were all unloaded and packed in a great heap in one corner of the yard, the slovaks were given some money by the szgany, and spitting on it for luck, lazily went each to his horse's head. shortly afterwards, i heard the cracking of their whips die away in the distance. * * * * * _24 june, before morning._--last night the count left me early, and locked himself into his own room. as soon as i dared i ran up the winding stair, and looked out of the window, which opened south. i thought i would watch for the count, for there is something going on. the szgany are quartered somewhere in the castle and are doing work of some kind. i know it, for now and then i hear a far-away muffled sound as of mattock and spade, and, whatever it is, it must be the end of some ruthless villainy. i had been at the window somewhat less than half an hour, when i saw something coming out of the count's window. i drew back and watched carefully, and saw the whole man emerge. it was a new shock to me to find that he had on the suit of clothes which i had worn whilst travelling here, and slung over his shoulder the terrible bag which i had seen the women take away. there could be no doubt as to his quest, and in my garb, too! this, then, is his new scheme of evil: that he will allow others to see me, as they think, so that he may both leave evidence that i have been seen in the towns or villages posting my own letters, and that any wickedness which he may do shall by the local people be attributed to me. it makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst i am shut up here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law which is even a criminal's right and consolation. i thought i would watch for the count's return, and for a long time sat doggedly at the window. then i began to notice that there were some quaint little specks floating in the rays of the moonlight. they were like the tiniest grains of dust, and they whirled round and gathered in clusters in a nebulous sort of way. i watched them with a sense of soothing, and a sort of calm stole over me. i leaned back in the embrasure in a more comfortable position, so that i could enjoy more fully the aã«rial gambolling. something made me start up, a low, piteous howling of dogs somewhere far below in the valley, which was hidden from my sight. louder it seemed to ring in my ears, and the floating motes of dust to take new shapes to the sound as they danced in the moonlight. i felt myself struggling to awake to some call of my instincts; nay, my very soul was struggling, and my half-remembered sensibilities were striving to answer the call. i was becoming hypnotised! quicker and quicker danced the dust; the moonbeams seemed to quiver as they went by me into the mass of gloom beyond. more and more they gathered till they seemed to take dim phantom shapes. and then i started, broad awake and in full possession of my senses, and ran screaming from the place. the phantom shapes, which were becoming gradually materialised from the moonbeams, were those of the three ghostly women to whom i was doomed. i fled, and felt somewhat safer in my own room, where there was no moonlight and where the lamp was burning brightly. when a couple of hours had passed i heard something stirring in the count's room, something like a sharp wail quickly suppressed; and then there was silence, deep, awful silence, which chilled me. with a beating heart, i tried the door; but i was locked in my prison, and could do nothing. i sat down and simply cried. as i sat i heard a sound in the courtyard without--the agonised cry of a woman. i rushed to the window, and throwing it up, peered out between the bars. there, indeed, was a woman with dishevelled hair, holding her hands over her heart as one distressed with running. she was leaning against a corner of the gateway. when she saw my face at the window she threw herself forward, and shouted in a voice laden with menace:-"monster, give me my child!" she threw herself on her knees, and raising up her hands, cried the same words in tones which wrung my heart. then she tore her hair and beat her breast, and abandoned herself to all the violences of extravagant emotion. finally, she threw herself forward, and, though i could not see her, i could hear the beating of her naked hands against the door. somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, i heard the voice of the count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper. his call seemed to be answered from far and wide by the howling of wolves. before many minutes had passed a pack of them poured, like a pent-up dam when liberated, through the wide entrance into the courtyard. there was no cry from the woman, and the howling of the wolves was but short. before long they streamed away singly, licking their lips. i could not pity her, for i knew now what had become of her child, and she was better dead. what shall i do? what can i do? how can i escape from this dreadful thing of night and gloom and fear? * * * * * _25 june, morning._--no man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be. when the sun grew so high this morning that it struck the top of the great gateway opposite my window, the high spot which it touched seemed to me as if the dove from the ark had lighted there. my fear fell from me as if it had been a vaporous garment which dissolved in the warmth. i must take action of some sort whilst the courage of the day is upon me. last night one of my post-dated letters went to post, the first of that fatal series which is to blot out the very traces of my existence from the earth. let me not think of it. action! it has always been at night-time that i have been molested or threatened, or in some way in danger or in fear. i have not yet seen the count in the daylight. can it be that he sleeps when others wake, that he may be awake whilst they sleep? if i could only get into his room! but there is no possible way. the door is always locked, no way for me. yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. where his body has gone why may not another body go? i have seen him myself crawl from his window. why should not i imitate him, and go in by his window? the chances are desperate, but my need is more desperate still. i shall risk it. at the worst it can only be death; and a man's death is not a calf's, and the dreaded hereafter may still be open to me. god help me in my task! good-bye, mina, if i fail; good-bye, my faithful friend and second father; good-bye, all, and last of all mina! * * * * * _same day, later._--i have made the effort, and god, helping me, have come safely back to this room. i must put down every detail in order. i went whilst my courage was fresh straight to the window on the south side, and at once got outside on the narrow ledge of stone which runs around the building on this side. the stones are big and roughly cut, and the mortar has by process of time been washed away between them. i took off my boots, and ventured out on the desperate way. i looked down once, so as to make sure that a sudden glimpse of the awful depth would not overcome me, but after that kept my eyes away from it. i knew pretty well the direction and distance of the count's window, and made for it as well as i could, having regard to the opportunities available. i did not feel dizzy--i suppose i was too excited--and the time seemed ridiculously short till i found myself standing on the window-sill and trying to raise up the sash. i was filled with agitation, however, when i bent down and slid feet foremost in through the window. then i looked around for the count, but, with surprise and gladness, made a discovery. the room was empty! it was barely furnished with odd things, which seemed to have never been used; the furniture was something the same style as that in the south rooms, and was covered with dust. i looked for the key, but it was not in the lock, and i could not find it anywhere. the only thing i found was a great heap of gold in one corner--gold of all kinds, roman, and british, and austrian, and hungarian, and greek and turkish money, covered with a film of dust, as though it had lain long in the ground. none of it that i noticed was less than three hundred years old. there were also chains and ornaments, some jewelled, but all of them old and stained. at one corner of the room was a heavy door. i tried it, for, since i could not find the key of the room or the key of the outer door, which was the main object of my search, i must make further examination, or all my efforts would be in vain. it was open, and led through a stone passage to a circular stairway, which went steeply down. i descended, minding carefully where i went, for the stairs were dark, being only lit by loopholes in the heavy masonry. at the bottom there was a dark, tunnel-like passage, through which came a deathly, sickly odour, the odour of old earth newly turned. as i went through the passage the smell grew closer and heavier. at last i pulled open a heavy door which stood ajar, and found myself in an old, ruined chapel, which had evidently been used as a graveyard. the roof was broken, and in two places were steps leading to vaults, but the ground had recently been dug over, and the earth placed in great wooden boxes, manifestly those which had been brought by the slovaks. there was nobody about, and i made search for any further outlet, but there was none. then i went over every inch of the ground, so as not to lose a chance. i went down even into the vaults, where the dim light struggled, although to do so was a dread to my very soul. into two of these i went, but saw nothing except fragments of old coffins and piles of dust; in the third, however, i made a discovery. there, in one of the great boxes, of which there were fifty in all, on a pile of newly dug earth, lay the count! he was either dead or asleep, i could not say which--for the eyes were open and stony, but without the glassiness of death--and the cheeks had the warmth of life through all their pallor; the lips were as red as ever. but there was no sign of movement, no pulse, no breath, no beating of the heart. i bent over him, and tried to find any sign of life, but in vain. he could not have lain there long, for the earthy smell would have passed away in a few hours. by the side of the box was its cover, pierced with holes here and there. i thought he might have the keys on him, but when i went to search i saw the dead eyes, and in them, dead though they were, such a look of hate, though unconscious of me or my presence, that i fled from the place, and leaving the count's room by the window, crawled again up the castle wall. regaining my room, i threw myself panting upon the bed and tried to think.... * * * * * _29 june._--to-day is the date of my last letter, and the count has taken steps to prove that it was genuine, for again i saw him leave the castle by the same window, and in my clothes. as he went down the wall, lizard fashion, i wished i had a gun or some lethal weapon, that i might destroy him; but i fear that no weapon wrought alone by man's hand would have any effect on him. i dared not wait to see him return, for i feared to see those weird sisters. i came back to the library, and read there till i fell asleep. i was awakened by the count, who looked at me as grimly as a man can look as he said:-"to-morrow, my friend, we must part. you return to your beautiful england, i to some work which may have such an end that we may never meet. your letter home has been despatched; to-morrow i shall not be here, but all shall be ready for your journey. in the morning come the szgany, who have some labours of their own here, and also come some slovaks. when they have gone, my carriage shall come for you, and shall bear you to the borgo pass to meet the diligence from bukovina to bistritz. but i am in hopes that i shall see more of you at castle dracula." i suspected him, and determined to test his sincerity. sincerity! it seems like a profanation of the word to write it in connection with such a monster, so asked him point-blank:-"why may i not go to-night?" "because, dear sir, my coachman and horses are away on a mission." "but i would walk with pleasure. i want to get away at once." he smiled, such a soft, smooth, diabolical smile that i knew there was some trick behind his smoothness. he said:-"and your baggage?" "i do not care about it. i can send for it some other time." the count stood up, and said, with a sweet courtesy which made me rub my eyes, it seemed so real:-"you english have a saying which is close to my heart, for its spirit is that which rules our _boyars_: 'welcome the coming; speed the parting guest.' come with me, my dear young friend. not an hour shall you wait in my house against your will, though sad am i at your going, and that you so suddenly desire it. come!" with a stately gravity, he, with the lamp, preceded me down the stairs and along the hall. suddenly he stopped. "hark!" close at hand came the howling of many wolves. it was almost as if the sound sprang up at the rising of his hand, just as the music of a great orchestra seems to leap under the bã¢ton of the conductor. after a pause of a moment, he proceeded, in his stately way, to the door, drew back the ponderous bolts, unhooked the heavy chains, and began to draw it open. to my intense astonishment i saw that it was unlocked. suspiciously, i looked all round, but could see no key of any kind. as the door began to open, the howling of the wolves without grew louder and angrier; their red jaws, with champing teeth, and their blunt-clawed feet as they leaped, came in through the opening door. i knew then that to struggle at the moment against the count was useless. with such allies as these at his command, i could do nothing. but still the door continued slowly to open, and only the count's body stood in the gap. suddenly it struck me that this might be the moment and means of my doom; i was to be given to the wolves, and at my own instigation. there was a diabolical wickedness in the idea great enough for the count, and as a last chance i cried out:-"shut the door; i shall wait till morning!" and covered my face with my hands to hide my tears of bitter disappointment. with one sweep of his powerful arm, the count threw the door shut, and the great bolts clanged and echoed through the hall as they shot back into their places. in silence we returned to the library, and after a minute or two i went to my own room. the last i saw of count dracula was his kissing his hand to me; with a red light of triumph in his eyes, and with a smile that judas in hell might be proud of. when i was in my room and about to lie down, i thought i heard a whispering at my door. i went to it softly and listened. unless my ears deceived me, i heard the voice of the count:-"back, back, to your own place! your time is not yet come. wait! have patience! to-night is mine. to-morrow night is yours!" there was a low, sweet ripple of laughter, and in a rage i threw open the door, and saw without the three terrible women licking their lips. as i appeared they all joined in a horrible laugh, and ran away. i came back to my room and threw myself on my knees. it is then so near the end? to-morrow! to-morrow! lord, help me, and those to whom i am dear! * * * * * _30 june, morning._--these may be the last words i ever write in this diary. i slept till just before the dawn, and when i woke threw myself on my knees, for i determined that if death came he should find me ready. at last i felt that subtle change in the air, and knew that the morning had come. then came the welcome cock-crow, and i felt that i was safe. with a glad heart, i opened my door and ran down to the hall. i had seen that the door was unlocked, and now escape was before me. with hands that trembled with eagerness, i unhooked the chains and drew back the massive bolts. but the door would not move. despair seized me. i pulled, and pulled, at the door, and shook it till, massive as it was, it rattled in its casement. i could see the bolt shot. it had been locked after i left the count. then a wild desire took me to obtain that key at any risk, and i determined then and there to scale the wall again and gain the count's room. he might kill me, but death now seemed the happier choice of evils. without a pause i rushed up to the east window, and scrambled down the wall, as before, into the count's room. it was empty, but that was as i expected. i could not see a key anywhere, but the heap of gold remained. i went through the door in the corner and down the winding stair and along the dark passage to the old chapel. i knew now well enough where to find the monster i sought. the great box was in the same place, close against the wall, but the lid was laid on it, not fastened down, but with the nails ready in their places to be hammered home. i knew i must reach the body for the key, so i raised the lid, and laid it back against the wall; and then i saw something which filled my very soul with horror. there lay the count, but looking as if his youth had been half renewed, for the white hair and moustache were changed to dark iron-grey; the cheeks were fuller, and the white skin seemed ruby-red underneath; the mouth was redder than ever, for on the lips were gouts of fresh blood, which trickled from the corners of the mouth and ran over the chin and neck. even the deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. it seemed as if the whole awful creature were simply gorged with blood. he lay like a filthy leech, exhausted with his repletion. i shuddered as i bent over to touch him, and every sense in me revolted at the contact; but i had to search, or i was lost. the coming night might see my own body a banquet in a similar way to those horrid three. i felt all over the body, but no sign could i find of the key. then i stopped and looked at the count. there was a mocking smile on the bloated face which seemed to drive me mad. this was the being i was helping to transfer to london, where, perhaps, for centuries to come he might, amongst its teeming millions, satiate his lust for blood, and create a new and ever-widening circle of semi-demons to batten on the helpless. the very thought drove me mad. a terrible desire came upon me to rid the world of such a monster. there was no lethal weapon at hand, but i seized a shovel which the workmen had been using to fill the cases, and lifting it high, struck, with the edge downward, at the hateful face. but as i did so the head turned, and the eyes fell full upon me, with all their blaze of basilisk horror. the sight seemed to paralyse me, and the shovel turned in my hand and glanced from the face, merely making a deep gash above the forehead. the shovel fell from my hand across the box, and as i pulled it away the flange of the blade caught the edge of the lid which fell over again, and hid the horrid thing from my sight. the last glimpse i had was of the bloated face, blood-stained and fixed with a grin of malice which would have held its own in the nethermost hell. i thought and thought what should be my next move, but my brain seemed on fire, and i waited with a despairing feeling growing over me. as i waited i heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the cracking of whips; the szgany and the slovaks of whom the count had spoken were coming. with a last look around and at the box which contained the vile body, i ran from the place and gained the count's room, determined to rush out at the moment the door should be opened. with strained ears, i listened, and heard downstairs the grinding of the key in the great lock and the falling back of the heavy door. there must have been some other means of entry, or some one had a key for one of the locked doors. then there came the sound of many feet tramping and dying away in some passage which sent up a clanging echo. i turned to run down again towards the vault, where i might find the new entrance; but at the moment there seemed to come a violent puff of wind, and the door to the winding stair blew to with a shock that set the dust from the lintels flying. when i ran to push it open, i found that it was hopelessly fast. i was again a prisoner, and the net of doom was closing round me more closely. as i write there is in the passage below a sound of many tramping feet and the crash of weights being set down heavily, doubtless the boxes, with their freight of earth. there is a sound of hammering; it is the box being nailed down. now i can hear the heavy feet tramping again along the hall, with many other idle feet coming behind them. the door is shut, and the chains rattle; there is a grinding of the key in the lock; i can hear the key withdraw: then another door opens and shuts; i hear the creaking of lock and bolt. hark! in the courtyard and down the rocky way the roll of heavy wheels, the crack of whips, and the chorus of the szgany as they pass into the distance. i am alone in the castle with those awful women. faugh! mina is a woman, and there is nought in common. they are devils of the pit! i shall not remain alone with them; i shall try to scale the castle wall farther than i have yet attempted. i shall take some of the gold with me, lest i want it later. i may find a way from this dreadful place. and then away for home! away to the quickest and nearest train! away from this cursed spot, from this cursed land, where the devil and his children still walk with earthly feet! at least god's mercy is better than that of these monsters, and the precipice is steep and high. at its foot a man may sleep--as a man. good-bye, all! mina! chapter v _letter from miss mina murray to miss lucy westenra._ "_9 may._ "my dearest lucy,-"forgive my long delay in writing, but i have been simply overwhelmed with work. the life of an assistant schoolmistress is sometimes trying. i am longing to be with you, and by the sea, where we can talk together freely and build our castles in the air. i have been working very hard lately, because i want to keep up with jonathan's studies, and i have been practising shorthand very assiduously. when we are married i shall be able to be useful to jonathan, and if i can stenograph well enough i can take down what he wants to say in this way and write it out for him on the typewriter, at which also i am practising very hard. he and i sometimes write letters in shorthand, and he is keeping a stenographic journal of his travels abroad. when i am with you i shall keep a diary in the same way. i don't mean one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner diaries, but a sort of journal which i can write in whenever i feel inclined. i do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people; but it is not intended for them. i may show it to jonathan some day if there is in it anything worth sharing, but it is really an exercise book. i shall try to do what i see lady journalists do: interviewing and writing descriptions and trying to remember conversations. i am told that, with a little practice, one can remember all that goes on or that one hears said during a day. however, we shall see. i will tell you of my little plans when we meet. i have just had a few hurried lines from jonathan from transylvania. he is well, and will be returning in about a week. i am longing to hear all his news. it must be so nice to see strange countries. i wonder if we--i mean jonathan and i--shall ever see them together. there is the ten o'clock bell ringing. good-bye. "your loving "mina. "tell me all the news when you write. you have not told me anything for a long time. i hear rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome, curly-haired man???" _letter, lucy westenra to mina murray_. "_17, chatham street_, "_wednesday_. "my dearest mina,-"i must say you tax me _very_ unfairly with being a bad correspondent. i wrote to you _twice_ since we parted, and your last letter was only your _second_. besides, i have nothing to tell you. there is really nothing to interest you. town is very pleasant just now, and we go a good deal to picture-galleries and for walks and rides in the park. as to the tall, curly-haired man, i suppose it was the one who was with me at the last pop. some one has evidently been telling tales. that was mr. holmwood. he often comes to see us, and he and mamma get on very well together; they have so many things to talk about in common. we met some time ago a man that would just _do for you_, if you were not already engaged to jonathan. he is an excellent _parti_, being handsome, well off, and of good birth. he is a doctor and really clever. just fancy! he is only nine-and-twenty, and he has an immense lunatic asylum all under his own care. mr. holmwood introduced him to me, and he called here to see us, and often comes now. i think he is one of the most resolute men i ever saw, and yet the most calm. he seems absolutely imperturbable. i can fancy what a wonderful power he must have over his patients. he has a curious habit of looking one straight in the face, as if trying to read one's thoughts. he tries this on very much with me, but i flatter myself he has got a tough nut to crack. i know that from my glass. do you ever try to read your own face? _i do_, and i can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have never tried it. he says that i afford him a curious psychological study, and i humbly think i do. i do not, as you know, take sufficient interest in dress to be able to describe the new fashions. dress is a bore. that is slang again, but never mind; arthur says that every day. there, it is all out. mina, we have told all our secrets to each other since we were _children_; we have slept together and eaten together, and laughed and cried together; and now, though i have spoken, i would like to speak more. oh, mina, couldn't you guess? i love him. i am blushing as i write, for although i _think_ he loves me, he has not told me so in words. but oh, mina, i love him; i love him; i love him! there, that does me good. i wish i were with you, dear, sitting by the fire undressing, as we used to sit; and i would try to tell you what i feel. i do not know how i am writing this even to you. i am afraid to stop, or i should tear up the letter, and i don't want to stop, for i _do_ so want to tell you all. let me hear from you _at once_, and tell me all that you think about it. mina, i must stop. good-night. bless me in your prayers; and, mina, pray for my happiness. "lucy. "p.s.--i need not tell you this is a secret. good-night again. "l." _letter, lucy westenra to mina murray_. "_24 may_. "my dearest mina,-"thanks, and thanks, and thanks again for your sweet letter. it was so nice to be able to tell you and to have your sympathy. "my dear, it never rains but it pours. how true the old proverbs are. here am i, who shall be twenty in september, and yet i never had a proposal till to-day, not a real proposal, and to-day i have had three. just fancy! three proposals in one day! isn't it awful! i feel sorry, really and truly sorry, for two of the poor fellows. oh, mina, i am so happy that i don't know what to do with myself. and three proposals! but, for goodness' sake, don't tell any of the girls, or they would be getting all sorts of extravagant ideas and imagining themselves injured and slighted if in their very first day at home they did not get six at least. some girls are so vain! you and i, mina dear, who are engaged and are going to settle down soon soberly into old married women, can despise vanity. well, i must tell you about the three, but you must keep it a secret, dear, from _every one_, except, of course, jonathan. you will tell him, because i would, if i were in your place, certainly tell arthur. a woman ought to tell her husband everything--don't you think so, dear?--and i must be fair. men like women, certainly their wives, to be quite as fair as they are; and women, i am afraid, are not always quite as fair as they should be. well, my dear, number one came just before lunch. i told you of him, dr. john seward, the lunatic-asylum man, with the strong jaw and the good forehead. he was very cool outwardly, but was nervous all the same. he had evidently been schooling himself as to all sorts of little things, and remembered them; but he almost managed to sit down on his silk hat, which men don't generally do when they are cool, and then when he wanted to appear at ease he kept playing with a lancet in a way that made me nearly scream. he spoke to me, mina, very straightforwardly. he told me how dear i was to him, though he had known me so little, and what his life would be with me to help and cheer him. he was going to tell me how unhappy he would be if i did not care for him, but when he saw me cry he said that he was a brute and would not add to my present trouble. then he broke off and asked if i could love him in time; and when i shook my head his hands trembled, and then with some hesitation he asked me if i cared already for any one else. he put it very nicely, saying that he did not want to wring my confidence from me, but only to know, because if a woman's heart was free a man might have hope. and then, mina, i felt a sort of duty to tell him that there was some one. i only told him that much, and then he stood up, and he looked very strong and very grave as he took both my hands in his and said he hoped i would be happy, and that if i ever wanted a friend i must count him one of my best. oh, mina dear, i can't help crying: and you must excuse this letter being all blotted. being proposed to is all very nice and all that sort of thing, but it isn't at all a happy thing when you have to see a poor fellow, whom you know loves you honestly, going away and looking all broken-hearted, and to know that, no matter what he may say at the moment, you are passing quite out of his life. my dear, i must stop here at present, i feel so miserable, though i am so happy. "_evening._ "arthur has just gone, and i feel in better spirits than when i left off, so i can go on telling you about the day. well, my dear, number two came after lunch. he is such a nice fellow, an american from texas, and he looks so young and so fresh that it seems almost impossible that he has been to so many places and has had such adventures. i sympathise with poor desdemona when she had such a dangerous stream poured in her ear, even by a black man. i suppose that we women are such cowards that we think a man will save us from fears, and we marry him. i know now what i would do if i were a man and wanted to make a girl love me. no, i don't, for there was mr. morris telling us his stories, and arthur never told any, and yet---my dear, i am somewhat previous. mr. quincey p. morris found me alone. it seems that a man always does find a girl alone. no, he doesn't, for arthur tried twice to _make_ a chance, and i helping him all i could; i am not ashamed to say it now. i must tell you beforehand that mr. morris doesn't always speak slang--that is to say, he never does so to strangers or before them, for he is really well educated and has exquisite manners--but he found out that it amused me to hear him talk american slang, and whenever i was present, and there was no one to be shocked, he said such funny things. i am afraid, my dear, he has to invent it all, for it fits exactly into whatever else he has to say. but this is a way slang has. i do not know myself if i shall ever speak slang; i do not know if arthur likes it, as i have never heard him use any as yet. well, mr. morris sat down beside me and looked as happy and jolly as he could, but i could see all the same that he was very nervous. he took my hand in his, and said ever so sweetly:-"'miss lucy, i know i ain't good enough to regulate the fixin's of your little shoes, but i guess if you wait till you find a man that is you will go join them seven young women with the lamps when you quit. won't you just hitch up alongside of me and let us go down the long road together, driving in double harness?' "well, he did look so good-humoured and so jolly that it didn't seem half so hard to refuse him as it did poor dr. seward; so i said, as lightly as i could, that i did not know anything of hitching, and that i wasn't broken to harness at all yet. then he said that he had spoken in a light manner, and he hoped that if he had made a mistake in doing so on so grave, so momentous, an occasion for him, i would forgive him. he really did look serious when he was saying it, and i couldn't help feeling a bit serious too--i know, mina, you will think me a horrid flirt--though i couldn't help feeling a sort of exultation that he was number two in one day. and then, my dear, before i could say a word he began pouring out a perfect torrent of love-making, laying his very heart and soul at my feet. he looked so earnest over it that i shall never again think that a man must be playful always, and never earnest, because he is merry at times. i suppose he saw something in my face which checked him, for he suddenly stopped, and said with a sort of manly fervour that i could have loved him for if i had been free:-"'lucy, you are an honest-hearted girl, i know. i should not be here speaking to you as i am now if i did not believe you clean grit, right through to the very depths of your soul. tell me, like one good fellow to another, is there any one else that you care for? and if there is i'll never trouble you a hair's breadth again, but will be, if you will let me, a very faithful friend.' "my dear mina, why are men so noble when we women are so little worthy of them? here was i almost making fun of this great-hearted, true gentleman. i burst into tears--i am afraid, my dear, you will think this a very sloppy letter in more ways than one--and i really felt very badly. why can't they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and save all this trouble? but this is heresy, and i must not say it. i am glad to say that, though i was crying, i was able to look into mr. morris's brave eyes, and i told him out straight:-"'yes, there is some one i love, though he has not told me yet that he even loves me.' i was right to speak to him so frankly, for quite a light came into his face, and he put out both his hands and took mine--i think i put them into his--and said in a hearty way:-"'that's my brave girl. it's better worth being late for a chance of winning you than being in time for any other girl in the world. don't cry, my dear. if it's for me, i'm a hard nut to crack; and i take it standing up. if that other fellow doesn't know his happiness, well, he'd better look for it soon, or he'll have to deal with me. little girl, your honesty and pluck have made me a friend, and that's rarer than a lover; it's more unselfish anyhow. my dear, i'm going to have a pretty lonely walk between this and kingdom come. won't you give me one kiss? it'll be something to keep off the darkness now and then. you can, you know, if you like, for that other good fellow--he must be a good fellow, my dear, and a fine fellow, or you could not love him--hasn't spoken yet.' that quite won me, mina, for it _was_ brave and sweet of him, and noble, too, to a rival--wasn't it?--and he so sad; so i leant over and kissed him. he stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down into my face--i am afraid i was blushing very much--he said:-"'little girl, i hold your hand, and you've kissed me, and if these things don't make us friends nothing ever will. thank you for your sweet honesty to me, and good-bye.' he wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a quiver or a pause; and i am crying like a baby. oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on? i know i would if i were free--only i don't want to be free. my dear, this quite upset me, and i feel i cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it; and i don't wish to tell of the number three until it can be all happy. "ever your loving "lucy. "p.s.--oh, about number three--i needn't tell you of number three, need i? besides, it was all so confused; it seemed only a moment from his coming into the room till both his arms were round me, and he was kissing me. i am very, very happy, and i don't know what i have done to deserve it. i must only try in the future to show that i am not ungrateful to god for all his goodness to me in sending to me such a lover, such a husband, and such a friend. "good-bye." _dr. seward's diary._ (kept in phonograph) _25 may._--ebb tide in appetite to-day. cannot eat, cannot rest, so diary instead. since my rebuff of yesterday i have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing.... as i knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was work, i went down amongst the patients. i picked out one who has afforded me a study of much interest. he is so quaint that i am determined to understand him as well as i can. to-day i seemed to get nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery. i questioned him more fully than i had ever done, with a view to making myself master of the facts of his hallucination. in my manner of doing it there was, i now see, something of cruelty. i seemed to wish to keep him to the point of his madness--a thing which i avoid with the patients as i would the mouth of hell. (_mem._, under what circumstances would i _not_ avoid the pit of hell?) _omnia romã¦ venalia sunt._ hell has its price! _verb. sap._ if there be anything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards _accurately_, so i had better commence to do so, therefore-r. m. renfield, ã¦tat 59.--sanguine temperament; great physical strength; morbidly excitable; periods of gloom, ending in some fixed idea which i cannot make out. i presume that the sanguine temperament itself and the disturbing influence end in a mentally-accomplished finish; a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. in selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. what i think of on this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it. _letter, quincey p. morris to hon. arthur holmwood._ "_25 may._ "my dear art,-"we've told yarns by the camp-fire in the prairies; and dressed one another's wounds after trying a landing at the marquesas; and drunk healths on the shore of titicaca. there are more yarns to be told, and other wounds to be healed, and another health to be drunk. won't you let this be at my camp-fire to-morrow night? i have no hesitation in asking you, as i know a certain lady is engaged to a certain dinner-party, and that you are free. there will only be one other, our old pal at the korea, jack seward. he's coming, too, and we both want to mingle our weeps over the wine-cup, and to drink a health with all our hearts to the happiest man in all the wide world, who has won the noblest heart that god has made and the best worth winning. we promise you a hearty welcome, and a loving greeting, and a health as true as your own right hand. we shall both swear to leave you at home if you drink too deep to a certain pair of eyes. come! "yours, as ever and always, "quincey p. morris." _telegram from arthur holmwood to quincey p. morris._ "_26 may._ "count me in every time. i bear messages which will make both your ears tingle. "art." chapter vi mina murray's journal _24 july. whitby._--lucy met me at the station, looking sweeter and lovelier than ever, and we drove up to the house at the crescent in which they have rooms. this is a lovely place. the little river, the esk, runs through a deep valley, which broadens out as it comes near the harbour. a great viaduct runs across, with high piers, through which the view seems somehow further away than it really is. the valley is beautifully green, and it is so steep that when you are on the high land on either side you look right across it, unless you are near enough to see down. the houses of the old town--the side away from us--are all red-roofed, and seem piled up one over the other anyhow, like the pictures we see of nuremberg. right over the town is the ruin of whitby abbey, which was sacked by the danes, and which is the scene of part of "marmion," where the girl was built up in the wall. it is a most noble ruin, of immense size, and full of beautiful and romantic bits; there is a legend that a white lady is seen in one of the windows. between it and the town there is another church, the parish one, round which is a big graveyard, all full of tombstones. this is to my mind the nicest spot in whitby, for it lies right over the town, and has a full view of the harbour and all up the bay to where the headland called kettleness stretches out into the sea. it descends so steeply over the harbour that part of the bank has fallen away, and some of the graves have been destroyed. in one place part of the stonework of the graves stretches out over the sandy pathway far below. there are walks, with seats beside them, through the churchyard; and people go and sit there all day long looking at the beautiful view and enjoying the breeze. i shall come and sit here very often myself and work. indeed, i am writing now, with my book on my knee, and listening to the talk of three old men who are sitting beside me. they seem to do nothing all day but sit up here and talk. the harbour lies below me, with, on the far side, one long granite wall stretching out into the sea, with a curve outwards at the end of it, in the middle of which is a lighthouse. a heavy sea-wall runs along outside of it. on the near side, the sea-wall makes an elbow crooked inversely, and its end too has a lighthouse. between the two piers there is a narrow opening into the harbour, which then suddenly widens. it is nice at high water; but when the tide is out it shoals away to nothing, and there is merely the stream of the esk, running between banks of sand, with rocks here and there. outside the harbour on this side there rises for about half a mile a great reef, the sharp edge of which runs straight out from behind the south lighthouse. at the end of it is a buoy with a bell, which swings in bad weather, and sends in a mournful sound on the wind. they have a legend here that when a ship is lost bells are heard out at sea. i must ask the old man about this; he is coming this way.... he is a funny old man. he must be awfully old, for his face is all gnarled and twisted like the bark of a tree. he tells me that he is nearly a hundred, and that he was a sailor in the greenland fishing fleet when waterloo was fought. he is, i am afraid, a very sceptical person, for when i asked him about the bells at sea and the white lady at the abbey he said very brusquely:-"i wouldn't fash masel' about them, miss. them things be all wore out. mind, i don't say that they never was, but i do say that they wasn't in my time. they be all very well for comers and trippers, an' the like, but not for a nice young lady like you. them feet-folks from york and leeds that be always eatin' cured herrin's an' drinkin' tea an' lookin' out to buy cheap jet would creed aught. i wonder masel' who'd be bothered tellin' lies to them--even the newspapers, which is full of fool-talk." i thought he would be a good person to learn interesting things from, so i asked him if he would mind telling me something about the whale-fishing in the old days. he was just settling himself to begin when the clock struck six, whereupon he laboured to get up, and said:-"i must gang ageeanwards home now, miss. my grand-daughter doesn't like to be kept waitin' when the tea is ready, for it takes me time to crammle aboon the grees, for there be a many of 'em; an', miss, i lack belly-timber sairly by the clock." he hobbled away, and i could see him hurrying, as well as he could, down the steps. the steps are a great feature on the place. they lead from the town up to the church, there are hundreds of them--i do not know how many--and they wind up in a delicate curve; the slope is so gentle that a horse could easily walk up and down them. i think they must originally have had something to do with the abbey. i shall go home too. lucy went out visiting with her mother, and as they were only duty calls, i did not go. they will be home by this. * * * * * _1 august._--i came up here an hour ago with lucy, and we had a most interesting talk with my old friend and the two others who always come and join him. he is evidently the sir oracle of them, and i should think must have been in his time a most dictatorial person. he will not admit anything, and downfaces everybody. if he can't out-argue them he bullies them, and then takes their silence for agreement with his views. lucy was looking sweetly pretty in her white lawn frock; she has got a beautiful colour since she has been here. i noticed that the old men did not lose any time in coming up and sitting near her when we sat down. she is so sweet with old people; i think they all fell in love with her on the spot. even my old man succumbed and did not contradict her, but gave me double share instead. i got him on the subject of the legends, and he went off at once into a sort of sermon. i must try to remember it and put it down:-"it be all fool-talk, lock, stock, and barrel; that's what it be, an' nowt else. these bans an' wafts an' boh-ghosts an' barguests an' bogles an' all anent them is only fit to set bairns an' dizzy women a-belderin'. they be nowt but air-blebs. they, an' all grims an' signs an' warnin's, be all invented by parsons an' illsome beuk-bodies an' railway touters to skeer an' scunner hafflin's, an' to get folks to do somethin' that they don't other incline to. it makes me ireful to think o' them. why, it's them that, not content with printin' lies on paper an' preachin' them out of pulpits, does want to be cuttin' them on the tombstones. look here all around you in what airt ye will; all them steans, holdin' up their heads as well as they can out of their pride, is acant--simply tumblin' down with the weight o' the lies wrote on them, 'here lies the body' or 'sacred to the memory' wrote on all of them, an' yet in nigh half of them there bean't no bodies at all; an' the memories of them bean't cared a pinch of snuff about, much less sacred. lies all of them, nothin' but lies of one kind or another! my gog, but it'll be a quare scowderment at the day of judgment when they come tumblin' up in their death-sarks, all jouped together an' tryin' to drag their tombsteans with them to prove how good they was; some of them trimmlin' and ditherin', with their hands that dozzened an' slippy from lyin' in the sea that they can't even keep their grup o' them." i could see from the old fellow's self-satisfied air and the way in which he looked round for the approval of his cronies that he was "showing off," so i put in a word to keep him going:-"oh, mr. swales, you can't be serious. surely these tombstones are not all wrong?" "yabblins! there may be a poorish few not wrong, savin' where they make out the people too good; for there be folk that do think a balm-bowl be like the sea, if only it be their own. the whole thing be only lies. now look you here; you come here a stranger, an' you see this kirk-garth." i nodded, for i thought it better to assent, though i did not quite understand his dialect. i knew it had something to do with the church. he went on: "and you consate that all these steans be aboon folk that be happed here, snod an' snog?" i assented again. "then that be just where the lie comes in. why, there be scores of these lay-beds that be toom as old dun's 'bacca-box on friday night." he nudged one of his companions, and they all laughed. "and my gog! how could they be otherwise? look at that one, the aftest abaft the bier-bank: read it!" i went over and read:-"edward spencelagh, master mariner, murdered by pirates off the coast of andres, april, 1854, ã¦t. 30." when i came back mr. swales went on:-"who brought him home, i wonder, to hap him here? murdered off the coast of andres! an' you consated his body lay under! why, i could name ye a dozen whose bones lie in the greenland seas above"--he pointed northwards--"or where the currents may have drifted them. there be the steans around ye. ye can, with your young eyes, read the small-print of the lies from here. this braithwaite lowrey--i knew his father, lost in the _lively_ off greenland in '20; or andrew woodhouse, drowned in the same seas in 1777; or john paxton, drowned off cape farewell a year later; or old john rawlings, whose grandfather sailed with me, drowned in the gulf of finland in '50. do ye think that all these men will have to make a rush to whitby when the trumpet sounds? i have me antherums aboot it! i tell ye that when they got here they'd be jommlin' an' jostlin' one another that way that it 'ud be like a fight up on the ice in the old days, when we'd be at one another from daylight to dark, an' tryin' to tie up our cuts by the light of the aurora borealis." this was evidently local pleasantry, for the old man cackled over it, and his cronies joined in with gusto. "but," i said, "surely you are not quite correct, for you start on the assumption that all the poor people, or their spirits, will have to take their tombstones with them on the day of judgment. do you think that will be really necessary?" "well, what else be they tombstones for? answer me that, miss!" "to please their relatives, i suppose." "to please their relatives, you suppose!" this he said with intense scorn. "how will it pleasure their relatives to know that lies is wrote over them, and that everybody in the place knows that they be lies?" he pointed to a stone at our feet which had been laid down as a slab, on which the seat was rested, close to the edge of the cliff. "read the lies on that thruff-stean," he said. the letters were upside down to me from where i sat, but lucy was more opposite to them, so she leant over and read:-"sacred to the memory of george canon, who died, in the hope of a glorious resurrection, on july, 29, 1873, falling from the rocks at kettleness. this tomb was erected by his sorrowing mother to her dearly beloved son. 'he was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.' really, mr. swales, i don't see anything very funny in that!" she spoke her comment very gravely and somewhat severely. "ye don't see aught funny! ha! ha! but that's because ye don't gawm the sorrowin' mother was a hell-cat that hated him because he was acrewk'd--a regular lamiter he was--an' he hated her so that he committed suicide in order that she mightn't get an insurance she put on his life. he blew nigh the top of his head off with an old musket that they had for scarin' the crows with. 'twarn't for crows then, for it brought the clegs and the dowps to him. that's the way he fell off the rocks. and, as to hopes of a glorious resurrection, i've often heard him say masel' that he hoped he'd go to hell, for his mother was so pious that she'd be sure to go to heaven, an' he didn't want to addle where she was. now isn't that stean at any rate"--he hammered it with his stick as he spoke--"a pack of lies? and won't it make gabriel keckle when geordie comes pantin' up the grees with the tombstean balanced on his hump, and asks it to be took as evidence!" i did not know what to say, but lucy turned the conversation as she said, rising up:-"oh, why did you tell us of this? it is my favourite seat, and i cannot leave it; and now i find i must go on sitting over the grave of a suicide." "that won't harm ye, my pretty; an' it may make poor geordie gladsome to have so trim a lass sittin' on his lap. that won't hurt ye. why, i've sat here off an' on for nigh twenty years past, an' it hasn't done me no harm. don't ye fash about them as lies under ye, or that doesn' lie there either! it'll be time for ye to be getting scart when ye see the tombsteans all run away with, and the place as bare as a stubble-field. there's the clock, an' i must gang. my service to ye, ladies!" and off he hobbled. lucy and i sat awhile, and it was all so beautiful before us that we took hands as we sat; and she told me all over again about arthur and their coming marriage. that made me just a little heart-sick, for i haven't heard from jonathan for a whole month. * * * * * _the same day._ i came up here alone, for i am very sad. there was no letter for me. i hope there cannot be anything the matter with jonathan. the clock has just struck nine. i see the lights scattered all over the town, sometimes in rows where the streets are, and sometimes singly; they run right up the esk and die away in the curve of the valley. to my left the view is cut off by a black line of roof of the old house next the abbey. the sheep and lambs are bleating in the fields away behind me, and there is a clatter of a donkey's hoofs up the paved road below. the band on the pier is playing a harsh waltz in good time, and further along the quay there is a salvation army meeting in a back street. neither of the bands hears the other, but up here i hear and see them both. i wonder where jonathan is and if he is thinking of me! i wish he were here. _dr. seward's diary._ _5 june._--the case of renfield grows more interesting the more i get to understand the man. he has certain qualities very largely developed; selfishness, secrecy, and purpose. i wish i could get at what is the object of the latter. he seems to have some settled scheme of his own, but what it is i do not yet know. his redeeming quality is a love of animals, though, indeed, he has such curious turns in it that i sometimes imagine he is only abnormally cruel. his pets are of odd sorts. just now his hobby is catching flies. he has at present such a quantity that i have had myself to expostulate. to my astonishment, he did not break out into a fury, as i expected, but took the matter in simple seriousness. he thought for a moment, and then said: "may i have three days? i shall clear them away." of course, i said that would do. i must watch him. * * * * * _18 june._--he has turned his mind now to spiders, and has got several very big fellows in a box. he keeps feeding them with his flies, and the number of the latter is becoming sensibly diminished, although he has used half his food in attracting more flies from outside to his room. * * * * * _1 july._--his spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his flies, and to-day i told him that he must get rid of them. he looked very sad at this, so i said that he must clear out some of them, at all events. he cheerfully acquiesced in this, and i gave him the same time as before for reduction. he disgusted me much while with him, for when a horrid blow-fly, bloated with some carrion food, buzzed into the room, he caught it, held it exultantly for a few moments between his finger and thumb, and, before i knew what he was going to do, put it in his mouth and ate it. i scolded him for it, but he argued quietly that it was very good and very wholesome; that it was life, strong life, and gave life to him. this gave me an idea, or the rudiment of one. i must watch how he gets rid of his spiders. he has evidently some deep problem in his mind, for he keeps a little note-book in which he is always jotting down something. whole pages of it are filled with masses of figures, generally single numbers added up in batches, and then the totals added in batches again, as though he were "focussing" some account, as the auditors put it. * * * * * _8 july._--there is a method in his madness, and the rudimentary idea in my mind is growing. it will be a whole idea soon, and then, oh, unconscious cerebration! you will have to give the wall to your conscious brother. i kept away from my friend for a few days, so that i might notice if there were any change. things remain as they were except that he has parted with some of his pets and got a new one. he has managed to get a sparrow, and has already partially tamed it. his means of taming is simple, for already the spiders have diminished. those that do remain, however, are well fed, for he still brings in the flies by tempting them with his food. * * * * * _19 july._--we are progressing. my friend has now a whole colony of sparrows, and his flies and spiders are almost obliterated. when i came in he ran to me and said he wanted to ask me a great favour--a very, very great favour; and as he spoke he fawned on me like a dog. i asked him what it was, and he said, with a sort of rapture in his voice and bearing:-"a kitten, a nice little, sleek playful kitten, that i can play with, and teach, and feed--and feed--and feed!" i was not unprepared for this request, for i had noticed how his pets went on increasing in size and vivacity, but i did not care that his pretty family of tame sparrows should be wiped out in the same manner as the flies and the spiders; so i said i would see about it, and asked him if he would not rather have a cat than a kitten. his eagerness betrayed him as he answered:-"oh, yes, i would like a cat! i only asked for a kitten lest you should refuse me a cat. no one would refuse me a kitten, would they?" i shook my head, and said that at present i feared it would not be possible, but that i would see about it. his face fell, and i could see a warning of danger in it, for there was a sudden fierce, sidelong look which meant killing. the man is an undeveloped homicidal maniac. i shall test him with his present craving and see how it will work out; then i shall know more. * * * * * _10 p. m._--i have visited him again and found him sitting in a corner brooding. when i came in he threw himself on his knees before me and implored me to let him have a cat; that his salvation depended upon it. i was firm, however, and told him that he could not have it, whereupon he went without a word, and sat down, gnawing his fingers, in the corner where i had found him. i shall see him in the morning early. * * * * * _20 july._--visited renfield very early, before the attendant went his rounds. found him up and humming a tune. he was spreading out his sugar, which he had saved, in the window, and was manifestly beginning his fly-catching again; and beginning it cheerfully and with a good grace. i looked around for his birds, and not seeing them, asked him where they were. he replied, without turning round, that they had all flown away. there were a few feathers about the room and on his pillow a drop of blood. i said nothing, but went and told the keeper to report to me if there were anything odd about him during the day. * * * * * _11 a. m._--the attendant has just been to me to say that renfield has been very sick and has disgorged a whole lot of feathers. "my belief is, doctor," he said, "that he has eaten his birds, and that he just took and ate them raw!" * * * * * _11 p. m._--i gave renfield a strong opiate to-night, enough to make even him sleep, and took away his pocket-book to look at it. the thought that has been buzzing about my brain lately is complete, and the theory proved. my homicidal maniac is of a peculiar kind. i shall have to invent a new classification for him, and call him a zoã¶phagous (life-eating) maniac; what he desires is to absorb as many lives as he can, and he has laid himself out to achieve it in a cumulative way. he gave many flies to one spider and many spiders to one bird, and then wanted a cat to eat the many birds. what would have been his later steps? it would almost be worth while to complete the experiment. it might be done if there were only a sufficient cause. men sneered at vivisection, and yet look at its results to-day! why not advance science in its most difficult and vital aspect--the knowledge of the brain? had i even the secret of one such mind--did i hold the key to the fancy of even one lunatic--i might advance my own branch of science to a pitch compared with which burdon-sanderson's physiology or ferrier's brain-knowledge would be as nothing. if only there were a sufficient cause! i must not think too much of this, or i may be tempted; a good cause might turn the scale with me, for may not i too be of an exceptional brain, congenitally? how well the man reasoned; lunatics always do within their own scope. i wonder at how many lives he values a man, or if at only one. he has closed the account most accurately, and to-day begun a new record. how many of us begin a new record with each day of our lives? to me it seems only yesterday that my whole life ended with my new hope, and that truly i began a new record. so it will be until the great recorder sums me up and closes my ledger account with a balance to profit or loss. oh, lucy, lucy, i cannot be angry with you, nor can i be angry with my friend whose happiness is yours; but i must only wait on hopeless and work. work! work! if i only could have as strong a cause as my poor mad friend there--a good, unselfish cause to make me work--that would be indeed happiness. _mina murray's journal._ _26 july._--i am anxious, and it soothes me to express myself here; it is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time. and there is also something about the shorthand symbols that makes it different from writing. i am unhappy about lucy and about jonathan. i had not heard from jonathan for some time, and was very concerned; but yesterday dear mr. hawkins, who is always so kind, sent me a letter from him. i had written asking him if he had heard, and he said the enclosed had just been received. it is only a line dated from castle dracula, and says that he is just starting for home. that is not like jonathan; i do not understand it, and it makes me uneasy. then, too, lucy, although she is so well, has lately taken to her old habit of walking in her sleep. her mother has spoken to me about it, and we have decided that i am to lock the door of our room every night. mrs. westenra has got an idea that sleep-walkers always go out on roofs of houses and along the edges of cliffs and then get suddenly wakened and fall over with a despairing cry that echoes all over the place. poor dear, she is naturally anxious about lucy, and she tells me that her husband, lucy's father, had the same habit; that he would get up in the night and dress himself and go out, if he were not stopped. lucy is to be married in the autumn, and she is already planning out her dresses and how her house is to be arranged. i sympathise with her, for i do the same, only jonathan and i will start in life in a very simple way, and shall have to try to make both ends meet. mr. holmwood--he is the hon. arthur holmwood, only son of lord godalming--is coming up here very shortly--as soon as he can leave town, for his father is not very well, and i think dear lucy is counting the moments till he comes. she wants to take him up to the seat on the churchyard cliff and show him the beauty of whitby. i daresay it is the waiting which disturbs her; she will be all right when he arrives. * * * * * _27 july._--no news from jonathan. i am getting quite uneasy about him, though why i should i do not know; but i do wish that he would write, if it were only a single line. lucy walks more than ever, and each night i am awakened by her moving about the room. fortunately, the weather is so hot that she cannot get cold; but still the anxiety and the perpetually being wakened is beginning to tell on me, and i am getting nervous and wakeful myself. thank god, lucy's health keeps up. mr. holmwood has been suddenly called to ring to see his father, who has been taken seriously ill. lucy frets at the postponement of seeing him, but it does not touch her looks; she is a trifle stouter, and her cheeks are a lovely rose-pink. she has lost that anã¦mic look which she had. i pray it will all last. * * * * * _3 august._--another week gone, and no news from jonathan, not even to mr. hawkins, from whom i have heard. oh, i do hope he is not ill. he surely would have written. i look at that last letter of his, but somehow it does not satisfy me. it does not read like him, and yet it is his writing. there is no mistake of that. lucy has not walked much in her sleep the last week, but there is an odd concentration about her which i do not understand; even in her sleep she seems to be watching me. she tries the door, and finding it locked, goes about the room searching for the key. _6 august._--another three days, and no news. this suspense is getting dreadful. if i only knew where to write to or where to go to, i should feel easier; but no one has heard a word of jonathan since that last letter. i must only pray to god for patience. lucy is more excitable than ever, but is otherwise well. last night was very threatening, and the fishermen say that we are in for a storm. i must try to watch it and learn the weather signs. to-day is a grey day, and the sun as i write is hidden in thick clouds, high over kettleness. everything is grey--except the green grass, which seems like emerald amongst it; grey earthy rock; grey clouds, tinged with the sunburst at the far edge, hang over the grey sea, into which the sand-points stretch like grey fingers. the sea is tumbling in over the shallows and the sandy flats with a roar, muffled in the sea-mists drifting inland. the horizon is lost in a grey mist. all is vastness; the clouds are piled up like giant rocks, and there is a "brool" over the sea that sounds like some presage of doom. dark figures are on the beach here and there, sometimes half shrouded in the mist, and seem "men like trees walking." the fishing-boats are racing for home, and rise and dip in the ground swell as they sweep into the harbour, bending to the scuppers. here comes old mr. swales. he is making straight for me, and i can see, by the way he lifts his hat, that he wants to talk.... i have been quite touched by the change in the poor old man. when he sat down beside me, he said in a very gentle way:-"i want to say something to you, miss." i could see he was not at ease, so i took his poor old wrinkled hand in mine and asked him to speak fully; so he said, leaving his hand in mine:-"i'm afraid, my deary, that i must have shocked you by all the wicked things i've been sayin' about the dead, and such like, for weeks past; but i didn't mean them, and i want ye to remember that when i'm gone. we aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don't altogether like to think of it, and we don't want to feel scart of it; an' that's why i've took to makin' light of it, so that i'd cheer up my own heart a bit. but, lord love ye, miss, i ain't afraid of dyin', not a bit; only i don't want to die if i can help it. my time must be nigh at hand now, for i be aud, and a hundred years is too much for any man to expect; and i'm so nigh it that the aud man is already whettin' his scythe. ye see, i can't get out o' the habit of caffin' about it all at once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. some day soon the angel of death will sound his trumpet for me. but don't ye dooal an' greet, my deary!"--for he saw that i was crying--"if he should come this very night i'd not refuse to answer his call. for life be, after all, only a waitin' for somethin' else than what we're doin'; and death be all that we can rightly depend on. but i'm content, for it's comin' to me, my deary, and comin' quick. it may be comin' while we be lookin' and wonderin'. maybe it's in that wind out over the sea that's bringin' with it loss and wreck, and sore distress, and sad hearts. look! look!" he cried suddenly. "there's something in that wind and in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. it's in the air; i feel it comin'. lord, make me answer cheerful when my call comes!" he held up his arms devoutly, and raised his hat. his mouth moved as though he were praying. after a few minutes' silence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good-bye, and hobbled off. it all touched me, and upset me very much. i was glad when the coastguard came along, with his spy-glass under his arm. he stopped to talk with me, as he always does, but all the time kept looking at a strange ship. "i can't make her out," he said; "she's a russian, by the look of her; but she's knocking about in the queerest way. she doesn't know her mind a bit; she seems to see the storm coming, but can't decide whether to run up north in the open, or to put in here. look there again! she is steered mighty strangely, for she doesn't mind the hand on the wheel; changes about with every puff of wind. we'll hear more of her before this time to-morrow." chapter vii cutting from "the dailygraph," 8 august (_pasted in mina murray's journal._) from a correspondent. _whitby_. one of the greatest and suddenest storms on record has just been experienced here, with results both strange and unique. the weather had been somewhat sultry, but not to any degree uncommon in the month of august. saturday evening was as fine as was ever known, and the great body of holiday-makers laid out yesterday for visits to mulgrave woods, robin hood's bay, rig mill, runswick, staithes, and the various trips in the neighbourhood of whitby. the steamers _emma_ and _scarborough_ made trips up and down the coast, and there was an unusual amount of "tripping" both to and from whitby. the day was unusually fine till the afternoon, when some of the gossips who frequent the east cliff churchyard, and from that commanding eminence watch the wide sweep of sea visible to the north and east, called attention to a sudden show of "mares'-tails" high in the sky to the north-west. the wind was then blowing from the south-west in the mild degree which in barometrical language is ranked "no. 2: light breeze." the coastguard on duty at once made report, and one old fisherman, who for more than half a century has kept watch on weather signs from the east cliff, foretold in an emphatic manner the coming of a sudden storm. the approach of sunset was so very beautiful, so grand in its masses of splendidly-coloured clouds, that there was quite an assemblage on the walk along the cliff in the old churchyard to enjoy the beauty. before the sun dipped below the black mass of kettleness, standing boldly athwart the western sky, its downward way was marked by myriad clouds of every sunset-colour--flame, purple, pink, green, violet, and all the tints of gold; with here and there masses not large, but of seemingly absolute blackness, in all sorts of shapes, as well outlined as colossal silhouettes. the experience was not lost on the painters, and doubtless some of the sketches of the "prelude to the great storm" will grace the r. a. and r. i. walls in may next. more than one captain made up his mind then and there that his "cobble" or his "mule," as they term the different classes of boats, would remain in the harbour till the storm had passed. the wind fell away entirely during the evening, and at midnight there was a dead calm, a sultry heat, and that prevailing intensity which, on the approach of thunder, affects persons of a sensitive nature. there were but few lights in sight at sea, for even the coasting steamers, which usually "hug" the shore so closely, kept well to seaward, and but few fishing-boats were in sight. the only sail noticeable was a foreign schooner with all sails set, which was seemingly going westwards. the foolhardiness or ignorance of her officers was a prolific theme for comment whilst she remained in sight, and efforts were made to signal her to reduce sail in face of her danger. before the night shut down she was seen with sails idly flapping as she gently rolled on the undulating swell of the sea, "as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean." shortly before ten o'clock the stillness of the air grew quite oppressive, and the silence was so marked that the bleating of a sheep inland or the barking of a dog in the town was distinctly heard, and the band on the pier, with its lively french air, was like a discord in the great harmony of nature's silence. a little after midnight came a strange sound from over the sea, and high overhead the air began to carry a strange, faint, hollow booming. then without warning the tempest broke. with a rapidity which, at the time, seemed incredible, and even afterwards is impossible to realize, the whole aspect of nature at once became convulsed. the waves rose in growing fury, each overtopping its fellow, till in a very few minutes the lately glassy sea was like a roaring and devouring monster. white-crested waves beat madly on the level sands and rushed up the shelving cliffs; others broke over the piers, and with their spume swept the lanthorns of the lighthouses which rise from the end of either pier of whitby harbour. the wind roared like thunder, and blew with such force that it was with difficulty that even strong men kept their feet, or clung with grim clasp to the iron stanchions. it was found necessary to clear the entire piers from the mass of onlookers, or else the fatalities of the night would have been increased manifold. to add to the difficulties and dangers of the time, masses of sea-fog came drifting inland--white, wet clouds, which swept by in ghostly fashion, so dank and damp and cold that it needed but little effort of imagination to think that the spirits of those lost at sea were touching their living brethren with the clammy hands of death, and many a one shuddered as the wreaths of sea-mist swept by. at times the mist cleared, and the sea for some distance could be seen in the glare of the lightning, which now came thick and fast, followed by such sudden peals of thunder that the whole sky overhead seemed trembling under the shock of the footsteps of the storm. some of the scenes thus revealed were of immeasurable grandeur and of absorbing interest--the sea, running mountains high, threw skywards with each wave mighty masses of white foam, which the tempest seemed to snatch at and whirl away into space; here and there a fishing-boat, with a rag of sail, running madly for shelter before the blast; now and again the white wings of a storm-tossed sea-bird. on the summit of the east cliff the new searchlight was ready for experiment, but had not yet been tried. the officers in charge of it got it into working order, and in the pauses of the inrushing mist swept with it the surface of the sea. once or twice its service was most effective, as when a fishing-boat, with gunwale under water, rushed into the harbour, able, by the guidance of the sheltering light, to avoid the danger of dashing against the piers. as each boat achieved the safety of the port there was a shout of joy from the mass of people on shore, a shout which for a moment seemed to cleave the gale and was then swept away in its rush. before long the searchlight discovered some distance away a schooner with all sails set, apparently the same vessel which had been noticed earlier in the evening. the wind had by this time backed to the east, and there was a shudder amongst the watchers on the cliff as they realized the terrible danger in which she now was. between her and the port lay the great flat reef on which so many good ships have from time to time suffered, and, with the wind blowing from its present quarter, it would be quite impossible that she should fetch the entrance of the harbour. it was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great that in their troughs the shallows of the shore were almost visible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rushing with such speed that, in the words of one old salt, "she must fetch up somewhere, if it was only in hell." then came another rush of sea-fog, greater than any hitherto--a mass of dank mist, which seemed to close on all things like a grey pall, and left available to men only the organ of hearing, for the roar of the tempest, and the crash of the thunder, and the booming of the mighty billows came through the damp oblivion even louder than before. the rays of the searchlight were kept fixed on the harbour mouth across the east pier, where the shock was expected, and men waited breathless. the wind suddenly shifted to the north-east, and the remnant of the sea-fog melted in the blast; and then, _mirabile dictu_, between the piers, leaping from wave to wave as it rushed at headlong speed, swept the strange schooner before the blast, with all sail set, and gained the safety of the harbour. the searchlight followed her, and a shudder ran through all who saw her, for lashed to the helm was a corpse, with drooping head, which swung horribly to and fro at each motion of the ship. no other form could be seen on deck at all. a great awe came on all as they realised that the ship, as if by a miracle, had found the harbour, unsteered save by the hand of a dead man! however, all took place more quickly than it takes to write these words. the schooner paused not, but rushing across the harbour, pitched herself on that accumulation of sand and gravel washed by many tides and many storms into the south-east corner of the pier jutting under the east cliff, known locally as tate hill pier. there was of course a considerable concussion as the vessel drove up on the sand heap. every spar, rope, and stay was strained, and some of the "top-hammer" came crashing down. but, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on deck from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on the sand. making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard hangs over the laneway to the east pier so steeply that some of the flat tombstones--"thruff-steans" or "through-stones," as they call them in the whitby vernacular--actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the searchlight. it so happened that there was no one at the moment on tate hill pier, as all those whose houses are in close proximity were either in bed or were out on the heights above. thus the coastguard on duty on the eastern side of the harbour, who at once ran down to the little pier, was the first to climb on board. the men working the searchlight, after scouring the entrance of the harbour without seeing anything, then turned the light on the derelict and kept it there. the coastguard ran aft, and when he came beside the wheel, bent over to examine it, and recoiled at once as though under some sudden emotion. this seemed to pique general curiosity, and quite a number of people began to run. it is a good way round from the west cliff by the drawbridge to tate hill pier, but your correspondent is a fairly good runner, and came well ahead of the crowd. when i arrived, however, i found already assembled on the pier a crowd, whom the coastguard and police refused to allow to come on board. by the courtesy of the chief boatman, i was, as your correspondent, permitted to climb on deck, and was one of a small group who saw the dead seaman whilst actually lashed to the wheel. it was no wonder that the coastguard was surprised, or even awed, for not often can such a sight have been seen. the man was simply fastened by his hands, tied one over the other, to a spoke of the wheel. between the inner hand and the wood was a crucifix, the set of beads on which it was fastened being around both wrists and wheel, and all kept fast by the binding cords. the poor fellow may have been seated at one time, but the flapping and buffeting of the sails had worked through the rudder of the wheel and dragged him to and fro, so that the cords with which he was tied had cut the flesh to the bone. accurate note was made of the state of things, and a doctor--surgeon j. m. caffyn, of 33, east elliot place--who came immediately after me, declared, after making examination, that the man must have been dead for quite two days. in his pocket was a bottle, carefully corked, empty save for a little roll of paper, which proved to be the addendum to the log. the coastguard said the man must have tied up his own hands, fastening the knots with his teeth. the fact that a coastguard was the first on board may save some complications, later on, in the admiralty court; for coastguards cannot claim the salvage which is the right of the first civilian entering on a derelict. already, however, the legal tongues are wagging, and one young law student is loudly asserting that the rights of the owner are already completely sacrificed, his property being held in contravention of the statutes of mortmain, since the tiller, as emblemship, if not proof, of delegated possession, is held in a _dead hand_. it is needless to say that the dead steersman has been reverently removed from the place where he held his honourable watch and ward till death--a steadfastness as noble as that of the young casabianca--and placed in the mortuary to await inquest. already the sudden storm is passing, and its fierceness is abating; crowds are scattering homeward, and the sky is beginning to redden over the yorkshire wolds. i shall send, in time for your next issue, further details of the derelict ship which found her way so miraculously into harbour in the storm. _whitby_ _9 august._--the sequel to the strange arrival of the derelict in the storm last night is almost more startling than the thing itself. it turns out that the schooner is a russian from varna, and is called the _demeter_. she is almost entirely in ballast of silver sand, with only a small amount of cargo--a number of great wooden boxes filled with mould. this cargo was consigned to a whitby solicitor, mr. s. f. billington, of 7, the crescent, who this morning went aboard and formally took possession of the goods consigned to him. the russian consul, too, acting for the charter-party, took formal possession of the ship, and paid all harbour dues, etc. nothing is talked about here to-day except the strange coincidence; the officials of the board of trade have been most exacting in seeing that every compliance has been made with existing regulations. as the matter is to be a "nine days' wonder," they are evidently determined that there shall be no cause of after complaint. a good deal of interest was abroad concerning the dog which landed when the ship struck, and more than a few of the members of the s. p. c. a., which is very strong in whitby, have tried to befriend the animal. to the general disappointment, however, it was not to be found; it seems to have disappeared entirely from the town. it may be that it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is still hiding in terror. there are some who look with dread on such a possibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it is evidently a fierce brute. early this morning a large dog, a half-bred mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close to tate hill pier, was found dead in the roadway opposite to its master's yard. it had been fighting, and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away, and its belly was slit open as if with a savage claw. * * * * * _later._--by the kindness of the board of trade inspector, i have been permitted to look over the log-book of the _demeter_, which was in order up to within three days, but contained nothing of special interest except as to facts of missing men. the greatest interest, however, is with regard to the paper found in the bottle, which was to-day produced at the inquest; and a more strange narrative than the two between them unfold it has not been my lot to come across. as there is no motive for concealment, i am permitted to use them, and accordingly send you a rescript, simply omitting technical details of seamanship and supercargo. it almost seems as though the captain had been seized with some kind of mania before he had got well into blue water, and that this had developed persistently throughout the voyage. of course my statement must be taken _cum grano_, since i am writing from the dictation of a clerk of the russian consul, who kindly translated for me, time being short. log of the "demeter." _varna to whitby._ _written 18 july, things so strange happening, that i shall keep accurate note henceforth till we land._ * * * * * on 6 july we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth. at noon set sail. east wind, fresh. crew, five hands ... two mates, cook, and myself (captain). * * * * * on 11 july at dawn entered bosphorus. boarded by turkish customs officers. backsheesh. all correct. under way at 4 p. m. * * * * * on 12 july through dardanelles. more customs officers and flagboat of guarding squadron. backsheesh again. work of officers thorough, but quick. want us off soon. at dark passed into archipelago. * * * * * on 13 july passed cape matapan. crew dissatisfied about something. seemed scared, but would not speak out. * * * * * on 14 july was somewhat anxious about crew. men all steady fellows, who sailed with me before. mate could not make out what was wrong; they only told him there was _something_, and crossed themselves. mate lost temper with one of them that day and struck him. expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet. * * * * * on 16 july mate reported in the morning that one of crew, petrofsky, was missing. could not account for it. took larboard watch eight bells last night; was relieved by abramoff, but did not go to bunk. men more downcast than ever. all said they expected something of the kind, but would not say more than there was _something_ aboard. mate getting very impatient with them; feared some trouble ahead. * * * * * on 17 july, yesterday, one of the men, olgaren, came to my cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man aboard the ship. he said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the deck-house, as there was a rain-storm, when he saw a tall, thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companion-way, and go along the deck forward, and disappear. he followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. he was in a panic of superstitious fear, and i am afraid the panic may spread. to allay it, i shall to-day search entire ship carefully from stem to stern. * * * * * later in the day i got together the whole crew, and told them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from stem to stern. first mate angry; said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas would demoralise the men; said he would engage to keep them out of trouble with a handspike. i let him take the helm, while the rest began thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns: we left no corner unsearched. as there were only the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man could hide. men much relieved when search over, and went back to work cheerfully. first mate scowled, but said nothing. * * * * * _22 july_.--rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with sails--no time to be frightened. men seem to have forgotten their dread. mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. praised men for work in bad weather. passed gibralter and out through straits. all well. * * * * * _24 july_.--there seems some doom over this ship. already a hand short, and entering on the bay of biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night another man lost--disappeared. like the first, he came off his watch and was not seen again. men all in a panic of fear; sent a round robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. mate angry. fear there will be some trouble, as either he or the men will do some violence. * * * * * _28 july_.--four days in hell, knocking about in a sort of maelstrom, and the wind a tempest. no sleep for any one. men all worn out. hardly know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. second mate volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours' sleep. wind abating; seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is steadier. * * * * * _29 july_.--another tragedy. had single watch to-night, as crew too tired to double. when morning watch came on deck could find no one except steersman. raised outcry, and all came on deck. thorough search, but no one found. are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. mate and i agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause. * * * * * _30 july_.--last night. rejoiced we are nearing england. weather fine, all sails set. retired worn out; slept soundly; awaked by mate telling me that both man of watch and steersman missing. only self and mate and two hands left to work ship. * * * * * _1 august_.--two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. had hoped when in the english channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere. not having power to work sails, have to run before wind. dare not lower, as could not raise them again. we seem to be drifting to some terrible doom. mate now more demoralised than either of men. his stronger nature seems to have worked inwardly against himself. men are beyond fear, working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. they are russian, he roumanian. * * * * * _2 august, midnight_.--woke up from few minutes' sleep by hearing a cry, seemingly outside my port. could see nothing in fog. rushed on deck, and ran against mate. tells me heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch. one more gone. lord, help us! mate says we must be past straits of dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw north foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. if so we are now off in the north sea, and only god can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us; and god seems to have deserted us. * * * * * _3 august_.--at midnight i went to relieve the man at the wheel, and when i got to it found no one there. the wind was steady, and as we ran before it there was no yawing. i dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate. after a few seconds he rushed up on deck in his flannels. he looked wild-eyed and haggard, and i greatly fear his reason has given way. he came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my ear, as though fearing the very air might hear: "_it_ is here; i know it, now. on the watch last night i saw it, like a man, tall and thin, and ghastly pale. it was in the bows, and looking out. i crept behind it, and gave it my knife; but the knife went through it, empty as the air." and as he spoke he took his knife and drove it savagely into space. then he went on: "but it is here, and i'll find it. it is in the hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. i'll unscrew them one by one and see. you work the helm." and, with a warning look and his finger on his lip, he went below. there was springing up a choppy wind, and i could not leave the helm. i saw him come out on deck again with a tool-chest and a lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. he is mad, stark, raving mad, and it's no use my trying to stop him. he can't hurt those big boxes: they are invoiced as "clay," and to pull them about is as harmless a thing as he can do. so here i stay, and mind the helm, and write these notes. i can only trust in god and wait till the fog clears. then, if i can't steer to any harbour with the wind that is, i shall cut down sails and lie by, and signal for help.... * * * * * it is nearly all over now. just as i was beginning to hope that the mate would come out calmer--for i heard him knocking away at something in the hold, and work is good for him--there came up the hatchway a sudden, startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he came as if shot from a gun--a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and his face convulsed with fear. "save me! save me!" he cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog. his horror turned to despair, and in a steady voice he said: "you had better come too, captain, before it is too late. _he_ is there. i know the secret now. the sea will save me from him, and it is all that is left!" before i could say a word, or move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately threw himself into the sea. i suppose i know the secret too, now. it was this madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has followed them himself. god help me! how am i to account for all these horrors when i get to port? _when_ i get to port! will that ever be? * * * * * _4 august._--still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce. i know there is sunrise because i am a sailor, why else i know not. i dared not go below, i dared not leave the helm; so here all night i stayed, and in the dimness of the night i saw it--him! god forgive me, but the mate was right to jump overboard. it was better to die like a man; to die like a sailor in blue water no man can object. but i am captain, and i must not leave my ship. but i shall baffle this fiend or monster, for i shall tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along with them i shall tie that which he--it!--dare not touch; and then, come good wind or foul, i shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. i am growing weaker, and the night is coming on. if he can look me in the face again, i may not have time to act.... if we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand; if not, ... well, then all men shall know that i have been true to my trust. god and the blessed virgin and the saints help a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty.... * * * * * of course the verdict was an open one. there is no evidence to adduce; and whether or not the man himself committed the murders there is now none to say. the folk here hold almost universally that the captain is simply a hero, and he is to be given a public funeral. already it is arranged that his body is to be taken with a train of boats up the esk for a piece and then brought back to tate hill pier and up the abbey steps; for he is to be buried in the churchyard on the cliff. the owners of more than a hundred boats have already given in their names as wishing to follow him to the grave. no trace has ever been found of the great dog; at which there is much mourning, for, with public opinion in its present state, he would, i believe, be adopted by the town. to-morrow will see the funeral; and so will end this one more "mystery of the sea." _mina murray's journal._ _8 august._--lucy was very restless all night, and i, too, could not sleep. the storm was fearful, and as it boomed loudly among the chimney-pots, it made me shudder. when a sharp puff came it seemed to be like a distant gun. strangely enough, lucy did not wake; but she got up twice and dressed herself. fortunately, each time i awoke in time and managed to undress her without waking her, and got her back to bed. it is a very strange thing, this sleep-walking, for as soon as her will is thwarted in any physical way, her intention, if there be any, disappears, and she yields herself almost exactly to the routine of her life. early in the morning we both got up and went down to the harbour to see if anything had happened in the night. there were very few people about, and though the sun was bright, and the air clear and fresh, the big, grim-looking waves, that seemed dark themselves because the foam that topped them was like snow, forced themselves in through the narrow mouth of the harbour--like a bullying man going through a crowd. somehow i felt glad that jonathan was not on the sea last night, but on land. but, oh, is he on land or sea? where is he, and how? i am getting fearfully anxious about him. if i only knew what to do, and could do anything! * * * * * _10 august._--the funeral of the poor sea-captain to-day was most touching. every boat in the harbour seemed to be there, and the coffin was carried by captains all the way from tate hill pier up to the churchyard. lucy came with me, and we went early to our old seat, whilst the cortã¨ge of boats went up the river to the viaduct and came down again. we had a lovely view, and saw the procession nearly all the way. the poor fellow was laid to rest quite near our seat so that we stood on it when the time came and saw everything. poor lucy seemed much upset. she was restless and uneasy all the time, and i cannot but think that her dreaming at night is telling on her. she is quite odd in one thing: she will not admit to me that there is any cause for restlessness; or if there be, she does not understand it herself. there is an additional cause in that poor old mr. swales was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. he had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. poor dear old man! perhaps he had seen death with his dying eyes! lucy is so sweet and sensitive that she feels influences more acutely than other people do. just now she was quite upset by a little thing which i did not much heed, though i am myself very fond of animals. one of the men who came up here often to look for the boats was followed by his dog. the dog is always with him. they are both quiet persons, and i never saw the man angry, nor heard the dog bark. during the service the dog would not come to its master, who was on the seat with us, but kept a few yards off, barking and howling. its master spoke to it gently, and then harshly, and then angrily; but it would neither come nor cease to make a noise. it was in a sort of fury, with its eyes savage, and all its hairs bristling out like a cat's tail when puss is on the war-path. finally the man, too, got angry, and jumped down and kicked the dog, and then took it by the scruff of the neck and half dragged and half threw it on the tombstone on which the seat is fixed. the moment it touched the stone the poor thing became quiet and fell all into a tremble. it did not try to get away, but crouched down, quivering and cowering, and was in such a pitiable state of terror that i tried, though without effect, to comfort it. lucy was full of pity, too, but she did not attempt to touch the dog, but looked at it in an agonised sort of way. i greatly fear that she is of too super-sensitive a nature to go through the world without trouble. she will be dreaming of this to-night, i am sure. the whole agglomeration of things--the ship steered into port by a dead man; his attitude, tied to the wheel with a crucifix and beads; the touching funeral; the dog, now furious and now in terror--will all afford material for her dreams. i think it will be best for her to go to bed tired out physically, so i shall take her for a long walk by the cliffs to robin hood's bay and back. she ought not to have much inclination for sleep-walking then. chapter viii mina murray's journal _same day, 11 o'clock p. m._--oh, but i am tired! if it were not that i had made my diary a duty i should not open it to-night. we had a lovely walk. lucy, after a while, was in gay spirits, owing, i think, to some dear cows who came nosing towards us in a field close to the lighthouse, and frightened the wits out of us. i believe we forgot everything except, of course, personal fear, and it seemed to wipe the slate clean and give us a fresh start. we had a capital "severe tea" at robin hood's bay in a sweet little old-fashioned inn, with a bow-window right over the seaweed-covered rocks of the strand. i believe we should have shocked the "new woman" with our appetites. men are more tolerant, bless them! then we walked home with some, or rather many, stoppages to rest, and with our hearts full of a constant dread of wild bulls. lucy was really tired, and we intended to creep off to bed as soon as we could. the young curate came in, however, and mrs. westenra asked him to stay for supper. lucy and i had both a fight for it with the dusty miller; i know it was a hard fight on my part, and i am quite heroic. i think that some day the bishops must get together and see about breeding up a new class of curates, who don't take supper, no matter how they may be pressed to, and who will know when girls are tired. lucy is asleep and breathing softly. she has more colour in her cheeks than usual, and looks, oh, so sweet. if mr. holmwood fell in love with her seeing her only in the drawing-room, i wonder what he would say if he saw her now. some of the "new women" writers will some day start an idea that men and women should be allowed to see each other asleep before proposing or accepting. but i suppose the new woman won't condescend in future to accept; she will do the proposing herself. and a nice job she will make of it, too! there's some consolation in that. i am so happy to-night, because dear lucy seems better. i really believe she has turned the corner, and that we are over her troubles with dreaming. i should be quite happy if i only knew if jonathan.... god bless and keep him. * * * * * _11 august, 3 a. m._--diary again. no sleep now, so i may as well write. i am too agitated to sleep. we have had such an adventure, such an agonising experience. i fell asleep as soon as i had closed my diary.... suddenly i became broad awake, and sat up, with a horrible sense of fear upon me, and of some feeling of emptiness around me. the room was dark, so i could not see lucy's bed; i stole across and felt for her. the bed was empty. i lit a match and found that she was not in the room. the door was shut, but not locked, as i had left it. i feared to wake her mother, who has been more than usually ill lately, so threw on some clothes and got ready to look for her. as i was leaving the room it struck me that the clothes she wore might give me some clue to her dreaming intention. dressing-gown would mean house; dress, outside. dressing-gown and dress were both in their places. "thank god," i said to myself, "she cannot be far, as she is only in her nightdress." i ran downstairs and looked in the sitting-room. not there! then i looked in all the other open rooms of the house, with an ever-growing fear chilling my heart. finally i came to the hall door and found it open. it was not wide open, but the catch of the lock had not caught. the people of the house are careful to lock the door every night, so i feared that lucy must have gone out as she was. there was no time to think of what might happen; a vague, overmastering fear obscured all details. i took a big, heavy shawl and ran out. the clock was striking one as i was in the crescent, and there was not a soul in sight. i ran along the north terrace, but could see no sign of the white figure which i expected. at the edge of the west cliff above the pier i looked across the harbour to the east cliff, in the hope or fear--i don't know which--of seeing lucy in our favourite seat. there was a bright full moon, with heavy black, driving clouds, which threw the whole scene into a fleeting diorama of light and shade as they sailed across. for a moment or two i could see nothing, as the shadow of a cloud obscured st. mary's church and all around it. then as the cloud passed i could see the ruins of the abbey coming into view; and as the edge of a narrow band of light as sharp as a sword-cut moved along, the church and the churchyard became gradually visible. whatever my expectation was, it was not disappointed, for there, on our favourite seat, the silver light of the moon struck a half-reclining figure, snowy white. the coming of the cloud was too quick for me to see much, for shadow shut down on light almost immediately; but it seemed to me as though something dark stood behind the seat where the white figure shone, and bent over it. what it was, whether man or beast, i could not tell; i did not wait to catch another glance, but flew down the steep steps to the pier and along by the fish-market to the bridge, which was the only way to reach the east cliff. the town seemed as dead, for not a soul did i see; i rejoiced that it was so, for i wanted no witness of poor lucy's condition. the time and distance seemed endless, and my knees trembled and my breath came laboured as i toiled up the endless steps to the abbey. i must have gone fast, and yet it seemed to me as if my feet were weighted with lead, and as though every joint in my body were rusty. when i got almost to the top i could see the seat and the white figure, for i was now close enough to distinguish it even through the spells of shadow. there was undoubtedly something, long and black, bending over the half-reclining white figure. i called in fright, "lucy! lucy!" and something raised a head, and from where i was i could see a white face and red, gleaming eyes. lucy did not answer, and i ran on to the entrance of the churchyard. as i entered, the church was between me and the seat, and for a minute or so i lost sight of her. when i came in view again the cloud had passed, and the moonlight struck so brilliantly that i could see lucy half reclining with her head lying over the back of the seat. she was quite alone, and there was not a sign of any living thing about. when i bent over her i could see that she was still asleep. her lips were parted, and she was breathing--not softly as usual with her, but in long, heavy gasps, as though striving to get her lungs full at every breath. as i came close, she put up her hand in her sleep and pulled the collar of her nightdress close around her throat. whilst she did so there came a little shudder through her, as though she felt the cold. i flung the warm shawl over her, and drew the edges tight round her neck, for i dreaded lest she should get some deadly chill from the night air, unclad as she was. i feared to wake her all at once, so, in order to have my hands free that i might help her, i fastened the shawl at her throat with a big safety-pin; but i must have been clumsy in my anxiety and pinched or pricked her with it, for by-and-by, when her breathing became quieter, she put her hand to her throat again and moaned. when i had her carefully wrapped up i put my shoes on her feet and then began very gently to wake her. at first she did not respond; but gradually she became more and more uneasy in her sleep, moaning and sighing occasionally. at last, as time was passing fast, and, for many other reasons, i wished to get her home at once, i shook her more forcibly, till finally she opened her eyes and awoke. she did not seem surprised to see me, as, of course, she did not realise all at once where she was. lucy always wakes prettily, and even at such a time, when her body must have been chilled with cold, and her mind somewhat appalled at waking unclad in a churchyard at night, she did not lose her grace. she trembled a little, and clung to me; when i told her to come at once with me home she rose without a word, with the obedience of a child. as we passed along, the gravel hurt my feet, and lucy noticed me wince. she stopped and wanted to insist upon my taking my shoes; but i would not. however, when we got to the pathway outside the churchyard, where there was a puddle of water, remaining from the storm, i daubed my feet with mud, using each foot in turn on the other, so that as we went home, no one, in case we should meet any one, should notice my bare feet. fortune favoured us, and we got home without meeting a soul. once we saw a man, who seemed not quite sober, passing along a street in front of us; but we hid in a door till he had disappeared up an opening such as there are here, steep little closes, or "wynds," as they call them in scotland. my heart beat so loud all the time that sometimes i thought i should faint. i was filled with anxiety about lucy, not only for her health, lest she should suffer from the exposure, but for her reputation in case the story should get wind. when we got in, and had washed our feet, and had said a prayer of thankfulness together, i tucked her into bed. before falling asleep she asked--even implored--me not to say a word to any one, even her mother, about her sleep-walking adventure. i hesitated at first to promise; but on thinking of the state of her mother's health, and how the knowledge of such a thing would fret her, and thinking, too, of how such a story might become distorted--nay, infallibly would--in case it should leak out, i thought it wiser to do so. i hope i did right. i have locked the door, and the key is tied to my wrist, so perhaps i shall not be again disturbed. lucy is sleeping soundly; the reflex of the dawn is high and far over the sea.... * * * * * _same day, noon._--all goes well. lucy slept till i woke her and seemed not to have even changed her side. the adventure of the night does not seem to have harmed her; on the contrary, it has benefited her, for she looks better this morning than she has done for weeks. i was sorry to notice that my clumsiness with the safety-pin hurt her. indeed, it might have been serious, for the skin of her throat was pierced. i must have pinched up a piece of loose skin and have transfixed it, for there are two little red points like pin-pricks, and on the band of her nightdress was a drop of blood. when i apologised and was concerned about it, she laughed and petted me, and said she did not even feel it. fortunately it cannot leave a scar, as it is so tiny. * * * * * _same day, night._--we passed a happy day. the air was clear, and the sun bright, and there was a cool breeze. we took our lunch to mulgrave woods, mrs. westenra driving by the road and lucy and i walking by the cliff-path and joining her at the gate. i felt a little sad myself, for i could not but feel how _absolutely_ happy it would have been had jonathan been with me. but there! i must only be patient. in the evening we strolled in the casino terrace, and heard some good music by spohr and mackenzie, and went to bed early. lucy seems more restful than she has been for some time, and fell asleep at once. i shall lock the door and secure the key the same as before, though i do not expect any trouble to-night. * * * * * _12 august._--my expectations were wrong, for twice during the night i was wakened by lucy trying to get out. she seemed, even in her sleep, to be a little impatient at finding the door shut, and went back to bed under a sort of protest. i woke with the dawn, and heard the birds chirping outside of the window. lucy woke, too, and, i was glad to see, was even better than on the previous morning. all her old gaiety of manner seemed to have come back, and she came and snuggled in beside me and told me all about arthur. i told her how anxious i was about jonathan, and then she tried to comfort me. well, she succeeded somewhat, for, though sympathy can't alter facts, it can help to make them more bearable. * * * * * _13 august._--another quiet day, and to bed with the key on my wrist as before. again i awoke in the night, and found lucy sitting up in bed, still asleep, pointing to the window. i got up quietly, and pulling aside the blind, looked out. it was brilliant moonlight, and the soft effect of the light over the sea and sky--merged together in one great, silent mystery--was beautiful beyond words. between me and the moonlight flitted a great bat, coming and going in great whirling circles. once or twice it came quite close, but was, i suppose, frightened at seeing me, and flitted away across the harbour towards the abbey. when i came back from the window lucy had lain down again, and was sleeping peacefully. she did not stir again all night. * * * * * _14 august._--on the east cliff, reading and writing all day. lucy seems to have become as much in love with the spot as i am, and it is hard to get her away from it when it is time to come home for lunch or tea or dinner. this afternoon she made a funny remark. we were coming home for dinner, and had come to the top of the steps up from the west pier and stopped to look at the view, as we generally do. the setting sun, low down in the sky, was just dropping behind kettleness; the red light was thrown over on the east cliff and the old abbey, and seemed to bathe everything in a beautiful rosy glow. we were silent for a while, and suddenly lucy murmured as if to herself:-"his red eyes again! they are just the same." it was such an odd expression, coming _apropos_ of nothing, that it quite startled me. i slewed round a little, so as to see lucy well without seeming to stare at her, and saw that she was in a half-dreamy state, with an odd look on her face that i could not quite make out; so i said nothing, but followed her eyes. she appeared to be looking over at our own seat, whereon was a dark figure seated alone. i was a little startled myself, for it seemed for an instant as if the stranger had great eyes like burning flames; but a second look dispelled the illusion. the red sunlight was shining on the windows of st. mary's church behind our seat, and as the sun dipped there was just sufficient change in the refraction and reflection to make it appear as if the light moved. i called lucy's attention to the peculiar effect, and she became herself with a start, but she looked sad all the same; it may have been that she was thinking of that terrible night up there. we never refer to it; so i said nothing, and we went home to dinner. lucy had a headache and went early to bed. i saw her asleep, and went out for a little stroll myself; i walked along the cliffs to the westward, and was full of sweet sadness, for i was thinking of jonathan. when coming home--it was then bright moonlight, so bright that, though the front of our part of the crescent was in shadow, everything could be well seen--i threw a glance up at our window, and saw lucy's head leaning out. i thought that perhaps she was looking out for me, so i opened my handkerchief and waved it. she did not notice or make any movement whatever. just then, the moonlight crept round an angle of the building, and the light fell on the window. there distinctly was lucy with her head lying up against the side of the window-sill and her eyes shut. she was fast asleep, and by her, seated on the window-sill, was something that looked like a good-sized bird. i was afraid she might get a chill, so i ran upstairs, but as i came into the room she was moving back to her bed, fast asleep, and breathing heavily; she was holding her hand to her throat, as though to protect it from cold. i did not wake her, but tucked her up warmly; i have taken care that the door is locked and the window securely fastened. she looks so sweet as she sleeps; but she is paler than is her wont, and there is a drawn, haggard look under her eyes which i do not like. i fear she is fretting about something. i wish i could find out what it is. * * * * * _15 august._--rose later than usual. lucy was languid and tired, and slept on after we had been called. we had a happy surprise at breakfast. arthur's father is better, and wants the marriage to come off soon. lucy is full of quiet joy, and her mother is glad and sorry at once. later on in the day she told me the cause. she is grieved to lose lucy as her very own, but she is rejoiced that she is soon to have some one to protect her. poor dear, sweet lady! she confided to me that she has got her death-warrant. she has not told lucy, and made me promise secrecy; her doctor told her that within a few months, at most, she must die, for her heart is weakening. at any time, even now, a sudden shock would be almost sure to kill her. ah, we were wise to keep from her the affair of the dreadful night of lucy's sleep-walking. * * * * * _17 august._--no diary for two whole days. i have not had the heart to write. some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our happiness. no news from jonathan, and lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst her mother's hours are numbering to a close. i do not understand lucy's fading away as she is doing. she eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air; but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more languid day by day; at night i hear her gasping as if for air. i keep the key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but she gets up and walks about the room, and sits at the open window. last night i found her leaning out when i woke up, and when i tried to wake her i could not; she was in a faint. when i managed to restore her she was as weak as water, and cried silently between long, painful struggles for breath. when i asked her how she came to be at the window she shook her head and turned away. i trust her feeling ill may not be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. i looked at her throat just now as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed. they are still open, and, if anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are faintly white. they are like little white dots with red centres. unless they heal within a day or two, i shall insist on the doctor seeing about them. _letter, samuel f. billington & son, solicitors, whitby, to messrs. carter, paterson & co., london._ "_17 august._ "dear sirs,-"herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by great northern railway. same are to be delivered at carfax, near purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station king's cross. the house is at present empty, but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled. "you will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house and marked 'a' on rough diagram enclosed. your agent will easily recognise the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. the goods leave by the train at 9:30 to-night, and will be due at king's cross at 4:30 to-morrow afternoon. as our client wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready at king's cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to destination. in order to obviate any delays possible through any routine requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds (â£10), receipt of which please acknowledge. should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance; if greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from you. you are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by means of his duplicate key. "pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition. _"we are, dear sirs, "faithfully yours, "samuel f. billington & son."_ _letter, messrs. carter, paterson & co., london, to messrs. billington & son, whitby._ "_21 august._ "dear sirs,-"we beg to acknowledge â£10 received and to return cheque â£1 17s. 9d, amount of overplus, as shown in receipted account herewith. goods are delivered in exact accordance with instructions, and keys left in parcel in main hall, as directed. "we are, dear sirs, "yours respectfully. "_pro_ carter, paterson & co." _mina murray's journal._ _18 august._--i am happy to-day, and write sitting on the seat in the churchyard. lucy is ever so much better. last night she slept well all night, and did not disturb me once. the roses seem coming back already to her cheeks, though she is still sadly pale and wan-looking. if she were in any way anã¦mic i could understand it, but she is not. she is in gay spirits and full of life and cheerfulness. all the morbid reticence seems to have passed from her, and she has just reminded me, as if i needed any reminding, of _that_ night, and that it was here, on this very seat, i found her asleep. as she told me she tapped playfully with the heel of her boot on the stone slab and said:-"my poor little feet didn't make much noise then! i daresay poor old mr. swales would have told me that it was because i didn't want to wake up geordie." as she was in such a communicative humour, i asked her if she had dreamed at all that night. before she answered, that sweet, puckered look came into her forehead, which arthur--i call him arthur from her habit--says he loves; and, indeed, i don't wonder that he does. then she went on in a half-dreaming kind of way, as if trying to recall it to herself:-"i didn't quite dream; but it all seemed to be real. i only wanted to be here in this spot--i don't know why, for i was afraid of something--i don't know what. i remember, though i suppose i was asleep, passing through the streets and over the bridge. a fish leaped as i went by, and i leaned over to look at it, and i heard a lot of dogs howling--the whole town seemed as if it must be full of dogs all howling at once--as i went up the steps. then i had a vague memory of something long and dark with red eyes, just as we saw in the sunset, and something very sweet and very bitter all around me at once; and then i seemed sinking into deep green water, and there was a singing in my ears, as i have heard there is to drowning men; and then everything seemed passing away from me; my soul seemed to go out from my body and float about the air. i seem to remember that once the west lighthouse was right under me, and then there was a sort of agonising feeling, as if i were in an earthquake, and i came back and found you shaking my body. i saw you do it before i felt you." then she began to laugh. it seemed a little uncanny to me, and i listened to her breathlessly. i did not quite like it, and thought it better not to keep her mind on the subject, so we drifted on to other subjects, and lucy was like her old self again. when we got home the fresh breeze had braced her up, and her pale cheeks were really more rosy. her mother rejoiced when she saw her, and we all spent a very happy evening together. * * * * * _19 august._--joy, joy, joy! although not all joy. at last, news of jonathan. the dear fellow has been ill; that is why he did not write. i am not afraid to think it or say it, now that i know. mr. hawkins sent me on the letter, and wrote himself, oh, so kindly. i am to leave in the morning and go over to jonathan, and to help to nurse him if necessary, and to bring him home. mr. hawkins says it would not be a bad thing if we were to be married out there. i have cried over the good sister's letter till i can feel it wet against my bosom, where it lies. it is of jonathan, and must be next my heart, for he is _in_ my heart. my journey is all mapped out, and my luggage ready. i am only taking one change of dress; lucy will bring my trunk to london and keep it till i send for it, for it may be that ... i must write no more; i must keep it to say to jonathan, my husband. the letter that he has seen and touched must comfort me till we meet. _letter, sister agatha, hospital of st. joseph and ste. mary, buda-pesth, to miss wilhelmina murray._ "_12 august._ "dear madam,-"i write by desire of mr. jonathan harker, who is himself not strong enough to write, though progressing well, thanks to god and st. joseph and ste. mary. he has been under our care for nearly six weeks, suffering from a violent brain fever. he wishes me to convey his love, and to say that by this post i write for him to mr. peter hawkins, exeter, to say, with his dutiful respects, that he is sorry for his delay, and that all of his work is completed. he will require some few weeks' rest in our sanatorium in the hills, but will then return. he wishes me to say that he has not sufficient money with him, and that he would like to pay for his staying here, so that others who need shall not be wanting for help. "believe me, "yours, with sympathy and all blessings, "sister agatha. "p. s.--my patient being asleep, i open this to let you know something more. he has told me all about you, and that you are shortly to be his wife. all blessings to you both! he has had some fearful shock--so says our doctor--and in his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and i fear to say of what. be careful with him always that there may be nothing to excite him of this kind for a long time to come; the traces of such an illness as his do not lightly die away. we should have written long ago, but we knew nothing of his friends, and there was on him nothing that any one could understand. he came in the train from klausenburg, and the guard was told by the station-master there that he rushed into the station shouting for a ticket for home. seeing from his violent demeanour that he was english, they gave him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that the train reached. "be assured that he is well cared for. he has won all hearts by his sweetness and gentleness. he is truly getting on well, and i have no doubt will in a few weeks be all himself. but be careful of him for safety's sake. there are, i pray god and st. joseph and ste. mary, many, many, happy years for you both." _dr. seward's diary._ _19 august._--strange and sudden change in renfield last night. about eight o'clock he began to get excited and sniff about as a dog does when setting. the attendant was struck by his manner, and knowing my interest in him, encouraged him to talk. he is usually respectful to the attendant and at times servile; but to-night, the man tells me, he was quite haughty. would not condescend to talk with him at all. all he would say was:- "i don't want to talk to you: you don't count now; the master is at hand." the attendant thinks it is some sudden form of religious mania which has seized him. if so, we must look out for squalls, for a strong man with homicidal and religious mania at once might be dangerous. the combination is a dreadful one. at nine o'clock i visited him myself. his attitude to me was the same as that to the attendant; in his sublime self-feeling the difference between myself and attendant seemed to him as nothing. it looks like religious mania, and he will soon think that he himself is god. these infinitesimal distinctions between man and man are too paltry for an omnipotent being. how these madmen give themselves away! the real god taketh heed lest a sparrow fall; but the god created from human vanity sees no difference between an eagle and a sparrow. oh, if men only knew! for half an hour or more renfield kept getting excited in greater and greater degree. i did not pretend to be watching him, but i kept strict observation all the same. all at once that shifty look came into his eyes which we always see when a madman has seized an idea, and with it the shifty movement of the head and back which asylum attendants come to know so well. he became quite quiet, and went and sat on the edge of his bed resignedly, and looked into space with lack-lustre eyes. i thought i would find out if his apathy were real or only assumed, and tried to lead him to talk of his pets, a theme which had never failed to excite his attention. at first he made no reply, but at length said testily:-"bother them all! i don't care a pin about them." "what?" i said. "you don't mean to tell me you don't care about spiders?" (spiders at present are his hobby and the note-book is filling up with columns of small figures.) to this he answered enigmatically:-"the bride-maidens rejoice the eyes that wait the coming of the bride; but when the bride draweth nigh, then the maidens shine not to the eyes that are filled." he would not explain himself, but remained obstinately seated on his bed all the time i remained with him. i am weary to-night and low in spirits. i cannot but think of lucy, and how different things might have been. if i don't sleep at once, chloral, the modern morpheus--c_{2}hcl_{3}o. h_{2}o! i must be careful not to let it grow into a habit. no, i shall take none to-night! i have thought of lucy, and i shall not dishonour her by mixing the two. if need be, to-night shall be sleepless.... * * * * * _later._--glad i made the resolution; gladder that i kept to it. i had lain tossing about, and had heard the clock strike only twice, when the night-watchman came to me, sent up from the ward, to say that renfield had escaped. i threw on my clothes and ran down at once; my patient is too dangerous a person to be roaming about. those ideas of his might work out dangerously with strangers. the attendant was waiting for me. he said he had seen him not ten minutes before, seemingly asleep in his bed, when he had looked through the observation-trap in the door. his attention was called by the sound of the window being wrenched out. he ran back and saw his feet disappear through the window, and had at once sent up for me. he was only in his night-gear, and cannot be far off. the attendant thought it would be more useful to watch where he should go than to follow him, as he might lose sight of him whilst getting out of the building by the door. he is a bulky man, and couldn't get through the window. i am thin, so, with his aid, i got out, but feet foremost, and, as we were only a few feet above ground, landed unhurt. the attendant told me the patient had gone to the left, and had taken a straight line, so i ran as quickly as i could. as i got through the belt of trees i saw a white figure scale the high wall which separates our grounds from those of the deserted house. i ran back at once, told the watchman to get three or four men immediately and follow me into the grounds of carfax, in case our friend might be dangerous. i got a ladder myself, and crossing the wall, dropped down on the other side. i could see renfield's figure just disappearing behind the angle of the house, so i ran after him. on the far side of the house i found him pressed close against the old ironbound oak door of the chapel. he was talking, apparently to some one, but i was afraid to go near enough to hear what he was saying, lest i might frighten him, and he should run off. chasing an errant swarm of bees is nothing to following a naked lunatic, when the fit of escaping is upon him! after a few minutes, however, i could see that he did not take note of anything around him, and so ventured to draw nearer to him--the more so as my men had now crossed the wall and were closing him in. i heard him say:-"i am here to do your bidding, master. i am your slave, and you will reward me, for i shall be faithful. i have worshipped you long and afar off. now that you are near, i await your commands, and you will not pass me by, will you, dear master, in your distribution of good things?" he _is_ a selfish old beggar anyhow. he thinks of the loaves and fishes even when he believes he is in a real presence. his manias make a startling combination. when we closed in on him he fought like a tiger. he is immensely strong, for he was more like a wild beast than a man. i never saw a lunatic in such a paroxysm of rage before; and i hope i shall not again. it is a mercy that we have found out his strength and his danger in good time. with strength and determination like his, he might have done wild work before he was caged. he is safe now at any rate. jack sheppard himself couldn't get free from the strait-waistcoat that keeps him restrained, and he's chained to the wall in the padded room. his cries are at times awful, but the silences that follow are more deadly still, for he means murder in every turn and movement. just now he spoke coherent words for the first time:-"i shall be patient, master. it is coming--coming--coming!" so i took the hint, and came too. i was too excited to sleep, but this diary has quieted me, and i feel i shall get some sleep to-night. chapter ix _letter, mina harker to lucy westenra._ "_buda-pesth, 24 august._ "my dearest lucy,-"i know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we parted at the railway station at whitby. well, my dear, i got to hull all right, and caught the boat to hamburg, and then the train on here. i feel that i can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that i knew i was coming to jonathan, and, that as i should have to do some nursing, i had better get all the sleep i could.... i found my dear one, oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. all the resolution has gone out of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which i told you was in his face has vanished. he is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. at least, he wants me to believe so, and i shall never ask. he has had some terrible shock, and i fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try to recall it. sister agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse, tells me that he raved of dreadful things whilst he was off his head. i wanted her to tell me what they were; but she would only cross herself, and say she would never tell; that the ravings of the sick were the secrets of god, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear them, she should respect her trust. she is a sweet, good soul, and the next day, when she saw i was troubled, she opened up the subject again, and after saying that she could never mention what my poor dear raved about, added: 'i can tell you this much, my dear: that it was not about anything which he has done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to be, have no cause to be concerned. he has not forgotten you or what he owes to you. his fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can treat of.' i do believe the dear soul thought i might be jealous lest my poor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. the idea of _my_ being jealous about jonathan! and yet, my dear, let me whisper, i felt a thrill of joy through me when i _knew_ that no other woman was a cause of trouble. i am now sitting by his bedside, where i can see his face while he sleeps. he is waking!... "when he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get something from the pocket; i asked sister agatha, and she brought all his things. i saw that amongst them was his note-book, and was going to ask him to let me look at it--for i knew then that i might find some clue to his trouble--but i suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment. then he called me back, and when i came he had his hand over the note-book, and he said to me very solemnly:-"'wilhelmina'--i knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him--'you know, dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife: there should be no secret, no concealment. i have had a great shock, and when i try to think of what it is i feel my head spin round, and i do not know if it was all real or the dreaming of a madman. you know i have had brain fever, and that is to be mad. the secret is here, and i do not want to know it. i want to take up my life here, with our marriage.' for, my dear, we had decided to be married as soon as the formalities are complete. 'are you willing, wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? here is the book. take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.' he fell back exhausted, and i put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. i have asked sister agatha to beg the superior to let our wedding be this afternoon, and am waiting her reply.... * * * * * "she has come and told me that the chaplain of the english mission church has been sent for. we are to be married in an hour, or as soon after as jonathan awakes.... * * * * * "lucy, the time has come and gone. i feel very solemn, but very, very happy. jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. he answered his 'i will' firmly and strongly. i could hardly speak; my heart was so full that even those words seemed to choke me. the dear sisters were so kind. please god, i shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities i have taken upon me. i must tell you of my wedding present. when the chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband--oh, lucy, it is the first time i have written the words 'my husband'--left me alone with my husband, i took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped it up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing-wax, and for my seal i used my wedding ring. then i kissed it and showed it to my husband, and told him that i would keep it so, and then it would be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each other; that i would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty. then he took my hand in his, and oh, lucy, it was the first time he took _his wife's_ hand, and said that it was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he would go through all the past again to win it, if need be. the poor dear meant to have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and i shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the year. "well, my dear, what could i say? i could only tell him that i was the happiest woman in all the wide world, and that i had nothing to give him except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love and duty for all the days of my life. and, my dear, when he kissed me, and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a very solemn pledge between us.... "lucy dear, do you know why i tell you all this? it is not only because it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear to me. it was my privilege to be your friend and guide when you came from the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life. i want you to see now, and with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me; so that in your own married life you too may be all happy as i am. my dear, please almighty god, your life may be all it promises: a long day of sunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. i must not wish you no pain, for that can never be; but i do hope you will be _always_ as happy as i am _now_. good-bye, my dear. i shall post this at once, and, perhaps, write you very soon again. i must stop, for jonathan is waking--i must attend to my husband! "your ever-loving "mina harker." _letter, lucy westenra to mina harker._ "_whitby, 30 august._ "my dearest mina,-"oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own home with your husband. i wish you could be coming home soon enough to stay with us here. the strong air would soon restore jonathan; it has quite restored me. i have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of life, and sleep well. you will be glad to know that i have quite given up walking in my sleep. i think i have not stirred out of my bed for a week, that is when i once got into it at night. arthur says i am getting fat. by the way, i forgot to tell you that arthur is here. we have such walks and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing together; and i love him more than ever. he _tells_ me that he loves me more, but i doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn't love me more than he did then. but this is nonsense. there he is, calling to me. so no more just at present from your loving "lucy. "p. s.--mother sends her love. she seems better, poor dear. "p. p. s.--we are to be married on 28 september." _dr. seward's diary._ _20 august._--the case of renfield grows even more interesting. he has now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his passion. for the first week after his attack he was perpetually violent. then one night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to himself: "now i can wait; now i can wait." the attendant came to tell me, so i ran down at once to have a look at him. he was still in the strait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone from his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading--i might almost say, "cringing"--softness. i was satisfied with his present condition, and directed him to be relieved. the attendants hesitated, but finally carried out my wishes without protest. it was a strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see their distrust, for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking furtively at them:-"they think i could hurt you! fancy _me_ hurting _you_! the fools!" it was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself dissociated even in the mind of this poor madman from the others; but all the same i do not follow his thought. am i to take it that i have anything in common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together; or has he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well-being is needful to him? i must find out later on. to-night he will not speak. even the offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt him. he will only say: "i don't take any stock in cats. i have more to think of now, and i can wait; i can wait." after a while i left him. the attendant tells me that he was quiet until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted him so that he swooned into a sort of coma. * * * * * ... three nights has the same thing happened--violent all day then quiet from moonrise to sunrise. i wish i could get some clue to the cause. it would almost seem as if there was some influence which came and went. happy thought! we shall to-night play sane wits against mad ones. he escaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with it. we shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they are required.... * * * * * _23 august._--"the unexpected always happens." how well disraeli knew life. our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our subtle arrangements were for nought. at any rate, we have proved one thing; that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time. we shall in future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each day. i have given orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded room, when once he is quiet, until an hour before sunrise. the poor soul's body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate it. hark! the unexpected again! i am called; the patient has once more escaped. * * * * * _later._--another night adventure. renfield artfully waited until the attendant was entering the room to inspect. then he dashed out past him and flew down the passage. i sent word for the attendants to follow. again he went into the grounds of the deserted house, and we found him in the same place, pressed against the old chapel door. when he saw me he became furious, and had not the attendants seized him in time, he would have tried to kill me. as we were holding him a strange thing happened. he suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as suddenly grew calm. i looked round instinctively, but could see nothing. then i caught the patient's eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked into the moonlit sky except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west. bats usually wheel and flit about, but this one seemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had some intention of its own. the patient grew calmer every instant, and presently said:-"you needn't tie me; i shall go quietly!" without trouble we came back to the house. i feel there is something ominous in his calm, and shall not forget this night.... _lucy westenra's diary_ _hillingham, 24 august._--i must imitate mina, and keep writing things down. then we can have long talks when we do meet. i wonder when it will be. i wish she were with me again, for i feel so unhappy. last night i seemed to be dreaming again just as i was at whitby. perhaps it is the change of air, or getting home again. it is all dark and horrid to me, for i can remember nothing; but i am full of vague fear, and i feel so weak and worn out. when arthur came to lunch he looked quite grieved when he saw me, and i hadn't the spirit to try to be cheerful. i wonder if i could sleep in mother's room to-night. i shall make an excuse and try. * * * * * _25 august._--another bad night. mother did not seem to take to my proposal. she seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears to worry me. i tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while; but when the clock struck twelve it waked me from a doze, so i must have been falling asleep. there was a sort of scratching or flapping at the window, but i did not mind it, and as i remember no more, i suppose i must then have fallen asleep. more bad dreams. i wish i could remember them. this morning i am horribly weak. my face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains me. it must be something wrong with my lungs, for i don't seem ever to get air enough. i shall try to cheer up when arthur comes, or else i know he will be miserable to see me so. _letter, arthur holmwood to dr. seward._ "_albemarle hotel, 31 august._ "my dear jack,-"i want you to do me a favour. lucy is ill; that is, she has no special disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every day. i have asked her if there is any cause; i do not dare to ask her mother, for to disturb the poor lady's mind about her daughter in her present state of health would be fatal. mrs. westenra has confided to me that her doom is spoken--disease of the heart--though poor lucy does not know it yet. i am sure that there is something preying on my dear girl's mind. i am almost distracted when i think of her; to look at her gives me a pang. i told her i should ask you to see her, and though she demurred at first--i know why, old fellow--she finally consented. it will be a painful task for you, i know, old friend, but it is for _her_ sake, and i must not hesitate to ask, or you to act. you are to come to lunch at hillingham to-morrow, two o'clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in mrs. westenra, and after lunch lucy will take an opportunity of being alone with you. i shall come in for tea, and we can go away together; i am filled with anxiety, and want to consult with you alone as soon as i can after you have seen her. do not fail! "arthur." _telegram, arthur holmwood to seward._ "_1 september._ "am summoned to see my father, who is worse. am writing. write me fully by to-night's post to ring. wire me if necessary." _letter from dr. seward to arthur holmwood._ "_2 september._ "my dear old fellow,-"with regard to miss westenra's health i hasten to let you know at once that in my opinion there is not any functional disturbance or any malady that i know of. at the same time, i am not by any means satisfied with her appearance; she is woefully different from what she was when i saw her last. of course you must bear in mind that i did not have full opportunity of examination such as i should wish; our very friendship makes a little difficulty which not even medical science or custom can bridge over. i had better tell you exactly what happened, leaving you to draw, in a measure, your own conclusions. i shall then say what i have done and propose doing. "i found miss westenra in seemingly gay spirits. her mother was present, and in a few seconds i made up my mind that she was trying all she knew to mislead her mother and prevent her from being anxious. i have no doubt she guesses, if she does not know, what need of caution there is. we lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful, we got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness amongst us. then mrs. westenra went to lie down, and lucy was left with me. we went into her boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained, for the servants were coming and going. as soon as the door was closed, however, the mask fell from her face, and she sank down into a chair with a great sigh, and hid her eyes with her hand. when i saw that her high spirits had failed, i at once took advantage of her reaction to make a diagnosis. she said to me very sweetly:-"'i cannot tell you how i loathe talking about myself.' i reminded her that a doctor's confidence was sacred, but that you were grievously anxious about her. she caught on to my meaning at once, and settled that matter in a word. 'tell arthur everything you choose. i do not care for myself, but all for him!' so i am quite free. "i could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but i could not see the usual anã¦mic signs, and by a chance i was actually able to test the quality of her blood, for in opening a window which was stiff a cord gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with broken glass. it was a slight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and i secured a few drops of the blood and have analysed them. the qualitative analysis gives a quite normal condition, and shows, i should infer, in itself a vigorous state of health. in other physical matters i was quite satisfied that there is no need for anxiety; but as there must be a cause somewhere, i have come to the conclusion that it must be something mental. she complains of difficulty in breathing satisfactorily at times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but regarding which she can remember nothing. she says that as a child she used to walk in her sleep, and that when in whitby the habit came back, and that once she walked out in the night and went to east cliff, where miss murray found her; but she assures me that of late the habit has not returned. i am in doubt, and so have done the best thing i know of; i have written to my old friend and master, professor van helsing, of amsterdam, who knows as much about obscure diseases as any one in the world. i have asked him to come over, and as you told me that all things were to be at your charge, i have mentioned to him who you are and your relations to miss westenra. this, my dear fellow, is in obedience to your wishes, for i am only too proud and happy to do anything i can for her. van helsing would, i know, do anything for me for a personal reason, so, no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his wishes. he is a seemingly arbitrary man, but this is because he knows what he is talking about better than any one else. he is a philosopher and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his day; and he has, i believe, an absolutely open mind. this, with an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, an indomitable resolution, self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to blessings, and the kindliest and truest heart that beats--these form his equipment for the noble work that he is doing for mankind--work both in theory and practice, for his views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. i tell you these facts that you may know why i have such confidence in him. i have asked him to come at once. i shall see miss westenra to-morrow again. she is to meet me at the stores, so that i may not alarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call. "yours always, "john seward." _letter, abraham van helsing, m. d., d. ph., d. lit., etc., etc., to dr. seward._ "_2 september._ "my good friend,-"when i have received your letter i am already coming to you. by good fortune i can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who have trusted me. were fortune other, then it were bad for those who have trusted, for i come to my friend when he call me to aid those he holds dear. tell your friend that when that time you suck from my wound so swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our other friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when he wants my aids and you call for them than all his great fortune could do. but it is pleasure added to do for him, your friend; it is to you that i come. have then rooms for me at the great eastern hotel, so that i may be near to hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the young lady not too late on to-morrow, for it is likely that i may have to return here that night. but if need be i shall come again in three days, and stay longer if it must. till then good-bye, my friend john. "van helsing." _letter, dr. seward to hon. arthur holmwood._ "_3 september._ "my dear art,-"van helsing has come and gone. he came on with me to hillingham, and found that, by lucy's discretion, her mother was lunching out, so that we were alone with her. van helsing made a very careful examination of the patient. he is to report to me, and i shall advise you, for of course i was not present all the time. he is, i fear, much concerned, but says he must think. when i told him of our friendship and how you trust to me in the matter, he said: 'you must tell him all you think. tell him what i think, if you can guess it, if you will. nay, i am not jesting. this is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.' i asked what he meant by that, for he was very serious. this was when we had come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his return to amsterdam. he would not give me any further clue. you must not be angry with me, art, because his very reticence means that all his brains are working for her good. he will speak plainly enough when the time comes, be sure. so i told him i would simply write an account of our visit, just as if i were doing a descriptive special article for _the daily telegraph_. he seemed not to notice, but remarked that the smuts in london were not quite so bad as they used to be when he was a student here. i am to get his report to-morrow if he can possibly make it. in any case i am to have a letter. "well, as to the visit. lucy was more cheerful than on the day i first saw her, and certainly looked better. she had lost something of the ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was normal. she was very sweet to the professor (as she always is), and tried to make him feel at ease; though i could see that the poor girl was making a hard struggle for it. i believe van helsing saw it, too, for i saw the quick look under his bushy brows that i knew of old. then he began to chat of all things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinite geniality that i could see poor lucy's pretense of animation merge into reality. then, without any seeming change, he brought the conversation gently round to his visit, and suavely said:-"'my dear young miss, i have the so great pleasure because you are so much beloved. that is much, my dear, ever were there that which i do not see. they told me you were down in the spirit, and that you were of a ghastly pale. to them i say: "pouf!"' and he snapped his fingers at me and went on: 'but you and i shall show them how wrong they are. how can he'--and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture as that with which once he pointed me out to his class, on, or rather after, a particular occasion which he never fails to remind me of--'know anything of a young ladies? he has his madams to play with, and to bring them back to happiness, and to those that love them. it is much to do, and, oh, but there are rewards, in that we can bestow such happiness. but the young ladies! he has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell themselves to the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many sorrows and the causes of them. so, my dear, we will send him away to smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and i have little talk all to ourselves.' i took the hint, and strolled about, and presently the professor came to the window and called me in. he looked grave, but said: 'i have made careful examination, but there is no functional cause. with you i agree that there has been much blood lost; it has been, but is not. but the conditions of her are in no way anã¦mic. i have asked her to send me her maid, that i may ask just one or two question, that so i may not chance to miss nothing. i know well what she will say. and yet there is cause; there is always cause for everything. i must go back home and think. you must send to me the telegram every day; and if there be cause i shall come again. the disease--for not to be all well is a disease--interest me, and the sweet young dear, she interest me too. she charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, i come.' "as i tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were alone. and so now, art, you know all i know. i shall keep stern watch. i trust your poor father is rallying. it must be a terrible thing to you, my dear old fellow, to be placed in such a position between two people who are both so dear to you. i know your idea of duty to your father, and you are right to stick to it; but, if need be, i shall send you word to come at once to lucy; so do not be over-anxious unless you hear from me." _dr. seward's diary._ _4 september._--zoã¶phagous patient still keeps up our interest in him. he had only one outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual time. just before the stroke of noon he began to grow restless. the attendant knew the symptoms, and at once summoned aid. fortunately the men came at a run, and were just in time, for at the stroke of noon he became so violent that it took all their strength to hold him. in about five minutes, however, he began to get more and more quiet, and finally sank into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained up to now. the attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the paroxysm were really appalling; i found my hands full when i got in, attending to some of the other patients who were frightened by him. indeed, i can quite understand the effect, for the sounds disturbed even me, though i was some distance away. it is now after the dinner-hour of the asylum, and as yet my patient sits in a corner brooding, with a dull, sullen, woe-begone look in his face, which seems rather to indicate than to show something directly. i cannot quite understand it. * * * * * _later._--another change in my patient. at five o'clock i looked in on him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be. he was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his capture by making nail-marks on the edge of the door between the ridges of padding. when he saw me, he came over and apologised for his bad conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to his own room and to have his note-book again. i thought it well to humour him: so he is back in his room with the window open. he has the sugar of his tea spread out on the window-sill, and is reaping quite a harvest of flies. he is not now eating them, but putting them into a box, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his room to find a spider. i tried to get him to talk about the past few days, for any clue to his thoughts would be of immense help to me; but he would not rise. for a moment or two he looked very sad, and said in a sort of far-away voice, as though saying it rather to himself than to me:-"all over! all over! he has deserted me. no hope for me now unless i do it for myself!" then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he said: "doctor, won't you be very good to me and let me have a little more sugar? i think it would be good for me." "and the flies?" i said. "yes! the flies like it, too, and i like the flies; therefore i like it." and there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do not argue. i procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a man as, i suppose, any in the world. i wish i could fathom his mind. * * * * * _midnight._--another change in him. i had been to see miss westenra, whom i found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at our own gate looking at the sunset, when once more i heard him yelling. as his room is on this side of the house, i could hear it better than in the morning. it was a shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky beauty of a sunset over london, with its lurid lights and inky shadows and all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds even as on foul water, and to realise all the grim sternness of my own cold stone building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own desolate heart to endure it all. i reached him just as the sun was going down, and from his window saw the red disc sink. as it sank he became less and less frenzied; and just as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an inert mass, on the floor. it is wonderful, however, what intellectual recuperative power lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood up quite calmly and looked around him. i signalled to the attendants not to hold him, for i was anxious to see what he would do. he went straight over to the window and brushed out the crumbs of sugar; then he took his fly-box, and emptied it outside, and threw away the box; then he shut the window, and crossing over, sat down on his bed. all this surprised me, so i asked him: "are you not going to keep flies any more?" "no," said he; "i am sick of all that rubbish!" he certainly is a wonderfully interesting study. i wish i could get some glimpse of his mind or of the cause of his sudden passion. stop; there may be a clue after all, if we can find why to-day his paroxysms came on at high noon and at sunset. can it be that there is a malign influence of the sun at periods which affects certain natures--as at times the moon does others? we shall see. _telegram, seward, london, to van helsing, amsterdam._ "_4 september._--patient still better to-day." _telegram, seward, london, to van helsing, amsterdam._ "_5 september._--patient greatly improved. good appetite; sleeps naturally; good spirits; colour coming back." _telegram, seward, london, to van helsing, amsterdam._ "_6 september._--terrible change for the worse. come at once; do not lose an hour. i hold over telegram to holmwood till have seen you." chapter x _letter, dr. seward to hon. arthur holmwood._ "_6 september._ "my dear art,-"my news to-day is not so good. lucy this morning had gone back a bit. there is, however, one good thing which has arisen from it; mrs. westenra was naturally anxious concerning lucy, and has consulted me professionally about her. i took advantage of the opportunity, and told her that my old master, van helsing, the great specialist, was coming to stay with me, and that i would put her in his charge conjointly with myself; so now we can come and go without alarming her unduly, for a shock to her would mean sudden death, and this, in lucy's weak condition, might be disastrous to her. we are hedged in with difficulties, all of us, my poor old fellow; but, please god, we shall come through them all right. if any need i shall write, so that, if you do not hear from me, take it for granted that i am simply waiting for news. in haste yours ever, "john seward." _dr. seward's diary._ _7 september._--the first thing van helsing said to me when we met at liverpool street was:-"have you said anything to our young friend the lover of her?" "no," i said. "i waited till i had seen you, as i said in my telegram. i wrote him a letter simply telling him that you were coming, as miss westenra was not so well, and that i should let him know if need be." "right, my friend," he said, "quite right! better he not know as yet; perhaps he shall never know. i pray so; but if it be needed, then he shall know all. and, my good friend john, let me caution you. you deal with the madmen. all men are mad in some way or the other; and inasmuch as you deal discreetly with your madmen, so deal with god's madmen, too--the rest of the world. you tell not your madmen what you do nor why you do it; you tell them not what you think. so you shall keep knowledge in its place, where it may rest--where it may gather its kind around it and breed. you and i shall keep as yet what we know here, and here." he touched me on the heart and on the forehead, and then touched himself the same way. "i have for myself thoughts at the present. later i shall unfold to you." "why not now?" i asked. "it may do some good; we may arrive at some decision." he stopped and looked at me, and said:-"my friend john, when the corn is grown, even before it has ripened--while the milk of its mother-earth is in him, and the sunshine has not yet begun to paint him with his gold, the husbandman he pull the ear and rub him between his rough hands, and blow away the green chaff, and say to you: 'look! he's good corn; he will make good crop when the time comes.'" i did not see the application, and told him so. for reply he reached over and took my ear in his hand and pulled it playfully, as he used long ago to do at lectures, and said: "the good husbandman tell you so then because he knows, but not till then. but you do not find the good husbandman dig up his planted corn to see if he grow; that is for the children who play at husbandry, and not for those who take it as of the work of their life. see you now, friend john? i have sown my corn, and nature has her work to do in making it sprout; if he sprout at all, there's some promise; and i wait till the ear begins to swell." he broke off, for he evidently saw that i understood. then he went on, and very gravely:-"you were always a careful student, and your case-book was ever more full than the rest. you were only student then; now you are master, and i trust that good habit have not fail. remember, my friend, that knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker. even if you have not kept the good practise, let me tell you that this case of our dear miss is one that may be--mind, i say _may be_--of such interest to us and others that all the rest may not make him kick the beam, as your peoples say. take then good note of it. nothing is too small. i counsel you, put down in record even your doubts and surmises. hereafter it may be of interest to you to see how true you guess. we learn from failure, not from success!" when i described lucy's symptoms--the same as before, but infinitely more marked--he looked very grave, but said nothing. he took with him a bag in which were many instruments and drugs, "the ghastly paraphernalia of our beneficial trade," as he once called, in one of his lectures, the equipment of a professor of the healing craft. when we were shown in, mrs. westenra met us. she was alarmed, but not nearly so much as i expected to find her. nature in one of her beneficent moods has ordained that even death has some antidote to its own terrors. here, in a case where any shock may prove fatal, matters are so ordered that, from some cause or other, the things not personal--even the terrible change in her daughter to whom she is so attached--do not seem to reach her. it is something like the way dame nature gathers round a foreign body an envelope of some insensitive tissue which can protect from evil that which it would otherwise harm by contact. if this be an ordered selfishness, then we should pause before we condemn any one for the vice of egoism, for there may be deeper root for its causes than we have knowledge of. i used my knowledge of this phase of spiritual pathology, and laid down a rule that she should not be present with lucy or think of her illness more than was absolutely required. she assented readily, so readily that i saw again the hand of nature fighting for life. van helsing and i were shown up to lucy's room. if i was shocked when i saw her yesterday, i was horrified when i saw her to-day. she was ghastly, chalkily pale; the red seemed to have gone even from her lips and gums, and the bones of her face stood out prominently; her breathing was painful to see or hear. van helsing's face grew set as marble, and his eyebrows converged till they almost touched over his nose. lucy lay motionless, and did not seem to have strength to speak, so for a while we were all silent. then van helsing beckoned to me, and we went gently out of the room. the instant we had closed the door he stepped quickly along the passage to the next door, which was open. then he pulled me quickly in with him and closed the door. "my god!" he said; "this is dreadful. there is no time to be lost. she will die for sheer want of blood to keep the heart's action as it should be. there must be transfusion of blood at once. is it you or me?" "i am younger and stronger, professor. it must be me." "then get ready at once. i will bring up my bag. i am prepared." i went downstairs with him, and as we were going there was a knock at the hall-door. when we reached the hall the maid had just opened the door, and arthur was stepping quickly in. he rushed up to me, saying in an eager whisper:-"jack, i was so anxious. i read between the lines of your letter, and have been in an agony. the dad was better, so i ran down here to see for myself. is not that gentleman dr. van helsing? i am so thankful to you, sir, for coming." when first the professor's eye had lit upon him he had been angry at his interruption at such a time; but now, as he took in his stalwart proportions and recognised the strong young manhood which seemed to emanate from him, his eyes gleamed. without a pause he said to him gravely as he held out his hand:-"sir, you have come in time. you are the lover of our dear miss. she is bad, very, very bad. nay, my child, do not go like that." for he suddenly grew pale and sat down in a chair almost fainting. "you are to help her. you can do more than any that live, and your courage is your best help." "what can i do?" asked arthur hoarsely. "tell me, and i shall do it. my life is hers, and i would give the last drop of blood in my body for her." the professor has a strongly humorous side, and i could from old knowledge detect a trace of its origin in his answer:-"my young sir, i do not ask so much as that--not the last!" "what shall i do?" there was fire in his eyes, and his open nostril quivered with intent. van helsing slapped him on the shoulder. "come!" he said. "you are a man, and it is a man we want. you are better than me, better than my friend john." arthur looked bewildered, and the professor went on by explaining in a kindly way:-"young miss is bad, very bad. she wants blood, and blood she must have or die. my friend john and i have consulted; and we are about to perform what we call transfusion of blood--to transfer from full veins of one to the empty veins which pine for him. john was to give his blood, as he is the more young and strong than me"--here arthur took my hand and wrung it hard in silence--"but, now you are here, you are more good than us, old or young, who toil much in the world of thought. our nerves are not so calm and our blood not so bright than yours!" arthur turned to him and said:-"if you only knew how gladly i would die for her you would understand----" he stopped, with a sort of choke in his voice. "good boy!" said van helsing. "in the not-so-far-off you will be happy that you have done all for her you love. come now and be silent. you shall kiss her once before it is done, but then you must go; and you must leave at my sign. say no word to madame; you know how it is with her! there must be no shock; any knowledge of this would be one. come!" we all went up to lucy's room. arthur by direction remained outside. lucy turned her head and looked at us, but said nothing. she was not asleep, but she was simply too weak to make the effort. her eyes spoke to us; that was all. van helsing took some things from his bag and laid them on a little table out of sight. then he mixed a narcotic, and coming over to the bed, said cheerily:-"now, little miss, here is your medicine. drink it off, like a good child. see, i lift you so that to swallow is easy. yes." she had made the effort with success. it astonished me how long the drug took to act. this, in fact, marked the extent of her weakness. the time seemed endless until sleep began to flicker in her eyelids. at last, however, the narcotic began to manifest its potency; and she fell into a deep sleep. when the professor was satisfied he called arthur into the room, and bade him strip off his coat. then he added: "you may take that one little kiss whiles i bring over the table. friend john, help to me!" so neither of us looked whilst he bent over her. van helsing turning to me, said: "he is so young and strong and of blood so pure that we need not defibrinate it." then with swiftness, but with absolute method, van helsing performed the operation. as the transfusion went on something like life seemed to come back to poor lucy's cheeks, and through arthur's growing pallor the joy of his face seemed absolutely to shine. after a bit i began to grow anxious, for the loss of blood was telling on arthur, strong man as he was. it gave me an idea of what a terrible strain lucy's system must have undergone that what weakened arthur only partially restored her. but the professor's face was set, and he stood watch in hand and with his eyes fixed now on the patient and now on arthur. i could hear my own heart beat. presently he said in a soft voice: "do not stir an instant. it is enough. you attend him; i will look to her." when all was over i could see how much arthur was weakened. i dressed the wound and took his arm to bring him away, when van helsing spoke without turning round--the man seems to have eyes in the back of his head:-"the brave lover, i think, deserve another kiss, which he shall have presently." and as he had now finished his operation, he adjusted the pillow to the patient's head. as he did so the narrow black velvet band which she seems always to wear round her throat, buckled with an old diamond buckle which her lover had given her, was dragged a little up, and showed a red mark on her throat. arthur did not notice it, but i could hear the deep hiss of indrawn breath which is one of van helsing's ways of betraying emotion. he said nothing at the moment, but turned to me, saying: "now take down our brave young lover, give him of the port wine, and let him lie down a while. he must then go home and rest, sleep much and eat much, that he may be recruited of what he has so given to his love. he must not stay here. hold! a moment. i may take it, sir, that you are anxious of result. then bring it with you that in all ways the operation is successful. you have saved her life this time, and you can go home and rest easy in mind that all that can be is. i shall tell her all when she is well; she shall love you none the less for what you have done. good-bye." when arthur had gone i went back to the room. lucy was sleeping gently, but her breathing was stronger; i could see the counterpane move as her breast heaved. by the bedside sat van helsing, looking at her intently. the velvet band again covered the red mark. i asked the professor in a whisper:-"what do you make of that mark on her throat?" "what do you make of it?" "i have not examined it yet," i answered, and then and there proceeded to loose the band. just over the external jugular vein there were two punctures, not large, but not wholesome-looking. there was no sign of disease, but the edges were white and worn-looking, as if by some trituration. it at once occurred to me that this wound, or whatever it was, might be the means of that manifest loss of blood; but i abandoned the idea as soon as formed, for such a thing could not be. the whole bed would have been drenched to a scarlet with the blood which the girl must have lost to leave such a pallor as she had before the transfusion. "well?" said van helsing. "well," said i, "i can make nothing of it." the professor stood up. "i must go back to amsterdam to-night," he said. "there are books and things there which i want. you must remain here all the night, and you must not let your sight pass from her." "shall i have a nurse?" i asked. "we are the best nurses, you and i. you keep watch all night; see that she is well fed, and that nothing disturbs her. you must not sleep all the night. later on we can sleep, you and i. i shall be back as soon as possible. and then we may begin." "may begin?" i said. "what on earth do you mean?" "we shall see!" he answered, as he hurried out. he came back a moment later and put his head inside the door and said with warning finger held up:-"remember, she is your charge. if you leave her, and harm befall, you shall not sleep easy hereafter!" _dr. seward's diary--continued._ _8 september._--i sat up all night with lucy. the opiate worked itself off towards dusk, and she waked naturally; she looked a different being from what she had been before the operation. her spirits even were good, and she was full of a happy vivacity, but i could see evidences of the absolute prostration which she had undergone. when i told mrs. westenra that dr. van helsing had directed that i should sit up with her she almost pooh-poohed the idea, pointing out her daughter's renewed strength and excellent spirits. i was firm, however, and made preparations for my long vigil. when her maid had prepared her for the night i came in, having in the meantime had supper, and took a seat by the bedside. she did not in any way make objection, but looked at me gratefully whenever i caught her eye. after a long spell she seemed sinking off to sleep, but with an effort seemed to pull herself together and shook it off. this was repeated several times, with greater effort and with shorter pauses as the time moved on. it was apparent that she did not want to sleep, so i tackled the subject at once:-"you do not want to go to sleep?" "no; i am afraid." "afraid to go to sleep! why so? it is the boon we all crave for." "ah, not if you were like me--if sleep was to you a presage of horror!" "a presage of horror! what on earth do you mean?" "i don't know; oh, i don't know. and that is what is so terrible. all this weakness comes to me in sleep; until i dread the very thought." "but, my dear girl, you may sleep to-night. i am here watching you, and i can promise that nothing will happen." "ah, i can trust you!" i seized the opportunity, and said: "i promise you that if i see any evidence of bad dreams i will wake you at once." "you will? oh, will you really? how good you are to me. then i will sleep!" and almost at the word she gave a deep sigh of relief, and sank back, asleep. all night long i watched by her. she never stirred, but slept on and on in a deep, tranquil, life-giving, health-giving sleep. her lips were slightly parted, and her breast rose and fell with the regularity of a pendulum. there was a smile on her face, and it was evident that no bad dreams had come to disturb her peace of mind. in the early morning her maid came, and i left her in her care and took myself back home, for i was anxious about many things. i sent a short wire to van helsing and to arthur, telling them of the excellent result of the operation. my own work, with its manifold arrears, took me all day to clear off; it was dark when i was able to inquire about my zoã¶phagous patient. the report was good; he had been quite quiet for the past day and night. a telegram came from van helsing at amsterdam whilst i was at dinner, suggesting that i should be at hillingham to-night, as it might be well to be at hand, and stating that he was leaving by the night mail and would join me early in the morning. * * * * * _9 september_.--i was pretty tired and worn out when i got to hillingham. for two nights i had hardly had a wink of sleep, and my brain was beginning to feel that numbness which marks cerebral exhaustion. lucy was up and in cheerful spirits. when she shook hands with me she looked sharply in my face and said:-"no sitting up to-night for you. you are worn out. i am quite well again; indeed, i am; and if there is to be any sitting up, it is i who will sit up with you." i would not argue the point, but went and had my supper. lucy came with me, and, enlivened by her charming presence, i made an excellent meal, and had a couple of glasses of the more than excellent port. then lucy took me upstairs, and showed me a room next her own, where a cozy fire was burning. "now," she said, "you must stay here. i shall leave this door open and my door too. you can lie on the sofa for i know that nothing would induce any of you doctors to go to bed whilst there is a patient above the horizon. if i want anything i shall call out, and you can come to me at once." i could not but acquiesce, for i was "dog-tired," and could not have sat up had i tried. so, on her renewing her promise to call me if she should want anything, i lay on the sofa, and forgot all about everything. _lucy westenra's diary._ _9 september._--i feel so happy to-night. i have been so miserably weak, that to be able to think and move about is like feeling sunshine after a long spell of east wind out of a steel sky. somehow arthur feels very, very close to me. i seem to feel his presence warm about me. i suppose it is that sickness and weakness are selfish things and turn our inner eyes and sympathy on ourselves, whilst health and strength give love rein, and in thought and feeling he can wander where he wills. i know where my thoughts are. if arthur only knew! my dear, my dear, your ears must tingle as you sleep, as mine do waking. oh, the blissful rest of last night! how i slept, with that dear, good dr. seward watching me. and to-night i shall not fear to sleep, since he is close at hand and within call. thank everybody for being so good to me! thank god! good-night, arthur. _dr. seward's diary._ _10 september._--i was conscious of the professor's hand on my head, and started awake all in a second. that is one of the things that we learn in an asylum, at any rate. "and how is our patient?" "well, when i left her, or rather when she left me," i answered. "come, let us see," he said. and together we went into the room. the blind was down, and i went over to raise it gently, whilst van helsing stepped, with his soft, cat-like tread, over to the bed. as i raised the blind, and the morning sunlight flooded the room, i heard the professor's low hiss of inspiration, and knowing its rarity, a deadly fear shot through my heart. as i passed over he moved back, and his exclamation of horror, "gott in himmel!" needed no enforcement from his agonised face. he raised his hand and pointed to the bed, and his iron face was drawn and ashen white. i felt my knees begin to tremble. there on the bed, seemingly in a swoon, lay poor lucy, more horribly white and wan-looking than ever. even the lips were white, and the gums seemed to have shrunken back from the teeth, as we sometimes see in a corpse after a prolonged illness. van helsing raised his foot to stamp in anger, but the instinct of his life and all the long years of habit stood to him, and he put it down again softly. "quick!" he said. "bring the brandy." i flew to the dining-room, and returned with the decanter. he wetted the poor white lips with it, and together we rubbed palm and wrist and heart. he felt her heart, and after a few moments of agonising suspense said:-"it is not too late. it beats, though but feebly. all our work is undone; we must begin again. there is no young arthur here now; i have to call on you yourself this time, friend john." as he spoke, he was dipping into his bag and producing the instruments for transfusion; i had taken off my coat and rolled up my shirt-sleeve. there was no possibility of an opiate just at present, and no need of one; and so, without a moment's delay, we began the operation. after a time--it did not seem a short time either, for the draining away of one's blood, no matter how willingly it be given, is a terrible feeling--van helsing held up a warning finger. "do not stir," he said, "but i fear that with growing strength she may wake; and that would make danger, oh, so much danger. but i shall precaution take. i shall give hypodermic injection of morphia." he proceeded then, swiftly and deftly, to carry out his intent. the effect on lucy was not bad, for the faint seemed to merge subtly into the narcotic sleep. it was with a feeling of personal pride that i could see a faint tinge of colour steal back into the pallid cheeks and lips. no man knows, till he experiences it, what it is to feel his own life-blood drawn away into the veins of the woman he loves. the professor watched me critically. "that will do," he said. "already?" i remonstrated. "you took a great deal more from art." to which he smiled a sad sort of smile as he replied:-"he is her lover, her _fiancã©_. you have work, much work, to do for her and for others; and the present will suffice." when we stopped the operation, he attended to lucy, whilst i applied digital pressure to my own incision. i laid down, whilst i waited his leisure to attend to me, for i felt faint and a little sick. by-and-by he bound up my wound, and sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine for myself. as i was leaving the room, he came after me, and half whispered:-"mind, nothing must be said of this. if our young lover should turn up unexpected, as before, no word to him. it would at once frighten him and enjealous him, too. there must be none. so!" when i came back he looked at me carefully, and then said:-"you are not much the worse. go into the room, and lie on your sofa, and rest awhile; then have much breakfast, and come here to me." i followed out his orders, for i knew how right and wise they were. i had done my part, and now my next duty was to keep up my strength. i felt very weak, and in the weakness lost something of the amazement at what had occurred. i fell asleep on the sofa, however, wondering over and over again how lucy had made such a retrograde movement, and how she could have been drained of so much blood with no sign anywhere to show for it. i think i must have continued my wonder in my dreams, for, sleeping and waking, my thoughts always came back to the little punctures in her throat and the ragged, exhausted appearance of their edges--tiny though they were. lucy slept well into the day, and when she woke she was fairly well and strong, though not nearly so much so as the day before. when van helsing had seen her, he went out for a walk, leaving me in charge, with strict injunctions that i was not to leave her for a moment. i could hear his voice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest telegraph office. lucy chatted with me freely, and seemed quite unconscious that anything had happened. i tried to keep her amused and interested. when her mother came up to see her, she did not seem to notice any change whatever, but said to me gratefully:-"we owe you so much, dr. seward, for all you have done, but you really must now take care not to overwork yourself. you are looking pale yourself. you want a wife to nurse and look after you a bit; that you do!" as she spoke, lucy turned crimson, though it was only momentarily, for her poor wasted veins could not stand for long such an unwonted drain to the head. the reaction came in excessive pallor as she turned imploring eyes on me. i smiled and nodded, and laid my finger on my lips; with a sigh, she sank back amid her pillows. van helsing returned in a couple of hours, and presently said to me: "now you go home, and eat much and drink enough. make yourself strong. i stay here to-night, and i shall sit up with little miss myself. you and i must watch the case, and we must have none other to know. i have grave reasons. no, do not ask them; think what you will. do not fear to think even the most not-probable. good-night." in the hall two of the maids came to me, and asked if they or either of them might not sit up with miss lucy. they implored me to let them; and when i said it was dr. van helsing's wish that either he or i should sit up, they asked me quite piteously to intercede with the "foreign gentleman." i was much touched by their kindness. perhaps it is because i am weak at present, and perhaps because it was on lucy's account, that their devotion was manifested; for over and over again have i seen similar instances of woman's kindness. i got back here in time for a late dinner; went my rounds--all well; and set this down whilst waiting for sleep. it is coming. * * * * * _11 september._--this afternoon i went over to hillingham. found van helsing in excellent spirits, and lucy much better. shortly after i had arrived, a big parcel from abroad came for the professor. he opened it with much impressment--assumed, of course--and showed a great bundle of white flowers. "these are for you, miss lucy," he said. "for me? oh, dr. van helsing!" "yes, my dear, but not for you to play with. these are medicines." here lucy made a wry face. "nay, but they are not to take in a decoction or in nauseous form, so you need not snub that so charming nose, or i shall point out to my friend arthur what woes he may have to endure in seeing so much beauty that he so loves so much distort. aha, my pretty miss, that bring the so nice nose all straight again. this is medicinal, but you do not know how. i put him in your window, i make pretty wreath, and hang him round your neck, so that you sleep well. oh yes! they, like the lotus flower, make your trouble forgotten. it smell so like the waters of lethe, and of that fountain of youth that the conquistadores sought for in the floridas, and find him all too late." whilst he was speaking, lucy had been examining the flowers and smelling them. now she threw them down, saying, with half-laughter, and half-disgust:-"oh, professor, i believe you are only putting up a joke on me. why, these flowers are only common garlic." to my surprise, van helsing rose up and said with all his sternness, his iron jaw set and his bushy eyebrows meeting:-"no trifling with me! i never jest! there is grim purpose in all i do; and i warn you that you do not thwart me. take care, for the sake of others if not for your own." then seeing poor lucy scared, as she might well be, he went on more gently: "oh, little miss, my dear, do not fear me. i only do for your good; but there is much virtue to you in those so common flowers. see, i place them myself in your room. i make myself the wreath that you are to wear. but hush! no telling to others that make so inquisitive questions. we must obey, and silence is a part of obedience; and obedience is to bring you strong and well into loving arms that wait for you. now sit still awhile. come with me, friend john, and you shall help me deck the room with my garlic, which is all the way from haarlem, where my friend vanderpool raise herb in his glass-houses all the year. i had to telegraph yesterday, or they would not have been here." we went into the room, taking the flowers with us. the professor's actions were certainly odd and not to be found in any pharmacopoeia that i ever heard of. first he fastened up the windows and latched them securely; next, taking a handful of the flowers, he rubbed them all over the sashes, as though to ensure that every whiff of air that might get in would be laden with the garlic smell. then with the wisp he rubbed all over the jamb of the door, above, below, and at each side, and round the fireplace in the same way. it all seemed grotesque to me, and presently i said:-"well, professor, i know you always have a reason for what you do, but this certainly puzzles me. it is well we have no sceptic here, or he would say that you were working some spell to keep out an evil spirit." "perhaps i am!" he answered quietly as he began to make the wreath which lucy was to wear round her neck. we then waited whilst lucy made her toilet for the night, and when she was in bed he came and himself fixed the wreath of garlic round her neck. the last words he said to her were:-"take care you do not disturb it; and even if the room feel close, do not to-night open the window or the door." "i promise," said lucy, "and thank you both a thousand times for all your kindness to me! oh, what have i done to be blessed with such friends?" as we left the house in my fly, which was waiting, van helsing said:-"to-night i can sleep in peace, and sleep i want--two nights of travel, much reading in the day between, and much anxiety on the day to follow, and a night to sit up, without to wink. to-morrow in the morning early you call for me, and we come together to see our pretty miss, so much more strong for my 'spell' which i have work. ho! ho!" he seemed so confident that i, remembering my own confidence two nights before and with the baneful result, felt awe and vague terror. it must have been my weakness that made me hesitate to tell it to my friend, but i felt it all the more, like unshed tears. chapter xi _lucy westenra's diary._ _12 september._--how good they all are to me. i quite love that dear dr. van helsing. i wonder why he was so anxious about these flowers. he positively frightened me, he was so fierce. and yet he must have been right, for i feel comfort from them already. somehow, i do not dread being alone to-night, and i can go to sleep without fear. i shall not mind any flapping outside the window. oh, the terrible struggle that i have had against sleep so often of late; the pain of the sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, with such unknown horrors as it has for me! how blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams. well, here i am to-night, hoping for sleep, and lying like ophelia in the play, with "virgin crants and maiden strewments." i never liked garlic before, but to-night it is delightful! there is peace in its smell; i feel sleep coming already. good-night, everybody. _dr. seward's diary._ _13 september._--called at the berkeley and found van helsing, as usual, up to time. the carriage ordered from the hotel was waiting. the professor took his bag, which he always brings with him now. let all be put down exactly. van helsing and i arrived at hillingham at eight o'clock. it was a lovely morning; the bright sunshine and all the fresh feeling of early autumn seemed like the completion of nature's annual work. the leaves were turning to all kinds of beautiful colours, but had not yet begun to drop from the trees. when we entered we met mrs. westenra coming out of the morning room. she is always an early riser. she greeted us warmly and said:-"you will be glad to know that lucy is better. the dear child is still asleep. i looked into her room and saw her, but did not go in, lest i should disturb her." the professor smiled, and looked quite jubilant. he rubbed his hands together, and said:-"aha! i thought i had diagnosed the case. my treatment is working," to which she answered:-"you must not take all the credit to yourself, doctor. lucy's state this morning is due in part to me." "how you do mean, ma'am?" asked the professor. "well, i was anxious about the dear child in the night, and went into her room. she was sleeping soundly--so soundly that even my coming did not wake her. but the room was awfully stuffy. there were a lot of those horrible, strong-smelling flowers about everywhere, and she had actually a bunch of them round her neck. i feared that the heavy odour would be too much for the dear child in her weak state, so i took them all away and opened a bit of the window to let in a little fresh air. you will be pleased with her, i am sure." she moved off into her boudoir, where she usually breakfasted early. as she had spoken, i watched the professor's face, and saw it turn ashen grey. he had been able to retain his self-command whilst the poor lady was present, for he knew her state and how mischievous a shock would be; he actually smiled on her as he held open the door for her to pass into her room. but the instant she had disappeared he pulled me, suddenly and forcibly, into the dining-room and closed the door. then, for the first time in my life, i saw van helsing break down. he raised his hands over his head in a sort of mute despair, and then beat his palms together in a helpless way; finally he sat down on a chair, and putting his hands before his face, began to sob, with loud, dry sobs that seemed to come from the very racking of his heart. then he raised his arms again, as though appealing to the whole universe. "god! god! god!" he said. "what have we done, what has this poor thing done, that we are so sore beset? is there fate amongst us still, sent down from the pagan world of old, that such things must be, and in such way? this poor mother, all unknowing, and all for the best as she think, does such thing as lose her daughter body and soul; and we must not tell her, we must not even warn her, or she die, and then both die. oh, how we are beset! how are all the powers of the devils against us!" suddenly he jumped to his feet. "come," he said, "come, we must see and act. devils or no devils, or all the devils at once, it matters not; we fight him all the same." he went to the hall-door for his bag; and together we went up to lucy's room. once again i drew up the blind, whilst van helsing went towards the bed. this time he did not start as he looked on the poor face with the same awful, waxen pallor as before. he wore a look of stern sadness and infinite pity. "as i expected," he murmured, with that hissing inspiration of his which meant so much. without a word he went and locked the door, and then began to set out on the little table the instruments for yet another operation of transfusion of blood. i had long ago recognised the necessity, and begun to take off my coat, but he stopped me with a warning hand. "no!" he said. "to-day you must operate. i shall provide. you are weakened already." as he spoke he took off his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeve. again the operation; again the narcotic; again some return of colour to the ashy cheeks, and the regular breathing of healthy sleep. this time i watched whilst van helsing recruited himself and rested. presently he took an opportunity of telling mrs. westenra that she must not remove anything from lucy's room without consulting him; that the flowers were of medicinal value, and that the breathing of their odour was a part of the system of cure. then he took over the care of the case himself, saying that he would watch this night and the next and would send me word when to come. after another hour lucy waked from her sleep, fresh and bright and seemingly not much the worse for her terrible ordeal. what does it all mean? i am beginning to wonder if my long habit of life amongst the insane is beginning to tell upon my own brain. _lucy westenra's diary._ _17 september._--four days and nights of peace. i am getting so strong again that i hardly know myself. it is as if i had passed through some long nightmare, and had just awakened to see the beautiful sunshine and feel the fresh air of the morning around me. i have a dim half-remembrance of long, anxious times of waiting and fearing; darkness in which there was not even the pain of hope to make present distress more poignant: and then long spells of oblivion, and the rising back to life as a diver coming up through a great press of water. since, however, dr. van helsing has been with me, all this bad dreaming seems to have passed away; the noises that used to frighten me out of my wits--the flapping against the windows, the distant voices which seemed so close to me, the harsh sounds that came from i know not where and commanded me to do i know not what--have all ceased. i go to bed now without any fear of sleep. i do not even try to keep awake. i have grown quite fond of the garlic, and a boxful arrives for me every day from haarlem. to-night dr. van helsing is going away, as he has to be for a day in amsterdam. but i need not be watched; i am well enough to be left alone. thank god for mother's sake, and dear arthur's, and for all our friends who have been so kind! i shall not even feel the change, for last night dr. van helsing slept in his chair a lot of the time. i found him asleep twice when i awoke; but i did not fear to go to sleep again, although the boughs or bats or something napped almost angrily against the window-panes. _"the pall mall gazette," 18 september._ the escaped wolf. perilous adventure of our interviewer. _interview with the keeper in the zoã¶logical gardens._ after many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetually using the words "pall mall gazette" as a sort of talisman, i managed to find the keeper of the section of the zoã¶logical gardens in which the wolf department is included. thomas bilder lives in one of the cottages in the enclosure behind the elephant-house, and was just sitting down to his tea when i found him. thomas and his wife are hospitable folk, elderly, and without children, and if the specimen i enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average kind, their lives must be pretty comfortable. the keeper would not enter on what he called "business" until the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. then when the table was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said:-"now, sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. you'll excoose me refoosin' to talk of perfeshunal subjects afore meals. i gives the wolves and the jackals and the hyenas in all our section their tea afore i begins to arsk them questions." "how do you mean, ask them questions?" i queried, wishful to get him into a talkative humour. "'ittin' of them over the 'ead with a pole is one way; scratchin' of their hears is another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf to their gals. i don't so much mind the fust--the 'ittin' with a pole afore i chucks in their dinner; but i waits till they've 'ad their sherry and kawffee, so to speak, afore i tries on with the ear-scratchin'. mind you," he added philosophically, "there's a deal of the same nature in us as in them theer animiles. here's you a-comin' and arskin' of me questions about my business, and i that grumpy-like that only for your bloomin' 'arf-quid i'd 'a' seen you blowed fust 'fore i'd answer. not even when you arsked me sarcastic-like if i'd like you to arsk the superintendent if you might arsk me questions. without offence did i tell yer to go to 'ell?" "you did." "an' when you said you'd report me for usin' of obscene language that was 'ittin' me over the 'ead; but the 'arf-quid made that all right. i weren't a-goin' to fight, so i waited for the food, and did with my 'owl as the wolves, and lions, and tigers does. but, lor' love yer 'art, now that the old 'ooman has stuck a chunk of her tea-cake in me, an' rinsed me out with her bloomin' old teapot, and i've lit hup, you may scratch my ears for all you're worth, and won't git even a growl out of me. drive along with your questions. i know what yer a-comin' at, that 'ere escaped wolf." "exactly. i want you to give me your view of it. just tell me how it happened; and when i know the facts i'll get you to say what you consider was the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair will end." "all right, guv'nor. this 'ere is about the 'ole story. that 'ere wolf what we called bersicker was one of three grey ones that came from norway to jamrach's, which we bought off him four years ago. he was a nice well-behaved wolf, that never gave no trouble to talk of. i'm more surprised at 'im for wantin' to get out nor any other animile in the place. but, there, you can't trust wolves no more nor women." "don't you mind him, sir!" broke in mrs. tom, with a cheery laugh. "'e's got mindin' the animiles so long that blest if he ain't like a old wolf 'isself! but there ain't no 'arm in 'im." "well, sir, it was about two hours after feedin' yesterday when i first hear my disturbance. i was makin' up a litter in the monkey-house for a young puma which is ill; but when i heard the yelpin' and 'owlin' i kem away straight. there was bersicker a-tearin' like a mad thing at the bars as if he wanted to get out. there wasn't much people about that day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with a 'ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin' through it. he had a 'ard, cold look and red eyes, and i took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was 'im as they was hirritated at. he 'ad white kid gloves on 'is 'ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me and says: 'keeper, these wolves seem upset at something.' "'maybe it's you,' says i, for i did not like the airs as he give 'isself. he didn't git angry, as i 'oped he would, but he smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. 'oh no, they wouldn't like me,' 'e says. "'ow yes, they would,' says i, a-imitatin' of him. 'they always likes a bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea-time, which you 'as a bagful.' "well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin' they lay down, and when i went over to bersicker he let me stroke his ears same as ever. that there man kem over, and blessed but if he didn't put in his hand and stroke the old wolf's ears too! "'tyke care,' says i. 'bersicker is quick.' "'never mind,' he says. 'i'm used to 'em!' "'are you in the business yourself?' i says, tyking off my 'at, for a man what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good friend to keepers. "'no' says he, 'not exactly in the business, but i 'ave made pets of several.' and with that he lifts his 'at as perlite as a lord, and walks away. old bersicker kep' a-lookin' arter 'im till 'e was out of sight, and then went and lay down in a corner and wouldn't come hout the 'ole hevening. well, larst night, so soon as the moon was hup, the wolves here all began a-'owling. there warn't nothing for them to 'owl at. there warn't no one near, except some one that was evidently a-callin' a dog somewheres out back of the gardings in the park road. once or twice i went out to see that all was right, and it was, and then the 'owling stopped. just before twelve o'clock i just took a look round afore turnin' in, an', bust me, but when i kem opposite to old bersicker's cage i see the rails broken and twisted about and the cage empty. and that's all i know for certing." "did any one else see anything?" "one of our gard'ners was a-comin' 'ome about that time from a 'armony, when he sees a big grey dog comin' out through the garding 'edges. at least, so he says, but i don't give much for it myself, for if he did 'e never said a word about it to his missis when 'e got 'ome, and it was only after the escape of the wolf was made known, and we had been up all night-a-huntin' of the park for bersicker, that he remembered seein' anything. my own belief was that the 'armony 'ad got into his 'ead." "now, mr. bilder, can you account in any way for the escape of the wolf?" "well, sir," he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, "i think i can; but i don't know as 'ow you'd be satisfied with the theory." "certainly i shall. if a man like you, who knows the animals from experience, can't hazard a good guess at any rate, who is even to try?" "well then, sir, i accounts for it this way; it seems to me that 'ere wolf escaped--simply because he wanted to get out." from the hearty way that both thomas and his wife laughed at the joke i could see that it had done service before, and that the whole explanation was simply an elaborate sell. i couldn't cope in badinage with the worthy thomas, but i thought i knew a surer way to his heart, so i said:-"now, mr. bilder, we'll consider that first half-sovereign worked off, and this brother of his is waiting to be claimed when you've told me what you think will happen." "right y'are, sir," he said briskly. "ye'll excoose me, i know, for a-chaffin' of ye, but the old woman here winked at me, which was as much as telling me to go on." "well, i never!" said the old lady. "my opinion is this: that 'ere wolf is a-'idin' of, somewheres. the gard'ner wot didn't remember said he was a-gallopin' northward faster than a horse could go; but i don't believe him, for, yer see, sir, wolves don't gallop no more nor dogs does, they not bein' built that way. wolves is fine things in a storybook, and i dessay when they gets in packs and does be chivyin' somethin' that's more afeared than they is they can make a devil of a noise and chop it up, whatever it is. but, lor' bless you, in real life a wolf is only a low creature, not half so clever or bold as a good dog; and not half a quarter so much fight in 'im. this one ain't been used to fightin' or even to providin' for hisself, and more like he's somewhere round the park a-'idin' an' a-shiverin' of, and, if he thinks at all, wonderin' where he is to get his breakfast from; or maybe he's got down some area and is in a coal-cellar. my eye, won't some cook get a rum start when she sees his green eyes a-shining at her out of the dark! if he can't get food he's bound to look for it, and mayhap he may chance to light on a butcher's shop in time. if he doesn't, and some nursemaid goes a-walkin' orf with a soldier, leavin' of the hinfant in the perambulator--well, then i shouldn't be surprised if the census is one babby the less. that's all." i was handing him the half-sovereign, when something came bobbing up against the window, and mr. bilder's face doubled its natural length with surprise. "god bless me!" he said. "if there ain't old bersicker come back by 'isself!" he went to the door and opened it; a most unnecessary proceeding it seemed to me. i have always thought that a wild animal never looks so well as when some obstacle of pronounced durability is between us; a personal experience has intensified rather than diminished that idea. after all, however, there is nothing like custom, for neither bilder nor his wife thought any more of the wolf than i should of a dog. the animal itself was as peaceful and well-behaved as that father of all picture-wolves--red riding hood's quondam friend, whilst moving her confidence in masquerade. the whole scene was an unutterable mixture of comedy and pathos. the wicked wolf that for half a day had paralysed london and set all the children in the town shivering in their shoes, was there in a sort of penitent mood, and was received and petted like a sort of vulpine prodigal son. old bilder examined him all over with most tender solicitude, and when he had finished with his penitent said:-"there, i knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of trouble; didn't i say it all along? here's his head all cut and full of broken glass. 'e's been a-gettin' over some bloomin' wall or other. it's a shyme that people are allowed to top their walls with broken bottles. this 'ere's what comes of it. come along, bersicker." he took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece of meat that satisfied, in quantity at any rate, the elementary conditions of the fatted calf, and went off to report. i came off, too, to report the only exclusive information that is given to-day regarding the strange escapade at the zoo. _dr. seward's diary._ _17 september._--i was engaged after dinner in my study posting up my books, which, through press of other work and the many visits to lucy, had fallen sadly into arrear. suddenly the door was burst open, and in rushed my patient, with his face distorted with passion. i was thunderstruck, for such a thing as a patient getting of his own accord into the superintendent's study is almost unknown. without an instant's pause he made straight at me. he had a dinner-knife in his hand, and, as i saw he was dangerous, i tried to keep the table between us. he was too quick and too strong for me, however; for before i could get my balance he had struck at me and cut my left wrist rather severely. before he could strike again, however, i got in my right and he was sprawling on his back on the floor. my wrist bled freely, and quite a little pool trickled on to the carpet. i saw that my friend was not intent on further effort, and occupied myself binding up my wrist, keeping a wary eye on the prostrate figure all the time. when the attendants rushed in, and we turned our attention to him, his employment positively sickened me. he was lying on his belly on the floor licking up, like a dog, the blood which had fallen from my wounded wrist. he was easily secured, and, to my surprise, went with the attendants quite placidly, simply repeating over and over again: "the blood is the life! the blood is the life!" i cannot afford to lose blood just at present; i have lost too much of late for my physical good, and then the prolonged strain of lucy's illness and its horrible phases is telling on me. i am over-excited and weary, and i need rest, rest, rest. happily van helsing has not summoned me, so i need not forego my sleep; to-night i could not well do without it. _telegram, van helsing, antwerp, to seward, carfax._ (sent to carfax, sussex, as no county given; delivered late by twenty-two hours.) "_17 september._--do not fail to be at hillingham to-night. if not watching all the time frequently, visit and see that flowers are as placed; very important; do not fail. shall be with you as soon as possible after arrival." _dr. seward's diary._ _18 september._--just off for train to london. the arrival of van helsing's telegram filled me with dismay. a whole night lost, and i know by bitter experience what may happen in a night. of course it is possible that all may be well, but what _may_ have happened? surely there is some horrible doom hanging over us that every possible accident should thwart us in all we try to do. i shall take this cylinder with me, and then i can complete my entry on lucy's phonograph. _memorandum left by lucy westenra._ _17 september. night._--i write this and leave it to be seen, so that no one may by any chance get into trouble through me. this is an exact record of what took place to-night. i feel i am dying of weakness, and have barely strength to write, but it must be done if i die in the doing. i went to bed as usual, taking care that the flowers were placed as dr. van helsing directed, and soon fell asleep. i was waked by the flapping at the window, which had begun after that sleep-walking on the cliff at whitby when mina saved me, and which now i know so well. i was not afraid, but i did wish that dr. seward was in the next room--as dr. van helsing said he would be--so that i might have called him. i tried to go to sleep, but could not. then there came to me the old fear of sleep, and i determined to keep awake. perversely sleep would try to come then when i did not want it; so, as i feared to be alone, i opened my door and called out: "is there anybody there?" there was no answer. i was afraid to wake mother, and so closed my door again. then outside in the shrubbery i heard a sort of howl like a dog's, but more fierce and deeper. i went to the window and looked out, but could see nothing, except a big bat, which had evidently been buffeting its wings against the window. so i went back to bed again, but determined not to go to sleep. presently the door opened, and mother looked in; seeing by my moving that i was not asleep, came in, and sat by me. she said to me even more sweetly and softly than her wont:-"i was uneasy about you, darling, and came in to see that you were all right." i feared she might catch cold sitting there, and asked her to come in and sleep with me, so she came into bed, and lay down beside me; she did not take off her dressing gown, for she said she would only stay a while and then go back to her own bed. as she lay there in my arms, and i in hers, the flapping and buffeting came to the window again. she was startled and a little frightened, and cried out: "what is that?" i tried to pacify her, and at last succeeded, and she lay quiet; but i could hear her poor dear heart still beating terribly. after a while there was the low howl again out in the shrubbery, and shortly after there was a crash at the window, and a lot of broken glass was hurled on the floor. the window blind blew back with the wind that rushed in, and in the aperture of the broken panes there was the head of a great, gaunt grey wolf. mother cried out in a fright, and struggled up into a sitting posture, and clutched wildly at anything that would help her. amongst other things, she clutched the wreath of flowers that dr. van helsing insisted on my wearing round my neck, and tore it away from me. for a second or two she sat up, pointing at the wolf, and there was a strange and horrible gurgling in her throat; then she fell over--as if struck with lightning, and her head hit my forehead and made me dizzy for a moment or two. the room and all round seemed to spin round. i kept my eyes fixed on the window, but the wolf drew his head back, and a whole myriad of little specks seemed to come blowing in through the broken window, and wheeling and circling round like the pillar of dust that travellers describe when there is a simoon in the desert. i tried to stir, but there was some spell upon me, and dear mother's poor body, which seemed to grow cold already--for her dear heart had ceased to beat--weighed me down; and i remembered no more for a while. the time did not seem long, but very, very awful, till i recovered consciousness again. somewhere near, a passing bell was tolling; the dogs all round the neighbourhood were howling; and in our shrubbery, seemingly just outside, a nightingale was singing. i was dazed and stupid with pain and terror and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort me. the sounds seemed to have awakened the maids, too, for i could hear their bare feet pattering outside my door. i called to them, and they came in, and when they saw what had happened, and what it was that lay over me on the bed, they screamed out. the wind rushed in through the broken window, and the door slammed to. they lifted off the body of my dear mother, and laid her, covered up with a sheet, on the bed after i had got up. they were all so frightened and nervous that i directed them to go to the dining-room and have each a glass of wine. the door flew open for an instant and closed again. the maids shrieked, and then went in a body to the dining-room; and i laid what flowers i had on my dear mother's breast. when they were there i remembered what dr. van helsing had told me, but i didn't like to remove them, and, besides, i would have some of the servants to sit up with me now. i was surprised that the maids did not come back. i called them, but got no answer, so i went to the dining-room to look for them. my heart sank when i saw what had happened. they all four lay helpless on the floor, breathing heavily. the decanter of sherry was on the table half full, but there was a queer, acrid smell about. i was suspicious, and examined the decanter. it smelt of laudanum, and looking on the sideboard, i found that the bottle which mother's doctor uses for her--oh! did use--was empty. what am i to do? what am i to do? i am back in the room with mother. i cannot leave her, and i am alone, save for the sleeping servants, whom some one has drugged. alone with the dead! i dare not go out, for i can hear the low howl of the wolf through the broken window. the air seems full of specks, floating and circling in the draught from the window, and the lights burn blue and dim. what am i to do? god shield me from harm this night! i shall hide this paper in my breast, where they shall find it when they come to lay me out. my dear mother gone! it is time that i go too. good-bye, dear arthur, if i should not survive this night. god keep you, dear, and god help me! chapter xii dr. seward's diary _18 september._--i drove at once to hillingham and arrived early. keeping my cab at the gate, i went up the avenue alone. i knocked gently and rang as quietly as possible, for i feared to disturb lucy or her mother, and hoped to only bring a servant to the door. after a while, finding no response, i knocked and rang again; still no answer. i cursed the laziness of the servants that they should lie abed at such an hour--for it was now ten o'clock--and so rang and knocked again, but more impatiently, but still without response. hitherto i had blamed only the servants, but now a terrible fear began to assail me. was this desolation but another link in the chain of doom which seemed drawing tight around us? was it indeed a house of death to which i had come, too late? i knew that minutes, even seconds of delay, might mean hours of danger to lucy, if she had had again one of those frightful relapses; and i went round the house to try if i could find by chance an entry anywhere. i could find no means of ingress. every window and door was fastened and locked, and i returned baffled to the porch. as i did so, i heard the rapid pit-pat of a swiftly driven horse's feet. they stopped at the gate, and a few seconds later i met van helsing running up the avenue. when he saw me, he gasped out:-"then it was you, and just arrived. how is she? are we too late? did you not get my telegram?" i answered as quickly and coherently as i could that i had only got his telegram early in the morning, and had not lost a minute in coming here, and that i could not make any one in the house hear me. he paused and raised his hat as he said solemnly:-"then i fear we are too late. god's will be done!" with his usual recuperative energy, he went on: "come. if there be no way open to get in, we must make one. time is all in all to us now." we went round to the back of the house, where there was a kitchen window. the professor took a small surgical saw from his case, and handing it to me, pointed to the iron bars which guarded the window. i attacked them at once and had very soon cut through three of them. then with a long, thin knife we pushed back the fastening of the sashes and opened the window. i helped the professor in, and followed him. there was no one in the kitchen or in the servants' rooms, which were close at hand. we tried all the rooms as we went along, and in the dining-room, dimly lit by rays of light through the shutters, found four servant-women lying on the floor. there was no need to think them dead, for their stertorous breathing and the acrid smell of laudanum in the room left no doubt as to their condition. van helsing and i looked at each other, and as we moved away he said: "we can attend to them later." then we ascended to lucy's room. for an instant or two we paused at the door to listen, but there was no sound that we could hear. with white faces and trembling hands, we opened the door gently, and entered the room. how shall i describe what we saw? on the bed lay two women, lucy and her mother. the latter lay farthest in, and she was covered with a white sheet, the edge of which had been blown back by the draught through the broken window, showing the drawn, white face, with a look of terror fixed upon it. by her side lay lucy, with face white and still more drawn. the flowers which had been round her neck we found upon her mother's bosom, and her throat was bare, showing the two little wounds which we had noticed before, but looking horribly white and mangled. without a word the professor bent over the bed, his head almost touching poor lucy's breast; then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of one who listens, and leaping to his feet, he cried out to me:-"it is not yet too late! quick! quick! bring the brandy!" i flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and taste it, lest it, too, were drugged like the decanter of sherry which i found on the table. the maids were still breathing, but more restlessly, and i fancied that the narcotic was wearing off. i did not stay to make sure, but returned to van helsing. he rubbed the brandy, as on another occasion, on her lips and gums and on her wrists and the palms of her hands. he said to me:-"i can do this, all that can be at the present. you go wake those maids. flick them in the face with a wet towel, and flick them hard. make them get heat and fire and a warm bath. this poor soul is nearly as cold as that beside her. she will need be heated before we can do anything more." i went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of the women. the fourth was only a young girl, and the drug had evidently affected her more strongly, so i lifted her on the sofa and let her sleep. the others were dazed at first, but as remembrance came back to them they cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner. i was stern with them, however, and would not let them talk. i told them that one life was bad enough to lose, and that if they delayed they would sacrifice miss lucy. so, sobbing and crying, they went about their way, half clad as they were, and prepared fire and water. fortunately, the kitchen and boiler fires were still alive, and there was no lack of hot water. we got a bath and carried lucy out as she was and placed her in it. whilst we were busy chafing her limbs there was a knock at the hall door. one of the maids ran off, hurried on some more clothes, and opened it. then she returned and whispered to us that there was a gentleman who had come with a message from mr. holmwood. i bade her simply tell him that he must wait, for we could see no one now. she went away with the message, and, engrossed with our work, i clean forgot all about him. i never saw in all my experience the professor work in such deadly earnest. i knew--as he knew--that it was a stand-up fight with death, and in a pause told him so. he answered me in a way that i did not understand, but with the sternest look that his face could wear:-"if that were all, i would stop here where we are now, and let her fade away into peace, for i see no light in life over her horizon." he went on with his work with, if possible, renewed and more frenzied vigour. presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was beginning to be of some effect. lucy's heart beat a trifle more audibly to the stethoscope, and her lungs had a perceptible movement. van helsing's face almost beamed, and as we lifted her from the bath and rolled her in a hot sheet to dry her he said to me:-"the first gain is ours! check to the king!" we took lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared, and laid her in bed and forced a few drops of brandy down her throat. i noticed that van helsing tied a soft silk handkerchief round her throat. she was still unconscious, and was quite as bad as, if not worse than, we had ever seen her. van helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay with her and not to take her eyes off her till we returned, and then beckoned me out of the room. "we must consult as to what is to be done," he said as we descended the stairs. in the hall he opened the dining-room door, and we passed in, he closing the door carefully behind him. the shutters had been opened, but the blinds were already down, with that obedience to the etiquette of death which the british woman of the lower classes always rigidly observes. the room was, therefore, dimly dark. it was, however, light enough for our purposes. van helsing's sternness was somewhat relieved by a look of perplexity. he was evidently torturing his mind about something, so i waited for an instant, and he spoke:-"what are we to do now? where are we to turn for help? we must have another transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor girl's life won't be worth an hour's purchase. you are exhausted already; i am exhausted too. i fear to trust those women, even if they would have courage to submit. what are we to do for some one who will open his veins for her?" "what's the matter with me, anyhow?" the voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought relief and joy to my heart, for they were those of quincey morris. van helsing started angrily at the first sound, but his face softened and a glad look came into his eyes as i cried out: "quincey morris!" and rushed towards him with outstretched hands. "what brought you here?" i cried as our hands met. "i guess art is the cause." he handed me a telegram:-"have not heard from seward for three days, and am terribly anxious. cannot leave. father still in same condition. send me word how lucy is. do not delay.--holmwood." "i think i came just in the nick of time. you know you have only to tell me what to do." van helsing strode forward, and took his hand, looking him straight in the eyes as he said:-"a brave man's blood is the best thing on this earth when a woman is in trouble. you're a man and no mistake. well, the devil may work against us for all he's worth, but god sends us men when we want them." once again we went through that ghastly operation. i have not the heart to go through with the details. lucy had got a terrible shock and it told on her more than before, for though plenty of blood went into her veins, her body did not respond to the treatment as well as on the other occasions. her struggle back into life was something frightful to see and hear. however, the action of both heart and lungs improved, and van helsing made a subcutaneous injection of morphia, as before, and with good effect. her faint became a profound slumber. the professor watched whilst i went downstairs with quincey morris, and sent one of the maids to pay off one of the cabmen who were waiting. i left quincey lying down after having a glass of wine, and told the cook to get ready a good breakfast. then a thought struck me, and i went back to the room where lucy now was. when i came softly in, i found van helsing with a sheet or two of note-paper in his hand. he had evidently read it, and was thinking it over as he sat with his hand to his brow. there was a look of grim satisfaction in his face, as of one who has had a doubt solved. he handed me the paper saying only: "it dropped from lucy's breast when we carried her to the bath." when i had read it, i stood looking at the professor, and after a pause asked him: "in god's name, what does it all mean? was she, or is she, mad; or what sort of horrible danger is it?" i was so bewildered that i did not know what to say more. van helsing put out his hand and took the paper, saying:-"do not trouble about it now. forget it for the present. you shall know and understand it all in good time; but it will be later. and now what is it that you came to me to say?" this brought me back to fact, and i was all myself again. "i came to speak about the certificate of death. if we do not act properly and wisely, there may be an inquest, and that paper would have to be produced. i am in hopes that we need have no inquest, for if we had it would surely kill poor lucy, if nothing else did. i know, and you know, and the other doctor who attended her knows, that mrs. westenra had disease of the heart, and we can certify that she died of it. let us fill up the certificate at once, and i shall take it myself to the registrar and go on to the undertaker." "good, oh my friend john! well thought of! truly miss lucy, if she be sad in the foes that beset her, is at least happy in the friends that love her. one, two, three, all open their veins for her, besides one old man. ah yes, i know, friend john; i am not blind! i love you all the more for it! now go." in the hall i met quincey morris, with a telegram for arthur telling him that mrs. westenra was dead; that lucy also had been ill, but was now going on better; and that van helsing and i were with her. i told him where i was going, and he hurried me out, but as i was going said:-"when you come back, jack, may i have two words with you all to ourselves?" i nodded in reply and went out. i found no difficulty about the registration, and arranged with the local undertaker to come up in the evening to measure for the coffin and to make arrangements. when i got back quincey was waiting for me. i told him i would see him as soon as i knew about lucy, and went up to her room. she was still sleeping, and the professor seemingly had not moved from his seat at her side. from his putting his finger to his lips, i gathered that he expected her to wake before long and was afraid of forestalling nature. so i went down to quincey and took him into the breakfast-room, where the blinds were not drawn down, and which was a little more cheerful, or rather less cheerless, than the other rooms. when we were alone, he said to me:-"jack seward, i don't want to shove myself in anywhere where i've no right to be; but this is no ordinary case. you know i loved that girl and wanted to marry her; but, although that's all past and gone, i can't help feeling anxious about her all the same. what is it that's wrong with her? the dutchman--and a fine old fellow he is; i can see that--said, that time you two came into the room, that you must have _another_ transfusion of blood, and that both you and he were exhausted. now i know well that you medical men speak _in camera_, and that a man must not expect to know what they consult about in private. but this is no common matter, and, whatever it is, i have done my part. is not that so?" "that's so," i said, and he went on:-"i take it that both you and van helsing had done already what i did to-day. is not that so?" "that's so." "and i guess art was in it too. when i saw him four days ago down at his own place he looked queer. i have not seen anything pulled down so quick since i was on the pampas and had a mare that i was fond of go to grass all in a night. one of those big bats that they call vampires had got at her in the night, and what with his gorge and the vein left open, there wasn't enough blood in her to let her stand up, and i had to put a bullet through her as she lay. jack, if you may tell me without betraying confidence, arthur was the first, is not that so?" as he spoke the poor fellow looked terribly anxious. he was in a torture of suspense regarding the woman he loved, and his utter ignorance of the terrible mystery which seemed to surround her intensified his pain. his very heart was bleeding, and it took all the manhood of him--and there was a royal lot of it, too--to keep him from breaking down. i paused before answering, for i felt that i must not betray anything which the professor wished kept secret; but already he knew so much, and guessed so much, that there could be no reason for not answering, so i answered in the same phrase: "that's so." "and how long has this been going on?" "about ten days." "ten days! then i guess, jack seward, that that poor pretty creature that we all love has had put into her veins within that time the blood of four strong men. man alive, her whole body wouldn't hold it." then, coming close to me, he spoke in a fierce half-whisper: "what took it out?" i shook my head. "that," i said, "is the crux. van helsing is simply frantic about it, and i am at my wits' end. i can't even hazard a guess. there has been a series of little circumstances which have thrown out all our calculations as to lucy being properly watched. but these shall not occur again. here we stay until all be well--or ill." quincey held out his hand. "count me in," he said. "you and the dutchman will tell me what to do, and i'll do it." when she woke late in the afternoon, lucy's first movement was to feel in her breast, and, to my surprise, produced the paper which van helsing had given me to read. the careful professor had replaced it where it had come from, lest on waking she should be alarmed. her eye then lit on van helsing and on me too, and gladdened. then she looked around the room, and seeing where she was, shuddered; she gave a loud cry, and put her poor thin hands before her pale face. we both understood what that meant--that she had realised to the full her mother's death; so we tried what we could to comfort her. doubtless sympathy eased her somewhat, but she was very low in thought and spirit, and wept silently and weakly for a long time. we told her that either or both of us would now remain with her all the time, and that seemed to comfort her. towards dusk she fell into a doze. here a very odd thing occurred. whilst still asleep she took the paper from her breast and tore it in two. van helsing stepped over and took the pieces from her. all the same, however, she went on with the action of tearing, as though the material were still in her hands; finally she lifted her hands and opened them as though scattering the fragments. van helsing seemed surprised, and his brows gathered as if in thought, but he said nothing. * * * * * _19 september._--all last night she slept fitfully, being always afraid to sleep, and something weaker when she woke from it. the professor and i took it in turns to watch, and we never left her for a moment unattended. quincey morris said nothing about his intention, but i knew that all night long he patrolled round and round the house. when the day came, its searching light showed the ravages in poor lucy's strength. she was hardly able to turn her head, and the little nourishment which she could take seemed to do her no good. at times she slept, and both van helsing and i noticed the difference in her, between sleeping and waking. whilst asleep she looked stronger, although more haggard, and her breathing was softer; her open mouth showed the pale gums drawn back from the teeth, which thus looked positively longer and sharper than usual; when she woke the softness of her eyes evidently changed the expression, for she looked her own self, although a dying one. in the afternoon she asked for arthur, and we telegraphed for him. quincey went off to meet him at the station. when he arrived it was nearly six o'clock, and the sun was setting full and warm, and the red light streamed in through the window and gave more colour to the pale cheeks. when he saw her, arthur was simply choking with emotion, and none of us could speak. in the hours that had passed, the fits of sleep, or the comatose condition that passed for it, had grown more frequent, so that the pauses when conversation was possible were shortened. arthur's presence, however, seemed to act as a stimulant; she rallied a little, and spoke to him more brightly than she had done since we arrived. he too pulled himself together, and spoke as cheerily as he could, so that the best was made of everything. it was now nearly one o'clock, and he and van helsing are sitting with her. i am to relieve them in a quarter of an hour, and i am entering this on lucy's phonograph. until six o'clock they are to try to rest. i fear that to-morrow will end our watching, for the shock has been too great; the poor child cannot rally. god help us all. _letter, mina harker to lucy westenra._ (unopened by her.) "_17 september._ "my dearest lucy,-"it seems _an age_ since i heard from you, or indeed since i wrote. you will pardon me, i know, for all my faults when you have read all my budget of news. well, i got my husband back all right; when we arrived at exeter there was a carriage waiting for us, and in it, though he had an attack of gout, mr. hawkins. he took us to his house, where there were rooms for us all nice and comfortable, and we dined together. after dinner mr. hawkins said:-"'my dears, i want to drink your health and prosperity; and may every blessing attend you both. i know you both from children, and have, with love and pride, seen you grow up. now i want you to make your home here with me. i have left to me neither chick nor child; all are gone, and in my will i have left you everything.' i cried, lucy dear, as jonathan and the old man clasped hands. our evening was a very, very happy one. "so here we are, installed in this beautiful old house, and from both my bedroom and the drawing-room i can see the great elms of the cathedral close, with their great black stems standing out against the old yellow stone of the cathedral and i can hear the rooks overhead cawing and cawing and chattering and gossiping all day, after the manner of rooks--and humans. i am busy, i need not tell you, arranging things and housekeeping. jonathan and mr. hawkins are busy all day; for, now that jonathan is a partner, mr. hawkins wants to tell him all about the clients. "how is your dear mother getting on? i wish i could run up to town for a day or two to see you, dear, but i dare not go yet, with so much on my shoulders; and jonathan wants looking after still. he is beginning to put some flesh on his bones again, but he was terribly weakened by the long illness; even now he sometimes starts out of his sleep in a sudden way and awakes all trembling until i can coax him back to his usual placidity. however, thank god, these occasions grow less frequent as the days go on, and they will in time pass away altogether, i trust. and now i have told you my news, let me ask yours. when are you to be married, and where, and who is to perform the ceremony, and what are you to wear, and is it to be a public or a private wedding? tell me all about it, dear; tell me all about everything, for there is nothing which interests you which will not be dear to me. jonathan asks me to send his 'respectful duty,' but i do not think that is good enough from the junior partner of the important firm hawkins & harker; and so, as you love me, and he loves me, and i love you with all the moods and tenses of the verb, i send you simply his 'love' instead. good-bye, my dearest lucy, and all blessings on you. "yours, "mina harker." _report from patrick hennessey, m. d., m. r. c. s. l. k. q. c. p. i., etc., etc., to john seward, m. d._ "_20 september._ "my dear sir,-"in accordance with your wishes, i enclose report of the conditions of everything left in my charge.... with regard to patient, renfield, there is more to say. he has had another outbreak, which might have had a dreadful ending, but which, as it fortunately happened, was unattended with any unhappy results. this afternoon a carrier's cart with two men made a call at the empty house whose grounds abut on ours--the house to which, you will remember, the patient twice ran away. the men stopped at our gate to ask the porter their way, as they were strangers. i was myself looking out of the study window, having a smoke after dinner, and saw one of them come up to the house. as he passed the window of renfield's room, the patient began to rate him from within, and called him all the foul names he could lay his tongue to. the man, who seemed a decent fellow enough, contented himself by telling him to "shut up for a foul-mouthed beggar," whereon our man accused him of robbing him and wanting to murder him and said that he would hinder him if he were to swing for it. i opened the window and signed to the man not to notice, so he contented himself after looking the place over and making up his mind as to what kind of a place he had got to by saying: 'lor' bless yer, sir, i wouldn't mind what was said to me in a bloomin' madhouse. i pity ye and the guv'nor for havin' to live in the house with a wild beast like that.' then he asked his way civilly enough, and i told him where the gate of the empty house was; he went away, followed by threats and curses and revilings from our man. i went down to see if i could make out any cause for his anger, since he is usually such a well-behaved man, and except his violent fits nothing of the kind had ever occurred. i found him, to my astonishment, quite composed and most genial in his manner. i tried to get him to talk of the incident, but he blandly asked me questions as to what i meant, and led me to believe that he was completely oblivious of the affair. it was, i am sorry to say, however, only another instance of his cunning, for within half an hour i heard of him again. this time he had broken out through the window of his room, and was running down the avenue. i called to the attendants to follow me, and ran after him, for i feared he was intent on some mischief. my fear was justified when i saw the same cart which had passed before coming down the road, having on it some great wooden boxes. the men were wiping their foreheads, and were flushed in the face, as if with violent exercise. before i could get up to him the patient rushed at them, and pulling one of them off the cart, began to knock his head against the ground. if i had not seized him just at the moment i believe he would have killed the man there and then. the other fellow jumped down and struck him over the head with the butt-end of his heavy whip. it was a terrible blow; but he did not seem to mind it, but seized him also, and struggled with the three of us, pulling us to and fro as if we were kittens. you know i am no light weight, and the others were both burly men. at first he was silent in his fighting; but as we began to master him, and the attendants were putting a strait-waistcoat on him, he began to shout: 'i'll frustrate them! they shan't rob me! they shan't murder me by inches! i'll fight for my lord and master!' and all sorts of similar incoherent ravings. it was with very considerable difficulty that they got him back to the house and put him in the padded room. one of the attendants, hardy, had a finger broken. however, i set it all right; and he is going on well. "the two carriers were at first loud in their threats of actions for damages, and promised to rain all the penalties of the law on us. their threats were, however, mingled with some sort of indirect apology for the defeat of the two of them by a feeble madman. they said that if it had not been for the way their strength had been spent in carrying and raising the heavy boxes to the cart they would have made short work of him. they gave as another reason for their defeat the extraordinary state of drouth to which they had been reduced by the dusty nature of their occupation and the reprehensible distance from the scene of their labours of any place of public entertainment. i quite understood their drift, and after a stiff glass of grog, or rather more of the same, and with each a sovereign in hand, they made light of the attack, and swore that they would encounter a worse madman any day for the pleasure of meeting so 'bloomin' good a bloke' as your correspondent. i took their names and addresses, in case they might be needed. they are as follows:--jack smollet, of dudding's rents, king george's road, great walworth, and thomas snelling, peter farley's row, guide court, bethnal green. they are both in the employment of harris & sons, moving and shipment company, orange master's yard, soho. "i shall report to you any matter of interest occurring here, and shall wire you at once if there is anything of importance. "believe me, dear sir, "yours faithfully, "patrick hennessey." _letter, mina harker to lucy westenra_. (unopened by her.) "_18 september._ "my dearest lucy,-"such a sad blow has befallen us. mr. hawkins has died very suddenly. some may not think it so sad for us, but we had both come to so love him that it really seems as though we had lost a father. i never knew either father or mother, so that the dear old man's death is a real blow to me. jonathan is greatly distressed. it is not only that he feels sorrow, deep sorrow, for the dear, good man who has befriended him all his life, and now at the end has treated him like his own son and left him a fortune which to people of our modest bringing up is wealth beyond the dream of avarice, but jonathan feels it on another account. he says the amount of responsibility which it puts upon him makes him nervous. he begins to doubt himself. i try to cheer him up, and _my_ belief in _him_ helps him to have a belief in himself. but it is here that the grave shock that he experienced tells upon him the most. oh, it is too hard that a sweet, simple, noble, strong nature such as his--a nature which enabled him by our dear, good friend's aid to rise from clerk to master in a few years--should be so injured that the very essence of its strength is gone. forgive me, dear, if i worry you with my troubles in the midst of your own happiness; but, lucy dear, i must tell some one, for the strain of keeping up a brave and cheerful appearance to jonathan tries me, and i have no one here that i can confide in. i dread coming up to london, as we must do the day after to-morrow; for poor mr. hawkins left in his will that he was to be buried in the grave with his father. as there are no relations at all, jonathan will have to be chief mourner. i shall try to run over to see you, dearest, if only for a few minutes. forgive me for troubling you. with all blessings, "your loving "mina harker." _dr. seward's diary._ _20 september._--only resolution and habit can let me make an entry to-night. i am too miserable, too low-spirited, too sick of the world and all in it, including life itself, that i would not care if i heard this moment the flapping of the wings of the angel of death. and he has been flapping those grim wings to some purpose of late--lucy's mother and arthur's father, and now.... let me get on with my work. i duly relieved van helsing in his watch over lucy. we wanted arthur to go to rest also, but he refused at first. it was only when i told him that we should want him to help us during the day, and that we must not all break down for want of rest, lest lucy should suffer, that he agreed to go. van helsing was very kind to him. "come, my child," he said; "come with me. you are sick and weak, and have had much sorrow and much mental pain, as well as that tax on your strength that we know of. you must not be alone; for to be alone is to be full of fears and alarms. come to the drawing-room, where there is a big fire, and there are two sofas. you shall lie on one, and i on the other, and our sympathy will be comfort to each other, even though we do not speak, and even if we sleep." arthur went off with him, casting back a longing look on lucy's face, which lay in her pillow, almost whiter than the lawn. she lay quite still, and i looked round the room to see that all was as it should be. i could see that the professor had carried out in this room, as in the other, his purpose of using the garlic; the whole of the window-sashes reeked with it, and round lucy's neck, over the silk handkerchief which van helsing made her keep on, was a rough chaplet of the same odorous flowers. lucy was breathing somewhat stertorously, and her face was at its worst, for the open mouth showed the pale gums. her teeth, in the dim, uncertain light, seemed longer and sharper than they had been in the morning. in particular, by some trick of the light, the canine teeth looked longer and sharper than the rest. i sat down by her, and presently she moved uneasily. at the same moment there came a sort of dull flapping or buffeting at the window. i went over to it softly, and peeped out by the corner of the blind. there was a full moonlight, and i could see that the noise was made by a great bat, which wheeled round--doubtless attracted by the light, although so dim--and every now and again struck the window with its wings. when i came back to my seat, i found that lucy had moved slightly, and had torn away the garlic flowers from her throat. i replaced them as well as i could, and sat watching her. presently she woke, and i gave her food, as van helsing had prescribed. she took but a little, and that languidly. there did not seem to be with her now the unconscious struggle for life and strength that had hitherto so marked her illness. it struck me as curious that the moment she became conscious she pressed the garlic flowers close to her. it was certainly odd that whenever she got into that lethargic state, with the stertorous breathing, she put the flowers from her; but that when she waked she clutched them close. there was no possibility of making any mistake about this, for in the long hours that followed, she had many spells of sleeping and waking and repeated both actions many times. at six o'clock van helsing came to relieve me. arthur had then fallen into a doze, and he mercifully let him sleep on. when he saw lucy's face i could hear the sissing indraw of his breath, and he said to me in a sharp whisper: "draw up the blind; i want light!" then he bent down, and, with his face almost touching lucy's, examined her carefully. he removed the flowers and lifted the silk handkerchief from her throat. as he did so he started back, and i could hear his ejaculation, "mein gott!" as it was smothered in his throat. i bent over and looked, too, and as i noticed some queer chill came over me. the wounds on the throat had absolutely disappeared. for fully five minutes van helsing stood looking at her, with his face at its sternest. then he turned to me and said calmly:-"she is dying. it will not be long now. it will be much difference, mark me, whether she dies conscious or in her sleep. wake that poor boy, and let him come and see the last; he trusts us, and we have promised him." i went to the dining-room and waked him. he was dazed for a moment, but when he saw the sunlight streaming in through the edges of the shutters he thought he was late, and expressed his fear. i assured him that lucy was still asleep, but told him as gently as i could that both van helsing and i feared that the end was near. he covered his face with his hands, and slid down on his knees by the sofa, where he remained, perhaps a minute, with his head buried, praying, whilst his shoulders shook with grief. i took him by the hand and raised him up. "come," i said, "my dear old fellow, summon all your fortitude: it will be best and easiest for her." when we came into lucy's room i could see that van helsing had, with his usual forethought, been putting matters straight and making everything look as pleasing as possible. he had even brushed lucy's hair, so that it lay on the pillow in its usual sunny ripples. when we came into the room she opened her eyes, and seeing him, whispered softly:-"arthur! oh, my love, i am so glad you have come!" he was stooping to kiss her, when van helsing motioned him back. "no," he whispered, "not yet! hold her hand; it will comfort her more." so arthur took her hand and knelt beside her, and she looked her best, with all the soft lines matching the angelic beauty of her eyes. then gradually her eyes closed, and she sank to sleep. for a little bit her breast heaved softly, and her breath came and went like a tired child's. and then insensibly there came the strange change which i had noticed in the night. her breathing grew stertorous, the mouth opened, and the pale gums, drawn back, made the teeth look longer and sharper than ever. in a sort of sleep-waking, vague, unconscious way she opened her eyes, which were now dull and hard at once, and said in a soft, voluptuous voice, such as i had never heard from her lips:-"arthur! oh, my love, i am so glad you have come! kiss me!" arthur bent eagerly over to kiss her; but at that instant van helsing, who, like me, had been startled by her voice, swooped upon him, and catching him by the neck with both hands, dragged him back with a fury of strength which i never thought he could have possessed, and actually hurled him almost across the room. "not for your life!" he said; "not for your living soul and hers!" and he stood between them like a lion at bay. arthur was so taken aback that he did not for a moment know what to do or say; and before any impulse of violence could seize him he realised the place and the occasion, and stood silent, waiting. i kept my eyes fixed on lucy, as did van helsing, and we saw a spasm as of rage flit like a shadow over her face; the sharp teeth champed together. then her eyes closed, and she breathed heavily. very shortly after she opened her eyes in all their softness, and putting out her poor, pale, thin hand, took van helsing's great brown one; drawing it to her, she kissed it. "my true friend," she said, in a faint voice, but with untellable pathos, "my true friend, and his! oh, guard him, and give me peace!" "i swear it!" he said solemnly, kneeling beside her and holding up his hand, as one who registers an oath. then he turned to arthur, and said to him: "come, my child, take her hand in yours, and kiss her on the forehead, and only once." their eyes met instead of their lips; and so they parted. lucy's eyes closed; and van helsing, who had been watching closely, took arthur's arm, and drew him away. and then lucy's breathing became stertorous again, and all at once it ceased. "it is all over," said van helsing. "she is dead!" i took arthur by the arm, and led him away to the drawing-room, where he sat down, and covered his face with his hands, sobbing in a way that nearly broke me down to see. i went back to the room, and found van helsing looking at poor lucy, and his face was sterner than ever. some change had come over her body. death had given back part of her beauty, for her brow and cheeks had recovered some of their flowing lines; even the lips had lost their deadly pallor. it was as if the blood, no longer needed for the working of the heart, had gone to make the harshness of death as little rude as might be. "we thought her dying whilst she slept, and sleeping when she died." i stood beside van helsing, and said:-"ah, well, poor girl, there is peace for her at last. it is the end!" he turned to me, and said with grave solemnity:-"not so; alas! not so. it is only the beginning!" when i asked him what he meant, he only shook his head and answered:-"we can do nothing as yet. wait and see." chapter xiii dr. seward's diary--_continued_. the funeral was arranged for the next succeeding day, so that lucy and her mother might be buried together. i attended to all the ghastly formalities, and the urbane undertaker proved that his staff were afflicted--or blessed--with something of his own obsequious suavity. even the woman who performed the last offices for the dead remarked to me, in a confidential, brother-professional way, when she had come out from the death-chamber:-"she makes a very beautiful corpse, sir. it's quite a privilege to attend on her. it's not too much to say that she will do credit to our establishment!" i noticed that van helsing never kept far away. this was possible from the disordered state of things in the household. there were no relatives at hand; and as arthur had to be back the next day to attend at his father's funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should have been bidden. under the circumstances, van helsing and i took it upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. he insisted upon looking over lucy's papers himself. i asked him why, for i feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of english legal requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble. he answered me:-"i know; i know. you forget that i am a lawyer as well as a doctor. but this is not altogether for the law. you knew that, when you avoided the coroner. i have more than him to avoid. there may be papers more--such as this." as he spoke he took from his pocket-book the memorandum which had been in lucy's breast, and which she had torn in her sleep. "when you find anything of the solicitor who is for the late mrs. westenra, seal all her papers, and write him to-night. for me, i watch here in the room and in miss lucy's old room all night, and i myself search for what may be. it is not well that her very thoughts go into the hands of strangers." i went on with my part of the work, and in another half hour had found the name and address of mrs. westenra's solicitor and had written to him. all the poor lady's papers were in order; explicit directions regarding the place of burial were given. i had hardly sealed the letter, when, to my surprise, van helsing walked into the room, saying:-"can i help you, friend john? i am free, and if i may, my service is to you." "have you got what you looked for?" i asked, to which he replied:-"i did not look for any specific thing. i only hoped to find, and find i have, all that there was--only some letters and a few memoranda, and a diary new begun. but i have them here, and we shall for the present say nothing of them. i shall see that poor lad to-morrow evening, and, with his sanction, i shall use some." when we had finished the work in hand, he said to me:-"and now, friend john, i think we may to bed. we want sleep, both you and i, and rest to recuperate. to-morrow we shall have much to do, but for the to-night there is no need of us. alas!" before turning in we went to look at poor lucy. the undertaker had certainly done his work well, for the room was turned into a small _chapelle ardente_. there was a wilderness of beautiful white flowers, and death was made as little repulsive as might be. the end of the winding-sheet was laid over the face; when the professor bent over and turned it gently back, we both started at the beauty before us, the tall wax candles showing a sufficient light to note it well. all lucy's loveliness had come back to her in death, and the hours that had passed, instead of leaving traces of "decay's effacing fingers," had but restored the beauty of life, till positively i could not believe my eyes that i was looking at a corpse. the professor looked sternly grave. he had not loved her as i had, and there was no need for tears in his eyes. he said to me: "remain till i return," and left the room. he came back with a handful of wild garlic from the box waiting in the hall, but which had not been opened, and placed the flowers amongst the others on and around the bed. then he took from his neck, inside his collar, a little gold crucifix, and placed it over the mouth. he restored the sheet to its place, and we came away. i was undressing in my own room, when, with a premonitory tap at the door, he entered, and at once began to speak:-"to-morrow i want you to bring me, before night, a set of post-mortem knives." "must we make an autopsy?" i asked. "yes and no. i want to operate, but not as you think. let me tell you now, but not a word to another. i want to cut off her head and take out her heart. ah! you a surgeon, and so shocked! you, whom i have seen with no tremble of hand or heart, do operations of life and death that make the rest shudder. oh, but i must not forget, my dear friend john, that you loved her; and i have not forgotten it, for it is i that shall operate, and you must only help. i would like to do it to-night, but for arthur i must not; he will be free after his father's funeral to-morrow, and he will want to see her--to see _it_. then, when she is coffined ready for the next day, you and i shall come when all sleep. we shall unscrew the coffin-lid, and shall do our operation: and then replace all, so that none know, save we alone." "but why do it at all? the girl is dead. why mutilate her poor body without need? and if there is no necessity for a post-mortem and nothing to gain by it--no good to her, to us, to science, to human knowledge--why do it? without such it is monstrous." for answer he put his hand on my shoulder, and said, with infinite tenderness:-"friend john, i pity your poor bleeding heart; and i love you the more because it does so bleed. if i could, i would take on myself the burden that you do bear. but there are things that you know not, but that you shall know, and bless me for knowing, though they are not pleasant things. john, my child, you have been my friend now many years, and yet did you ever know me to do any without good cause? i may err--i am but man; but i believe in all i do. was it not for these causes that you send for me when the great trouble came? yes! were you not amazed, nay horrified, when i would not let arthur kiss his love--though she was dying--and snatched him away by all my strength? yes! and yet you saw how she thanked me, with her so beautiful dying eyes, her voice, too, so weak, and she kiss my rough old hand and bless me? yes! and did you not hear me swear promise to her, that so she closed her eyes grateful? yes! "well, i have good reason now for all i want to do. you have for many years trust me; you have believe me weeks past, when there be things so strange that you might have well doubt. believe me yet a little, friend john. if you trust me not, then i must tell what i think; and that is not perhaps well. and if i work--as work i shall, no matter trust or no trust--without my friend trust in me, i work with heavy heart and feel, oh! so lonely when i want all help and courage that may be!" he paused a moment and went on solemnly: "friend john, there are strange and terrible days before us. let us not be two, but one, that so we work to a good end. will you not have faith in me?" i took his hand, and promised him. i held my door open as he went away, and watched him go into his room and close the door. as i stood without moving, i saw one of the maids pass silently along the passage--she had her back towards me, so did not see me--and go into the room where lucy lay. the sight touched me. devotion is so rare, and we are so grateful to those who show it unasked to those we love. here was a poor girl putting aside the terrors which she naturally had of death to go watch alone by the bier of the mistress whom she loved, so that the poor clay might not be lonely till laid to eternal rest.... * * * * * i must have slept long and soundly, for it was broad daylight when van helsing waked me by coming into my room. he came over to my bedside and said:-"you need not trouble about the knives; we shall not do it." "why not?" i asked. for his solemnity of the night before had greatly impressed me. "because," he said sternly, "it is too late--or too early. see!" here he held up the little golden crucifix. "this was stolen in the night." "how, stolen," i asked in wonder, "since you have it now?" "because i get it back from the worthless wretch who stole it, from the woman who robbed the dead and the living. her punishment will surely come, but not through me; she knew not altogether what she did and thus unknowing, she only stole. now we must wait." he went away on the word, leaving me with a new mystery to think of, a new puzzle to grapple with. the forenoon was a dreary time, but at noon the solicitor came: mr. marquand, of wholeman, sons, marquand & lidderdale. he was very genial and very appreciative of what we had done, and took off our hands all cares as to details. during lunch he told us that mrs. westenra had for some time expected sudden death from her heart, and had put her affairs in absolute order; he informed us that, with the exception of a certain entailed property of lucy's father's which now, in default of direct issue, went back to a distant branch of the family, the whole estate, real and personal, was left absolutely to arthur holmwood. when he had told us so much he went on:-"frankly we did our best to prevent such a testamentary disposition, and pointed out certain contingencies that might leave her daughter either penniless or not so free as she should be to act regarding a matrimonial alliance. indeed, we pressed the matter so far that we almost came into collision, for she asked us if we were or were not prepared to carry out her wishes. of course, we had then no alternative but to accept. we were right in principle, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred we should have proved, by the logic of events, the accuracy of our judgment. frankly, however, i must admit that in this case any other form of disposition would have rendered impossible the carrying out of her wishes. for by her predeceasing her daughter the latter would have come into possession of the property, and, even had she only survived her mother by five minutes, her property would, in case there were no will--and a will was a practical impossibility in such a case--have been treated at her decease as under intestacy. in which case lord godalming, though so dear a friend, would have had no claim in the world; and the inheritors, being remote, would not be likely to abandon their just rights, for sentimental reasons regarding an entire stranger. i assure you, my dear sirs, i am rejoiced at the result, perfectly rejoiced." he was a good fellow, but his rejoicing at the one little part--in which he was officially interested--of so great a tragedy, was an object-lesson in the limitations of sympathetic understanding. he did not remain long, but said he would look in later in the day and see lord godalming. his coming, however, had been a certain comfort to us, since it assured us that we should not have to dread hostile criticism as to any of our acts. arthur was expected at five o'clock, so a little before that time we visited the death-chamber. it was so in very truth, for now both mother and daughter lay in it. the undertaker, true to his craft, had made the best display he could of his goods, and there was a mortuary air about the place that lowered our spirits at once. van helsing ordered the former arrangement to be adhered to, explaining that, as lord godalming was coming very soon, it would be less harrowing to his feelings to see all that was left of his _fiancã©e_ quite alone. the undertaker seemed shocked at his own stupidity and exerted himself to restore things to the condition in which we left them the night before, so that when arthur came such shocks to his feelings as we could avoid were saved. poor fellow! he looked desperately sad and broken; even his stalwart manhood seemed to have shrunk somewhat under the strain of his much-tried emotions. he had, i knew, been very genuinely and devotedly attached to his father; and to lose him, and at such a time, was a bitter blow to him. with me he was warm as ever, and to van helsing he was sweetly courteous; but i could not help seeing that there was some constraint with him. the professor noticed it, too, and motioned me to bring him upstairs. i did so, and left him at the door of the room, as i felt he would like to be quite alone with her, but he took my arm and led me in, saying huskily:-"you loved her too, old fellow; she told me all about it, and there was no friend had a closer place in her heart than you. i don't know how to thank you for all you have done for her. i can't think yet...." here he suddenly broke down, and threw his arms round my shoulders and laid his head on my breast, crying:-"oh, jack! jack! what shall i do! the whole of life seems gone from me all at once, and there is nothing in the wide world for me to live for." i comforted him as well as i could. in such cases men do not need much expression. a grip of the hand, the tightening of an arm over the shoulder, a sob in unison, are expressions of sympathy dear to a man's heart. i stood still and silent till his sobs died away, and then i said softly to him:-"come and look at her." together we moved over to the bed, and i lifted the lawn from her face. god! how beautiful she was. every hour seemed to be enhancing her loveliness. it frightened and amazed me somewhat; and as for arthur, he fell a-trembling, and finally was shaken with doubt as with an ague. at last, after a long pause, he said to me in a faint whisper:-"jack, is she really dead?" i assured him sadly that it was so, and went on to suggest--for i felt that such a horrible doubt should not have life for a moment longer than i could help--that it often happened that after death faces became softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty; that this was especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged suffering. it seemed to quite do away with any doubt, and, after kneeling beside the couch for a while and looking at her lovingly and long, he turned aside. i told him that that must be good-bye, as the coffin had to be prepared; so he went back and took her dead hand in his and kissed it, and bent over and kissed her forehead. he came away, fondly looking back over his shoulder at her as he came. i left him in the drawing-room, and told van helsing that he had said good-bye; so the latter went to the kitchen to tell the undertaker's men to proceed with the preparations and to screw up the coffin. when he came out of the room again i told him of arthur's question, and he replied:-"i am not surprised. just now i doubted for a moment myself!" we all dined together, and i could see that poor art was trying to make the best of things. van helsing had been silent all dinner-time; but when we had lit our cigars he said-"lord----"; but arthur interrupted him:-"no, no, not that, for god's sake! not yet at any rate. forgive me, sir: i did not mean to speak offensively; it is only because my loss is so recent." the professor answered very sweetly:-"i only used that name because i was in doubt. i must not call you 'mr.,' and i have grown to love you--yes, my dear boy, to love you--as arthur." arthur held out his hand, and took the old man's warmly. "call me what you will," he said. "i hope i may always have the title of a friend. and let me say that i am at a loss for words to thank you for your goodness to my poor dear." he paused a moment, and went on: "i know that she understood your goodness even better than i do; and if i was rude or in any way wanting at that time you acted so--you remember"--the professor nodded--"you must forgive me." he answered with a grave kindness:-"i know it was hard for you to quite trust me then, for to trust such violence needs to understand; and i take it that you do not--that you cannot--trust me now, for you do not yet understand. and there may be more times when i shall want you to trust when you cannot--and may not--and must not yet understand. but the time will come when your trust shall be whole and complete in me, and when you shall understand as though the sunlight himself shone through. then you shall bless me from first to last for your own sake, and for the sake of others and for her dear sake to whom i swore to protect." "and, indeed, indeed, sir," said arthur warmly, "i shall in all ways trust you. i know and believe you have a very noble heart, and you are jack's friend, and you were hers. you shall do what you like." the professor cleared his throat a couple of times, as though about to speak, and finally said:-"may i ask you something now?" "certainly." "you know that mrs. westenra left you all her property?" "no, poor dear; i never thought of it." "and as it is all yours, you have a right to deal with it as you will. i want you to give me permission to read all miss lucy's papers and letters. believe me, it is no idle curiosity. i have a motive of which, be sure, she would have approved. i have them all here. i took them before we knew that all was yours, so that no strange hand might touch them--no strange eye look through words into her soul. i shall keep them, if i may; even you may not see them yet, but i shall keep them safe. no word shall be lost; and in the good time i shall give them back to you. it's a hard thing i ask, but you will do it, will you not, for lucy's sake?" arthur spoke out heartily, like his old self:-"dr. van helsing, you may do what you will. i feel that in saying this i am doing what my dear one would have approved. i shall not trouble you with questions till the time comes." the old professor stood up as he said solemnly:-"and you are right. there will be pain for us all; but it will not be all pain, nor will this pain be the last. we and you too--you most of all, my dear boy--will have to pass through the bitter water before we reach the sweet. but we must be brave of heart and unselfish, and do our duty, and all will be well!" i slept on a sofa in arthur's room that night. van helsing did not go to bed at all. he went to and fro, as if patrolling the house, and was never out of sight of the room where lucy lay in her coffin, strewn with the wild garlic flowers, which sent, through the odour of lily and rose, a heavy, overpowering smell into the night. _mina harker's journal._ _22 september._--in the train to exeter. jonathan sleeping. it seems only yesterday that the last entry was made, and yet how much between then, in whitby and all the world before me, jonathan away and no news of him; and now, married to jonathan, jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich, master of his business, mr. hawkins dead and buried, and jonathan with another attack that may harm him. some day he may ask me about it. down it all goes. i am rusty in my shorthand--see what unexpected prosperity does for us--so it may be as well to freshen it up again with an exercise anyhow.... the service was very simple and very solemn. there were only ourselves and the servants there, one or two old friends of his from exeter, his london agent, and a gentleman representing sir john paxton, the president of the incorporated law society. jonathan and i stood hand in hand, and we felt that our best and dearest friend was gone from us.... we came back to town quietly, taking a 'bus to hyde park corner. jonathan thought it would interest me to go into the row for a while, so we sat down; but there were very few people there, and it was sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs. it made us think of the empty chair at home; so we got up and walked down piccadilly. jonathan was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in old days before i went to school. i felt it very improper, for you can't go on for some years teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit; but it was jonathan, and he was my husband, and we didn't know anybody who saw us--and we didn't care if they did--so on we walked. i was looking at a very beautiful girl, in a big cart-wheel hat, sitting in a victoria outside guiliano's, when i felt jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he hurt me, and he said under his breath: "my god!" i am always anxious about jonathan, for i fear that some nervous fit may upset him again; so i turned to him quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed him. he was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out as, half in terror and half in amazement, he gazed at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and black moustache and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty girl. he was looking at her so hard that he did not see either of us, and so i had a good view of him. his face was not a good face; it was hard, and cruel, and sensual, and his big white teeth, that looked all the whiter because his lips were so red, were pointed like an animal's. jonathan kept staring at him, till i was afraid he would notice. i feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce and nasty. i asked jonathan why he was disturbed, and he answered, evidently thinking that i knew as much about it as he did: "do you see who it is?" "no, dear," i said; "i don't know him; who is it?" his answer seemed to shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not know that it was to me, mina, to whom he was speaking:-"it is the man himself!" the poor dear was evidently terrified at something--very greatly terrified; i do believe that if he had not had me to lean on and to support him he would have sunk down. he kept staring; a man came out of the shop with a small parcel, and gave it to the lady, who then drove off. the dark man kept his eyes fixed on her, and when the carriage moved up piccadilly he followed in the same direction, and hailed a hansom. jonathan kept looking after him, and said, as if to himself:-"i believe it is the count, but he has grown young. my god, if this be so! oh, my god! my god! if i only knew! if i only knew!" he was distressing himself so much that i feared to keep his mind on the subject by asking him any questions, so i remained silent. i drew him away quietly, and he, holding my arm, came easily. we walked a little further, and then went in and sat for a while in the green park. it was a hot day for autumn, and there was a comfortable seat in a shady place. after a few minutes' staring at nothing, jonathan's eyes closed, and he went quietly into a sleep, with his head on my shoulder. i thought it was the best thing for him, so did not disturb him. in about twenty minutes he woke up, and said to me quite cheerfully:-"why, mina, have i been asleep! oh, do forgive me for being so rude. come, and we'll have a cup of tea somewhere." he had evidently forgotten all about the dark stranger, as in his illness he had forgotten all that this episode had reminded him of. i don't like this lapsing into forgetfulness; it may make or continue some injury to the brain. i must not ask him, for fear i shall do more harm than good; but i must somehow learn the facts of his journey abroad. the time is come, i fear, when i must open that parcel, and know what is written. oh, jonathan, you will, i know, forgive me if i do wrong, but it is for your own dear sake. * * * * * _later._--a sad home-coming in every way--the house empty of the dear soul who was so good to us; jonathan still pale and dizzy under a slight relapse of his malady; and now a telegram from van helsing, whoever he may be:-"you will be grieved to hear that mrs. westenra died five days ago, and that lucy died the day before yesterday. they were both buried to-day." oh, what a wealth of sorrow in a few words! poor mrs. westenra! poor lucy! gone, gone, never to return to us! and poor, poor arthur, to have lost such sweetness out of his life! god help us all to bear our troubles. _dr. seward's diary._ _22 september._--it is all over. arthur has gone back to ring, and has taken quincey morris with him. what a fine fellow is quincey! i believe in my heart of hearts that he suffered as much about lucy's death as any of us; but he bore himself through it like a moral viking. if america can go on breeding men like that, she will be a power in the world indeed. van helsing is lying down, having a rest preparatory to his journey. he goes over to amsterdam to-night, but says he returns to-morrow night; that he only wants to make some arrangements which can only be made personally. he is to stop with me then, if he can; he says he has work to do in london which may take him some time. poor old fellow! i fear that the strain of the past week has broken down even his iron strength. all the time of the burial he was, i could see, putting some terrible restraint on himself. when it was all over, we were standing beside arthur, who, poor fellow, was speaking of his part in the operation where his blood had been transfused to his lucy's veins; i could see van helsing's face grow white and purple by turns. arthur was saying that he felt since then as if they two had been really married and that she was his wife in the sight of god. none of us said a word of the other operations, and none of us ever shall. arthur and quincey went away together to the station, and van helsing and i came on here. the moment we were alone in the carriage he gave way to a regular fit of hysterics. he has denied to me since that it was hysterics, and insisted that it was only his sense of humour asserting itself under very terrible conditions. he laughed till he cried, and i had to draw down the blinds lest any one should see us and misjudge; and then he cried, till he laughed again; and laughed and cried together, just as a woman does. i tried to be stern with him, as one is to a woman under the circumstances; but it had no effect. men and women are so different in manifestations of nervous strength or weakness! then when his face grew grave and stern again i asked him why his mirth, and why at such a time. his reply was in a way characteristic of him, for it was logical and forceful and mysterious. he said:-"ah, you don't comprehend, friend john. do not think that i am not sad, though i laugh. see, i have cried even when the laugh did choke me. but no more think that i am all sorry when i cry, for the laugh he come just the same. keep it always with you that laughter who knock at your door and say, 'may i come in?' is not the true laughter. no! he is a king, and he come when and how he like. he ask no person; he choose no time of suitability. he say, 'i am here.' behold, in example i grieve my heart out for that so sweet young girl; i give my blood for her, though i am old and worn; i give my time, my skill, my sleep; i let my other sufferers want that so she may have all. and yet i can laugh at her very grave--laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her coffin and say 'thud! thud!' to my heart, till it send back the blood from my cheek. my heart bleed for that poor boy--that dear boy, so of the age of mine own boy had i been so blessed that he live, and with his hair and eyes the same. there, you know now why i love him so. and yet when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my father-heart yearn to him as to no other man--not even to you, friend john, for we are more level in experiences than father and son--yet even at such moment king laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear, 'here i am! here i am!' till the blood come dance back and bring some of the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. oh, friend john, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles; and yet when king laugh come he make them all dance to the tune he play. bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall--all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of him. and believe me, friend john, that he is good to come, and kind. ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn tight with strain that pull us different ways. then tears come; and, like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain become too great, and we break. but king laugh he come like the sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with our labour, what it may be." i did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as i did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, i asked him. as he answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different tone:-"oh, it was the grim irony of it all--this so lovely lady garlanded with flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she were truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother who loved her, and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going 'toll! toll! toll!' so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time their eyes never on the page; and all of us with the bowed head. and all for what? she is dead; so! is it not?" "well, for the life of me, professor," i said, "i can't see anything to laugh at in all that. why, your explanation makes it a harder puzzle than before. but even if the burial service was comic, what about poor art and his trouble? why, his heart was simply breaking." "just so. said he not that the transfusion of his blood to her veins had made her truly his bride?" "yes, and it was a sweet and comforting idea for him." "quite so. but there was a difficulty, friend john. if so that, then what about the others? ho, ho! then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist, and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by church's law, though no wits, all gone--even i, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist." "i don't see where the joke comes in there either!" i said; and i did not feel particularly pleased with him for saying such things. he laid his hand on my arm, and said:-"friend john, forgive me if i pain. i showed not my feeling to others when it would wound, but only to you, my old friend, whom i can trust. if you could have looked into my very heart then when i want to laugh; if you could have done so when the laugh arrived; if you could do so now, when king laugh have pack up his crown, and all that is to him--for he go far, far away from me, and for a long, long time--maybe you would perhaps pity me the most of all." i was touched by the tenderness of his tone, and asked why. "because i know!" and now we are all scattered; and for many a long day loneliness will sit over our roofs with brooding wings. lucy lies in the tomb of her kin, a lordly death-house in a lonely churchyard, away from teeming london; where the air is fresh, and the sun rises over hampstead hill, and where wild flowers grow of their own accord. so i can finish this diary; and god only knows if i shall ever begin another. if i do, or if i even open this again, it will be to deal with different people and different themes; for here at the end, where the romance of my life is told, ere i go back to take up the thread of my life-work, i say sadly and without hope, "finis." _"the westminster gazette," 25 september._ a hampstead mystery. the neighbourhood of hampstead is just at present exercised with a series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what was known to the writers of headlines as "the kensington horror," or "the stabbing woman," or "the woman in black." during the past two or three days several cases have occurred of young children straying from home or neglecting to return from their playing on the heath. in all these cases the children were too young to give any properly intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses is that they had been with a "bloofer lady." it has always been late in the evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the children have not been found until early in the following morning. it is generally supposed in the neighbourhood that, as the first child missed gave as his reason for being away that a "bloofer lady" had asked him to come for a walk, the others had picked up the phrase and used it as occasion served. this is the more natural as the favourite game of the little ones at present is luring each other away by wiles. a correspondent writes us that to see some of the tiny tots pretending to be the "bloofer lady" is supremely funny. some of our caricaturists might, he says, take a lesson in the irony of grotesque by comparing the reality and the picture. it is only in accordance with general principles of human nature that the "bloofer lady" should be the popular rã´le at these _al fresco_ performances. our correspondent naã¯vely says that even ellen terry could not be so winningly attractive as some of these grubby-faced little children pretend--and even imagine themselves--to be. there is, however, possibly a serious side to the question, for some of the children, indeed all who have been missed at night, have been slightly torn or wounded in the throat. the wounds seem such as might be made by a rat or a small dog, and although of not much importance individually, would tend to show that whatever animal inflicts them has a system or method of its own. the police of the division have been instructed to keep a sharp look-out for straying children, especially when very young, in and around hampstead heath, and for any stray dog which may be about. _"the westminster gazette," 25 september._ _extra special._ the hampstead horror. another child injured. _the "bloofer lady."_ we have just received intelligence that another child, missed last night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the shooter's hill side of hampstead heath, which is, perhaps, less frequented than the other parts. it has the same tiny wound in the throat as has been noticed in other cases. it was terribly weak, and looked quite emaciated. it too, when partially restored, had the common story to tell of being lured away by the "bloofer lady." chapter xiv mina harker's journal _23 september_.--jonathan is better after a bad night. i am so glad that he has plenty of work to do, for that keeps his mind off the terrible things; and oh, i am rejoiced that he is not now weighed down with the responsibility of his new position. i knew he would be true to himself, and now how proud i am to see my jonathan rising to the height of his advancement and keeping pace in all ways with the duties that come upon him. he will be away all day till late, for he said he could not lunch at home. my household work is done, so i shall take his foreign journal, and lock myself up in my room and read it.... _24 september_.--i hadn't the heart to write last night; that terrible record of jonathan's upset me so. poor dear! how he must have suffered, whether it be true or only imagination. i wonder if there is any truth in it at all. did he get his brain fever, and then write all those terrible things, or had he some cause for it all? i suppose i shall never know, for i dare not open the subject to him.... and yet that man we saw yesterday! he seemed quite certain of him.... poor fellow! i suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind back on some train of thought.... he believes it all himself. i remember how on our wedding-day he said: "unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane." there seems to be through it all some thread of continuity.... that fearful count was coming to london.... if it should be, and he came to london, with his teeming millions.... there may be a solemn duty; and if it come we must not shrink from it.... i shall be prepared. i shall get my typewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. then we shall be ready for other eyes if required. and if it be wanted; then, perhaps, if i am ready, poor jonathan may not be upset, for i can speak for him and never let him be troubled or worried with it at all. if ever jonathan quite gets over the nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and i can ask him questions and find out things, and see how i may comfort him. _letter, van helsing to mrs. harker._ "_24 september._ (_confidence_) "dear madam,-"i pray you to pardon my writing, in that i am so far friend as that i sent to you sad news of miss lucy westenra's death. by the kindness of lord godalming, i am empowered to read her letters and papers, for i am deeply concerned about certain matters vitally important. in them i find some letters from you, which show how great friends you were and how you love her. oh, madam mina, by that love, i implore you, help me. it is for others' good that i ask--to redress great wrong, and to lift much and terrible troubles--that may be more great than you can know. may it be that i see you? you can trust me. i am friend of dr. john seward and of lord godalming (that was arthur of miss lucy). i must keep it private for the present from all. i should come to exeter to see you at once if you tell me i am privilege to come, and where and when. i implore your pardon, madam. i have read your letters to poor lucy, and know how good you are and how your husband suffer; so i pray you, if it may be, enlighten him not, lest it may harm. again your pardon, and forgive me. "van helsing." _telegram, mrs. harker to van helsing._ "_25 september._--come to-day by quarter-past ten train if you can catch it. can see you any time you call. "wilhelmina harker." mina harker's journal. _25 september._--i cannot help feeling terribly excited as the time draws near for the visit of dr. van helsing, for somehow i expect that it will throw some light upon jonathan's sad experience; and as he attended poor dear lucy in her last illness, he can tell me all about her. that is the reason of his coming; it is concerning lucy and her sleep-walking, and not about jonathan. then i shall never know the real truth now! how silly i am. that awful journal gets hold of my imagination and tinges everything with something of its own colour. of course it is about lucy. that habit came back to the poor dear, and that awful night on the cliff must have made her ill. i had almost forgotten in my own affairs how ill she was afterwards. she must have told him of her sleep-walking adventure on the cliff, and that i knew all about it; and now he wants me to tell him what she knows, so that he may understand. i hope i did right in not saying anything of it to mrs. westenra; i should never forgive myself if any act of mine, were it even a negative one, brought harm on poor dear lucy. i hope, too, dr. van helsing will not blame me; i have had so much trouble and anxiety of late that i feel i cannot bear more just at present. i suppose a cry does us all good at times--clears the air as other rain does. perhaps it was reading the journal yesterday that upset me, and then jonathan went away this morning to stay away from me a whole day and night, the first time we have been parted since our marriage. i do hope the dear fellow will take care of himself, and that nothing will occur to upset him. it is two o'clock, and the doctor will be here soon now. i shall say nothing of jonathan's journal unless he asks me. i am so glad i have type-written out my own journal, so that, in case he asks about lucy, i can hand it to him; it will save much questioning. * * * * * _later._--he has come and gone. oh, what a strange meeting, and how it all makes my head whirl round! i feel like one in a dream. can it be all possible, or even a part of it? if i had not read jonathan's journal first, i should never have accepted even a possibility. poor, poor, dear jonathan! how he must have suffered. please the good god, all this may not upset him again. i shall try to save him from it; but it may be even a consolation and a help to him--terrible though it be and awful in its consequences--to know for certain that his eyes and ears and brain did not deceive him, and that it is all true. it may be that it is the doubt which haunts him; that when the doubt is removed, no matter which--waking or dreaming--may prove the truth, he will be more satisfied and better able to bear the shock. dr. van helsing must be a good man as well as a clever one if he is arthur's friend and dr. seward's, and if they brought him all the way from holland to look after lucy. i feel from having seen him that he _is_ good and kind and of a noble nature. when he comes to-morrow i shall ask him about jonathan; and then, please god, all this sorrow and anxiety may lead to a good end. i used to think i would like to practise interviewing; jonathan's friend on "the exeter news" told him that memory was everything in such work--that you must be able to put down exactly almost every word spoken, even if you had to refine some of it afterwards. here was a rare interview; i shall try to record it _verbatim_. it was half-past two o'clock when the knock came. i took my courage _ã  deux mains_ and waited. in a few minutes mary opened the door, and announced "dr. van helsing." i rose and bowed, and he came towards me; a man of medium weight, strongly built, with his shoulders set back over a broad, deep chest and a neck well balanced on the trunk as the head is on the neck. the poise of the head strikes one at once as indicative of thought and power; the head is noble, well-sized, broad, and large behind the ears. the face, clean-shaven, shows a hard, square chin, a large, resolute, mobile mouth, a good-sized nose, rather straight, but with quick, sensitive nostrils, that seem to broaden as the big, bushy brows come down and the mouth tightens. the forehead is broad and fine, rising at first almost straight and then sloping back above two bumps or ridges wide apart; such a forehead that the reddish hair cannot possibly tumble over it, but falls naturally back and to the sides. big, dark blue eyes are set widely apart, and are quick and tender or stern with the man's moods. he said to me:-"mrs. harker, is it not?" i bowed assent. "that was miss mina murray?" again i assented. "it is mina murray that i came to see that was friend of that poor dear child lucy westenra. madam mina, it is on account of the dead i come." "sir," i said, "you could have no better claim on me than that you were a friend and helper of lucy westenra." and i held out my hand. he took it and said tenderly:-"oh, madam mina, i knew that the friend of that poor lily girl must be good, but i had yet to learn----" he finished his speech with a courtly bow. i asked him what it was that he wanted to see me about, so he at once began:-"i have read your letters to miss lucy. forgive me, but i had to begin to inquire somewhere, and there was none to ask. i know that you were with her at whitby. she sometimes kept a diary--you need not look surprised, madam mina; it was begun after you had left, and was in imitation of you--and in that diary she traces by inference certain things to a sleep-walking in which she puts down that you saved her. in great perplexity then i come to you, and ask you out of your so much kindness to tell me all of it that you can remember." "i can tell you, i think, dr. van helsing, all about it." "ah, then you have good memory for facts, for details? it is not always so with young ladies." "no, doctor, but i wrote it all down at the time. i can show it to you if you like." "oh, madam mina, i will be grateful; you will do me much favour." i could not resist the temptation of mystifying him a bit--i suppose it is some of the taste of the original apple that remains still in our mouths--so i handed him the shorthand diary. he took it with a grateful bow, and said:-"may i read it?" "if you wish," i answered as demurely as i could. he opened it, and for an instant his face fell. then he stood up and bowed. "oh, you so clever woman!" he said. "i knew long that mr. jonathan was a man of much thankfulness; but see, his wife have all the good things. and will you not so much honour me and so help me as to read it for me? alas! i know not the shorthand." by this time my little joke was over, and i was almost ashamed; so i took the typewritten copy from my workbasket and handed it to him. "forgive me," i said: "i could not help it; but i had been thinking that it was of dear lucy that you wished to ask, and so that you might not have time to wait--not on my account, but because i know your time must be precious--i have written it out on the typewriter for you." he took it and his eyes glistened. "you are so good," he said. "and may i read it now? i may want to ask you some things when i have read." "by all means," i said, "read it over whilst i order lunch; and then you can ask me questions whilst we eat." he bowed and settled himself in a chair with his back to the light, and became absorbed in the papers, whilst i went to see after lunch chiefly in order that he might not be disturbed. when i came back, i found him walking hurriedly up and down the room, his face all ablaze with excitement. he rushed up to me and took me by both hands. "oh, madam mina," he said, "how can i say what i owe to you? this paper is as sunshine. it opens the gate to me. i am daze, i am dazzle, with so much light, and yet clouds roll in behind the light every time. but that you do not, cannot, comprehend. oh, but i am grateful to you, you so clever woman. madam"--he said this very solemnly--"if ever abraham van helsing can do anything for you or yours, i trust you will let me know. it will be pleasure and delight if i may serve you as a friend; as a friend, but all i have ever learned, all i can ever do, shall be for you and those you love. there are darknesses in life, and there are lights; you are one of the lights. you will have happy life and good life, and your husband will be blessed in you." "but, doctor, you praise me too much, and--and you do not know me." "not know you--i, who am old, and who have studied all my life men and women; i, who have made my specialty the brain and all that belongs to him and all that follow from him! and i have read your diary that you have so goodly written for me, and which breathes out truth in every line. i, who have read your so sweet letter to poor lucy of your marriage and your trust, not know you! oh, madam mina, good women tell all their lives, and by day and by hour and by minute, such things that angels can read; and we men who wish to know have in us something of angels' eyes. your husband is noble nature, and you are noble too, for you trust, and trust cannot be where there is mean nature. and your husband--tell me of him. is he quite well? is all that fever gone, and is he strong and hearty?" i saw here an opening to ask him about jonathan, so i said:-"he was almost recovered, but he has been greatly upset by mr. hawkins's death." he interrupted:-"oh, yes, i know, i know. i have read your last two letters." i went on:-"i suppose this upset him, for when we were in town on thursday last he had a sort of shock." "a shock, and after brain fever so soon! that was not good. what kind of a shock was it?" "he thought he saw some one who recalled something terrible, something which led to his brain fever." and here the whole thing seemed to overwhelm me in a rush. the pity for jonathan, the horror which he experienced, the whole fearful mystery of his diary, and the fear that has been brooding over me ever since, all came in a tumult. i suppose i was hysterical, for i threw myself on my knees and held up my hands to him, and implored him to make my husband well again. he took my hands and raised me up, and made me sit on the sofa, and sat by me; he held my hand in his, and said to me with, oh, such infinite sweetness:-"my life is a barren and lonely one, and so full of work that i have not had much time for friendships; but since i have been summoned to here by my friend john seward i have known so many good people and seen such nobility that i feel more than ever--and it has grown with my advancing years--the loneliness of my life. believe, me, then, that i come here full of respect for you, and you have given me hope--hope, not in what i am seeking of, but that there are good women still left to make life happy--good women, whose lives and whose truths may make good lesson for the children that are to be. i am glad, glad, that i may here be of some use to you; for if your husband suffer, he suffer within the range of my study and experience. i promise you that i will gladly do _all_ for him that i can--all to make his life strong and manly, and your life a happy one. now you must eat. you are overwrought and perhaps over-anxious. husband jonathan would not like to see you so pale; and what he like not where he love, is not to his good. therefore for his sake you must eat and smile. you have told me all about lucy, and so now we shall not speak of it, lest it distress. i shall stay in exeter to-night, for i want to think much over what you have told me, and when i have thought i will ask you questions, if i may. and then, too, you will tell me of husband jonathan's trouble so far as you can, but not yet. you must eat now; afterwards you shall tell me all." after lunch, when we went back to the drawing-room, he said to me:-"and now tell me all about him." when it came to speaking to this great learned man, i began to fear that he would think me a weak fool, and jonathan a madman--that journal is all so strange--and i hesitated to go on. but he was so sweet and kind, and he had promised to help, and i trusted him, so i said:-"dr. van helsing, what i have to tell you is so queer that you must not laugh at me or at my husband. i have been since yesterday in a sort of fever of doubt; you must be kind to me, and not think me foolish that i have even half believed some very strange things." he reassured me by his manner as well as his words when he said:-"oh, my dear, if you only know how strange is the matter regarding which i am here, it is you who would laugh. i have learned not to think little of any one's belief, no matter how strange it be. i have tried to keep an open mind; and it is not the ordinary things of life that could close it, but the strange things, the extraordinary things, the things that make one doubt if they be mad or sane." "thank you, thank you, a thousand times! you have taken a weight off my mind. if you will let me, i shall give you a paper to read. it is long, but i have typewritten it out. it will tell you my trouble and jonathan's. it is the copy of his journal when abroad, and all that happened. i dare not say anything of it; you will read for yourself and judge. and then when i see you, perhaps, you will be very kind and tell me what you think." "i promise," he said as i gave him the papers; "i shall in the morning, so soon as i can, come to see you and your husband, if i may." "jonathan will be here at half-past eleven, and you must come to lunch with us and see him then; you could catch the quick 3:34 train, which will leave you at paddington before eight." he was surprised at my knowledge of the trains off-hand, but he does not know that i have made up all the trains to and from exeter, so that i may help jonathan in case he is in a hurry. so he took the papers with him and went away, and i sit here thinking--thinking i don't know what. * * * * * _letter (by hand), van helsing to mrs. harker._ "_25 september, 6 o'clock._ "dear madam mina,-"i have read your husband's so wonderful diary. you may sleep without doubt. strange and terrible as it is, it is _true_! i will pledge my life on it. it may be worse for others; but for him and you there is no dread. he is a noble fellow; and let me tell you from experience of men, that one who would do as he did in going down that wall and to that room--ay, and going a second time--is not one to be injured in permanence by a shock. his brain and his heart are all right; this i swear, before i have even seen him; so be at rest. i shall have much to ask him of other things. i am blessed that to-day i come to see you, for i have learn all at once so much that again i am dazzle--dazzle more than ever, and i must think. "yours the most faithful, "abraham van helsing." _letter, mrs. harker to van helsing._ "_25 september, 6:30 p. m._ "my dear dr. van helsing,-"a thousand thanks for your kind letter, which has taken a great weight off my mind. and yet, if it be true, what terrible things there are in the world, and what an awful thing if that man, that monster, be really in london! i fear to think. i have this moment, whilst writing, had a wire from jonathan, saying that he leaves by the 6:25 to-night from launceston and will be here at 10:18, so that i shall have no fear to-night. will you, therefore, instead of lunching with us, please come to breakfast at eight o'clock, if this be not too early for you? you can get away, if you are in a hurry, by the 10:30 train, which will bring you to paddington by 2:35. do not answer this, as i shall take it that, if i do not hear, you will come to breakfast. "believe me, "your faithful and grateful friend, "mina harker." _jonathan harker's journal._ _26 september._--i thought never to write in this diary again, but the time has come. when i got home last night mina had supper ready, and when we had supped she told me of van helsing's visit, and of her having given him the two diaries copied out, and of how anxious she has been about me. she showed me in the doctor's letter that all i wrote down was true. it seems to have made a new man of me. it was the doubt as to the reality of the whole thing that knocked me over. i felt impotent, and in the dark, and distrustful. but, now that i _know_, i am not afraid, even of the count. he has succeeded after all, then, in his design in getting to london, and it was he i saw. he has got younger, and how? van helsing is the man to unmask him and hunt him out, if he is anything like what mina says. we sat late, and talked it all over. mina is dressing, and i shall call at the hotel in a few minutes and bring him over.... he was, i think, surprised to see me. when i came into the room where he was, and introduced myself, he took me by the shoulder, and turned my face round to the light, and said, after a sharp scrutiny:-"but madam mina told me you were ill, that you had had a shock." it was so funny to hear my wife called "madam mina" by this kindly, strong-faced old man. i smiled, and said:-"i _was_ ill, i _have_ had a shock; but you have cured me already." "and how?" "by your letter to mina last night. i was in doubt, and then everything took a hue of unreality, and i did not know what to trust, even the evidence of my own senses. not knowing what to trust, i did not know what to do; and so had only to keep on working in what had hitherto been the groove of my life. the groove ceased to avail me, and i mistrusted myself. doctor, you don't know what it is to doubt everything, even yourself. no, you don't; you couldn't with eyebrows like yours." he seemed pleased, and laughed as he said:-"so! you are physiognomist. i learn more here with each hour. i am with so much pleasure coming to you to breakfast; and, oh, sir, you will pardon praise from an old man, but you are blessed in your wife." i would listen to him go on praising mina for a day, so i simply nodded and stood silent. "she is one of god's women, fashioned by his own hand to show us men and other women that there is a heaven where we can enter, and that its light can be here on earth. so true, so sweet, so noble, so little an egoist--and that, let me tell you, is much in this age, so sceptical and selfish. and you, sir--i have read all the letters to poor miss lucy, and some of them speak of you, so i know you since some days from the knowing of others; but i have seen your true self since last night. you will give me your hand, will you not? and let us be friends for all our lives." we shook hands, and he was so earnest and so kind that it made me quite choky. "and now," he said, "may i ask you for some more help? i have a great task to do, and at the beginning it is to know. you can help me here. can you tell me what went before your going to transylvania? later on i may ask more help, and of a different kind; but at first this will do." "look here, sir," i said, "does what you have to do concern the count?" "it does," he said solemnly. "then i am with you heart and soul. as you go by the 10:30 train, you will not have time to read them; but i shall get the bundle of papers. you can take them with you and read them in the train." after breakfast i saw him to the station. when we were parting he said:-"perhaps you will come to town if i send to you, and take madam mina too." "we shall both come when you will," i said. i had got him the morning papers and the london papers of the previous night, and while we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for the train to start, he was turning them over. his eyes suddenly seemed to catch something in one of them, "the westminster gazette"--i knew it by the colour--and he grew quite white. he read something intently, groaning to himself: "mein gott! mein gott! so soon! so soon!" i do not think he remembered me at the moment. just then the whistle blew, and the train moved off. this recalled him to himself, and he leaned out of the window and waved his hand, calling out: "love to madam mina; i shall write so soon as ever i can." _dr. seward's diary._ _26 september._--truly there is no such thing as finality. not a week since i said "finis," and yet here i am starting fresh again, or rather going on with the same record. until this afternoon i had no cause to think of what is done. renfield had become, to all intents, as sane as he ever was. he was already well ahead with his fly business; and he had just started in the spider line also; so he had not been of any trouble to me. i had a letter from arthur, written on sunday, and from it i gather that he is bearing up wonderfully well. quincey morris is with him, and that is much of a help, for he himself is a bubbling well of good spirits. quincey wrote me a line too, and from him i hear that arthur is beginning to recover something of his old buoyancy; so as to them all my mind is at rest. as for myself, i was settling down to my work with the enthusiasm which i used to have for it, so that i might fairly have said that the wound which poor lucy left on me was becoming cicatrised. everything is, however, now reopened; and what is to be the end god only knows. i have an idea that van helsing thinks he knows, too, but he will only let out enough at a time to whet curiosity. he went to exeter yesterday, and stayed there all night. to-day he came back, and almost bounded into the room at about half-past five o'clock, and thrust last night's "westminster gazette" into my hand. "what do you think of that?" he asked as he stood back and folded his arms. i looked over the paper, for i really did not know what he meant; but he took it from me and pointed out a paragraph about children being decoyed away at hampstead. it did not convey much to me, until i reached a passage where it described small punctured wounds on their throats. an idea struck me, and i looked up. "well?" he said. "it is like poor lucy's." "and what do you make of it?" "simply that there is some cause in common. whatever it was that injured her has injured them." i did not quite understand his answer:-"that is true indirectly, but not directly." "how do you mean, professor?" i asked. i was a little inclined to take his seriousness lightly--for, after all, four days of rest and freedom from burning, harrowing anxiety does help to restore one's spirits--but when i saw his face, it sobered me. never, even in the midst of our despair about poor lucy, had he looked more stern. "tell me!" i said. "i can hazard no opinion. i do not know what to think, and i have no data on which to found a conjecture." "do you mean to tell me, friend john, that you have no suspicion as to what poor lucy died of; not after all the hints given, not only by events, but by me?" "of nervous prostration following on great loss or waste of blood." "and how the blood lost or waste?" i shook my head. he stepped over and sat down beside me, and went on:-"you are clever man, friend john; you reason well, and your wit is bold; but you are too prejudiced. you do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to you. do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and yet which are; that some people see things that others cannot? but there are things old and new which must not be contemplate by men's eyes, because they know--or think they know--some things which other men have told them. ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to explain all; and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain. but yet we see around us every day the growth of new beliefs, which think themselves new; and which are yet but the old, which pretend to be young--like the fine ladies at the opera. i suppose now you do not believe in corporeal transference. no? nor in materialisation. no? nor in astral bodies. no? nor in the reading of thought. no? nor in hypnotism----" "yes," i said. "charcot has proved that pretty well." he smiled as he went on: "then you are satisfied as to it. yes? and of course then you understand how it act, and can follow the mind of the great charcot--alas that he is no more!--into the very soul of the patient that he influence. no? then, friend john, am i to take it that you simply accept fact, and are satisfied to let from premise to conclusion be a blank? no? then tell me--for i am student of the brain--how you accept the hypnotism and reject the thought reading. let me tell you, my friend, that there are things done to-day in electrical science which would have been deemed unholy by the very men who discovered electricity--who would themselves not so long before have been burned as wizards. there are always mysteries in life. why was it that methuselah lived nine hundred years, and 'old parr' one hundred and sixty-nine, and yet that poor lucy, with four men's blood in her poor veins, could not live even one day? for, had she live one more day, we could have save her. do you know all the mystery of life and death? do you know the altogether of comparative anatomy and can say wherefore the qualities of brutes are in some men, and not in others? can you tell me why, when other spiders die small and soon, that one great spider lived for centuries in the tower of the old spanish church and grew and grew, till, on descending, he could drink the oil of all the church lamps? can you tell me why in the pampas, ay and elsewhere, there are bats that come at night and open the veins of cattle and horses and suck dry their veins; how in some islands of the western seas there are bats which hang on the trees all day, and those who have seen describe as like giant nuts or pods, and that when the sailors sleep on the deck, because that it is hot, flit down on them, and then--and then in the morning are found dead men, white as even miss lucy was?" "good god, professor!" i said, starting up. "do you mean to tell me that lucy was bitten by such a bat; and that such a thing is here in london in the nineteenth century?" he waved his hand for silence, and went on:-"can you tell me why the tortoise lives more long than generations of men; why the elephant goes on and on till he have seen dynasties; and why the parrot never die only of bite of cat or dog or other complaint? can you tell me why men believe in all ages and places that there are some few who live on always if they be permit; that there are men and women who cannot die? we all know--because science has vouched for the fact--that there have been toads shut up in rocks for thousands of years, shut in one so small hole that only hold him since the youth of the world. can you tell me how the indian fakir can make himself to die and have been buried, and his grave sealed and corn sowed on it, and the corn reaped and be cut and sown and reaped and cut again, and then men come and take away the unbroken seal and that there lie the indian fakir, not dead, but that rise up and walk amongst them as before?" here i interrupted him. i was getting bewildered; he so crowded on my mind his list of nature's eccentricities and possible impossibilities that my imagination was getting fired. i had a dim idea that he was teaching me some lesson, as long ago he used to do in his study at amsterdam; but he used then to tell me the thing, so that i could have the object of thought in mind all the time. but now i was without this help, yet i wanted to follow him, so i said:-"professor, let me be your pet student again. tell me the thesis, so that i may apply your knowledge as you go on. at present i am going in my mind from point to point as a mad man, and not a sane one, follows an idea. i feel like a novice lumbering through a bog in a mist, jumping from one tussock to another in the mere blind effort to move on without knowing where i am going." "that is good image," he said. "well, i shall tell you. my thesis is this: i want you to believe." "to believe what?" "to believe in things that you cannot. let me illustrate. i heard once of an american who so defined faith: 'that faculty which enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue.' for one, i follow that man. he meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a little bit of truth check the rush of a big truth, like a small rock does a railway truck. we get the small truth first. good! we keep him, and we value him; but all the same we must not let him think himself all the truth in the universe." "then you want me not to let some previous conviction injure the receptivity of my mind with regard to some strange matter. do i read your lesson aright?" "ah, you are my favourite pupil still. it is worth to teach you. now that you are willing to understand, you have taken the first step to understand. you think then that those so small holes in the children's throats were made by the same that made the hole in miss lucy?" "i suppose so." he stood up and said solemnly:-"then you are wrong. oh, would it were so! but alas! no. it is worse, far, far worse." "in god's name, professor van helsing, what do you mean?" i cried. he threw himself with a despairing gesture into a chair, and placed his elbows on the table, covering his face with his hands as he spoke:-"they were made by miss lucy!" chapter xv dr. seward's diary--_continued_. for a while sheer anger mastered me; it was as if he had during her life struck lucy on the face. i smote the table hard and rose up as i said to him:-"dr. van helsing, are you mad?" he raised his head and looked at me, and somehow the tenderness of his face calmed me at once. "would i were!" he said. "madness were easy to bear compared with truth like this. oh, my friend, why, think you, did i go so far round, why take so long to tell you so simple a thing? was it because i hate you and have hated you all my life? was it because i wished to give you pain? was it that i wanted, now so late, revenge for that time when you saved my life, and from a fearful death? ah no!" "forgive me," said i. he went on:-"my friend, it was because i wished to be gentle in the breaking to you, for i know you have loved that so sweet lady. but even yet i do not expect you to believe. it is so hard to accept at once any abstract truth, that we may doubt such to be possible when we have always believed the 'no' of it; it is more hard still to accept so sad a concrete truth, and of such a one as miss lucy. to-night i go to prove it. dare you come with me?" this staggered me. a man does not like to prove such a truth; byron excepted from the category, jealousy. "and prove the very truth he most abhorred." he saw my hesitation, and spoke:-"the logic is simple, no madman's logic this time, jumping from tussock to tussock in a misty bog. if it be not true, then proof will be relief; at worst it will not harm. if it be true! ah, there is the dread; yet very dread should help my cause, for in it is some need of belief. come, i tell you what i propose: first, that we go off now and see that child in the hospital. dr. vincent, of the north hospital, where the papers say the child is, is friend of mine, and i think of yours since you were in class at amsterdam. he will let two scientists see his case, if he will not let two friends. we shall tell him nothing, but only that we wish to learn. and then----" "and then?" he took a key from his pocket and held it up. "and then we spend the night, you and i, in the churchyard where lucy lies. this is the key that lock the tomb. i had it from the coffin-man to give to arthur." my heart sank within me, for i felt that there was some fearful ordeal before us. i could do nothing, however, so i plucked up what heart i could and said that we had better hasten, as the afternoon was passing.... we found the child awake. it had had a sleep and taken some food, and altogether was going on well. dr. vincent took the bandage from its throat, and showed us the punctures. there was no mistaking the similarity to those which had been on lucy's throat. they were smaller, and the edges looked fresher; that was all. we asked vincent to what he attributed them, and he replied that it must have been a bite of some animal, perhaps a rat; but, for his own part, he was inclined to think that it was one of the bats which are so numerous on the northern heights of london. "out of so many harmless ones," he said, "there may be some wild specimen from the south of a more malignant species. some sailor may have brought one home, and it managed to escape; or even from the zoã¶logical gardens a young one may have got loose, or one be bred there from a vampire. these things do occur, you know. only ten days ago a wolf got out, and was, i believe, traced up in this direction. for a week after, the children were playing nothing but red riding hood on the heath and in every alley in the place until this 'bloofer lady' scare came along, since when it has been quite a gala-time with them. even this poor little mite, when he woke up to-day, asked the nurse if he might go away. when she asked him why he wanted to go, he said he wanted to play with the 'bloofer lady.'" "i hope," said van helsing, "that when you are sending the child home you will caution its parents to keep strict watch over it. these fancies to stray are most dangerous; and if the child were to remain out another night, it would probably be fatal. but in any case i suppose you will not let it away for some days?" "certainly not, not for a week at least; longer if the wound is not healed." our visit to the hospital took more time than we had reckoned on, and the sun had dipped before we came out. when van helsing saw how dark it was, he said:-"there is no hurry. it is more late than i thought. come, let us seek somewhere that we may eat, and then we shall go on our way." we dined at "jack straw's castle" along with a little crowd of bicyclists and others who were genially noisy. about ten o'clock we started from the inn. it was then very dark, and the scattered lamps made the darkness greater when we were once outside their individual radius. the professor had evidently noted the road we were to go, for he went on unhesitatingly; but, as for me, i was in quite a mixup as to locality. as we went further, we met fewer and fewer people, till at last we were somewhat surprised when we met even the patrol of horse police going their usual suburban round. at last we reached the wall of the churchyard, which we climbed over. with some little difficulty--for it was very dark, and the whole place seemed so strange to us--we found the westenra tomb. the professor took the key, opened the creaky door, and standing back, politely, but quite unconsciously, motioned me to precede him. there was a delicious irony in the offer, in the courtliness of giving preference on such a ghastly occasion. my companion followed me quickly, and cautiously drew the door to, after carefully ascertaining that the lock was a falling, and not a spring, one. in the latter case we should have been in a bad plight. then he fumbled in his bag, and taking out a matchbox and a piece of candle, proceeded to make a light. the tomb in the day-time, and when wreathed with fresh flowers, had looked grim and gruesome enough; but now, some days afterwards, when the flowers hung lank and dead, their whites turning to rust and their greens to browns; when the spider and the beetle had resumed their accustomed dominance; when time-discoloured stone, and dust-encrusted mortar, and rusty, dank iron, and tarnished brass, and clouded silver-plating gave back the feeble glimmer of a candle, the effect was more miserable and sordid than could have been imagined. it conveyed irresistibly the idea that life--animal life--was not the only thing which could pass away. van helsing went about his work systematically. holding his candle so that he could read the coffin plates, and so holding it that the sperm dropped in white patches which congealed as they touched the metal, he made assurance of lucy's coffin. another search in his bag, and he took out a turnscrew. "what are you going to do?" i asked. "to open the coffin. you shall yet be convinced." straightway he began taking out the screws, and finally lifted off the lid, showing the casing of lead beneath. the sight was almost too much for me. it seemed to be as much an affront to the dead as it would have been to have stripped off her clothing in her sleep whilst living; i actually took hold of his hand to stop him. he only said: "you shall see," and again fumbling in his bag, took out a tiny fret-saw. striking the turnscrew through the lead with a swift downward stab, which made me wince, he made a small hole, which was, however, big enough to admit the point of the saw. i had expected a rush of gas from the week-old corpse. we doctors, who have had to study our dangers, have to become accustomed to such things, and i drew back towards the door. but the professor never stopped for a moment; he sawed down a couple of feet along one side of the lead coffin, and then across, and down the other side. taking the edge of the loose flange, he bent it back towards the foot of the coffin, and holding up the candle into the aperture, motioned to me to look. i drew near and looked. the coffin was empty. it was certainly a surprise to me, and gave me a considerable shock, but van helsing was unmoved. he was now more sure than ever of his ground, and so emboldened to proceed in his task. "are you satisfied now, friend john?" he asked. i felt all the dogged argumentativeness of my nature awake within me as i answered him:-"i am satisfied that lucy's body is not in that coffin; but that only proves one thing." "and what is that, friend john?" "that it is not there." "that is good logic," he said, "so far as it goes. but how do you--how can you--account for it not being there?" "perhaps a body-snatcher," i suggested. "some of the undertaker's people may have stolen it." i felt that i was speaking folly, and yet it was the only real cause which i could suggest. the professor sighed. "ah well!" he said, "we must have more proof. come with me." he put on the coffin-lid again, gathered up all his things and placed them in the bag, blew out the light, and placed the candle also in the bag. we opened the door, and went out. behind us he closed the door and locked it. he handed me the key, saying: "will you keep it? you had better be assured." i laughed--it was not a very cheerful laugh, i am bound to say--as i motioned him to keep it. "a key is nothing," i said; "there may be duplicates; and anyhow it is not difficult to pick a lock of that kind." he said nothing, but put the key in his pocket. then he told me to watch at one side of the churchyard whilst he would watch at the other. i took up my place behind a yew-tree, and i saw his dark figure move until the intervening headstones and trees hid it from my sight. it was a lonely vigil. just after i had taken my place i heard a distant clock strike twelve, and in time came one and two. i was chilled and unnerved, and angry with the professor for taking me on such an errand and with myself for coming. i was too cold and too sleepy to be keenly observant, and not sleepy enough to betray my trust so altogether i had a dreary, miserable time. suddenly, as i turned round, i thought i saw something like a white streak, moving between two dark yew-trees at the side of the churchyard farthest from the tomb; at the same time a dark mass moved from the professor's side of the ground, and hurriedly went towards it. then i too moved; but i had to go round headstones and railed-off tombs, and i stumbled over graves. the sky was overcast, and somewhere far off an early cock crew. a little way off, beyond a line of scattered juniper-trees, which marked the pathway to the church, a white, dim figure flitted in the direction of the tomb. the tomb itself was hidden by trees, and i could not see where the figure disappeared. i heard the rustle of actual movement where i had first seen the white figure, and coming over, found the professor holding in his arms a tiny child. when he saw me he held it out to me, and said:-"are you satisfied now?" "no," i said, in a way that i felt was aggressive. "do you not see the child?" "yes, it is a child, but who brought it here? and is it wounded?" i asked. "we shall see," said the professor, and with one impulse we took our way out of the churchyard, he carrying the sleeping child. when we had got some little distance away, we went into a clump of trees, and struck a match, and looked at the child's throat. it was without a scratch or scar of any kind. "was i right?" i asked triumphantly. "we were just in time," said the professor thankfully. we had now to decide what we were to do with the child, and so consulted about it. if we were to take it to a police-station we should have to give some account of our movements during the night; at least, we should have had to make some statement as to how we had come to find the child. so finally we decided that we would take it to the heath, and when we heard a policeman coming, would leave it where he could not fail to find it; we would then seek our way home as quickly as we could. all fell out well. at the edge of hampstead heath we heard a policeman's heavy tramp, and laying the child on the pathway, we waited and watched until he saw it as he flashed his lantern to and fro. we heard his exclamation of astonishment, and then we went away silently. by good chance we got a cab near the "spaniards," and drove to town. i cannot sleep, so i make this entry. but i must try to get a few hours' sleep, as van helsing is to call for me at noon. he insists that i shall go with him on another expedition. * * * * * _27 september._--it was two o'clock before we found a suitable opportunity for our attempt. the funeral held at noon was all completed, and the last stragglers of the mourners had taken themselves lazily away, when, looking carefully from behind a clump of alder-trees, we saw the sexton lock the gate after him. we knew then that we were safe till morning did we desire it; but the professor told me that we should not want more than an hour at most. again i felt that horrid sense of the reality of things, in which any effort of imagination seemed out of place; and i realised distinctly the perils of the law which we were incurring in our unhallowed work. besides, i felt it was all so useless. outrageous as it was to open a leaden coffin, to see if a woman dead nearly a week were really dead, it now seemed the height of folly to open the tomb again, when we knew, from the evidence of our own eyesight, that the coffin was empty. i shrugged my shoulders, however, and rested silent, for van helsing had a way of going on his own road, no matter who remonstrated. he took the key, opened the vault, and again courteously motioned me to precede. the place was not so gruesome as last night, but oh, how unutterably mean-looking when the sunshine streamed in. van helsing walked over to lucy's coffin, and i followed. he bent over and again forced back the leaden flange; and then a shock of surprise and dismay shot through me. there lay lucy, seemingly just as we had seen her the night before her funeral. she was, if possible, more radiantly beautiful than ever; and i could not believe that she was dead. the lips were red, nay redder than before; and on the cheeks was a delicate bloom. "is this a juggle?" i said to him. "are you convinced now?" said the professor in response, and as he spoke he put over his hand, and in a way that made me shudder, pulled back the dead lips and showed the white teeth. "see," he went on, "see, they are even sharper than before. with this and this"--and he touched one of the canine teeth and that below it--"the little children can be bitten. are you of belief now, friend john?" once more, argumentative hostility woke within me. i _could_ not accept such an overwhelming idea as he suggested; so, with an attempt to argue of which i was even at the moment ashamed, i said:-"she may have been placed here since last night." "indeed? that is so, and by whom?" "i do not know. some one has done it." "and yet she has been dead one week. most peoples in that time would not look so." i had no answer for this, so was silent. van helsing did not seem to notice my silence; at any rate, he showed neither chagrin nor triumph. he was looking intently at the face of the dead woman, raising the eyelids and looking at the eyes, and once more opening the lips and examining the teeth. then he turned to me and said:-"here, there is one thing which is different from all recorded; here is some dual life that is not as the common. she was bitten by the vampire when she was in a trance, sleep-walking--oh, you start; you do not know that, friend john, but you shall know it all later--and in trance could he best come to take more blood. in trance she died, and in trance she is un-dead, too. so it is that she differ from all other. usually when the un-dead sleep at home"--as he spoke he made a comprehensive sweep of his arm to designate what to a vampire was "home"--"their face show what they are, but this so sweet that was when she not un-dead she go back to the nothings of the common dead. there is no malign there, see, and so it make hard that i must kill her in her sleep." this turned my blood cold, and it began to dawn upon me that i was accepting van helsing's theories; but if she were really dead, what was there of terror in the idea of killing her? he looked up at me, and evidently saw the change in my face, for he said almost joyously:-"ah, you believe now?" i answered: "do not press me too hard all at once. i am willing to accept. how will you do this bloody work?" "i shall cut off her head and fill her mouth with garlic, and i shall drive a stake through her body." it made me shudder to think of so mutilating the body of the woman whom i had loved. and yet the feeling was not so strong as i had expected. i was, in fact, beginning to shudder at the presence of this being, this un-dead, as van helsing called it, and to loathe it. is it possible that love is all subjective, or all objective? i waited a considerable time for van helsing to begin, but he stood as if wrapped in thought. presently he closed the catch of his bag with a snap, and said:-"i have been thinking, and have made up my mind as to what is best. if i did simply follow my inclining i would do now, at this moment, what is to be done; but there are other things to follow, and things that are thousand times more difficult in that them we do not know. this is simple. she have yet no life taken, though that is of time; and to act now would be to take danger from her for ever. but then we may have to want arthur, and how shall we tell him of this? if you, who saw the wounds on lucy's throat, and saw the wounds so similar on the child's at the hospital; if you, who saw the coffin empty last night and full to-day with a woman who have not change only to be more rose and more beautiful in a whole week, after she die--if you know of this and know of the white figure last night that brought the child to the churchyard, and yet of your own senses you did not believe, how, then, can i expect arthur, who know none of those things, to believe? he doubted me when i took him from her kiss when she was dying. i know he has forgiven me because in some mistaken idea i have done things that prevent him say good-bye as he ought; and he may think that in some more mistaken idea this woman was buried alive; and that in most mistake of all we have killed her. he will then argue back that it is we, mistaken ones, that have killed her by our ideas; and so he will be much unhappy always. yet he never can be sure; and that is the worst of all. and he will sometimes think that she he loved was buried alive, and that will paint his dreams with horrors of what she must have suffered; and again, he will think that we may be right, and that his so beloved was, after all, an un-dead. no! i told him once, and since then i learn much. now, since i know it is all true, a hundred thousand times more do i know that he must pass through the bitter waters to reach the sweet. he, poor fellow, must have one hour that will make the very face of heaven grow black to him; then we can act for good all round and send him peace. my mind is made up. let us go. you return home for to-night to your asylum, and see that all be well. as for me, i shall spend the night here in this churchyard in my own way. to-morrow night you will come to me to the berkeley hotel at ten of the clock. i shall send for arthur to come too, and also that so fine young man of america that gave his blood. later we shall all have work to do. i come with you so far as piccadilly and there dine, for i must be back here before the sun set." so we locked the tomb and came away, and got over the wall of the churchyard, which was not much of a task, and drove back to piccadilly. _note left by van helsing in his portmanteau, berkeley hotel directed to john seward, m. d._ (not delivered.) "_27 september._ "friend john,-"i write this in case anything should happen. i go alone to watch in that churchyard. it pleases me that the un-dead, miss lucy, shall not leave to-night, that so on the morrow night she may be more eager. therefore i shall fix some things she like not--garlic and a crucifix--and so seal up the door of the tomb. she is young as un-dead, and will heed. moreover, these are only to prevent her coming out; they may not prevail on her wanting to get in; for then the un-dead is desperate, and must find the line of least resistance, whatsoever it may be. i shall be at hand all the night from sunset till after the sunrise, and if there be aught that may be learned i shall learn it. for miss lucy or from her, i have no fear; but that other to whom is there that she is un-dead, he have now the power to seek her tomb and find shelter. he is cunning, as i know from mr. jonathan and from the way that all along he have fooled us when he played with us for miss lucy's life, and we lost; and in many ways the un-dead are strong. he have always the strength in his hand of twenty men; even we four who gave our strength to miss lucy it also is all to him. besides, he can summon his wolf and i know not what. so if it be that he come thither on this night he shall find me; but none other shall--until it be too late. but it may be that he will not attempt the place. there is no reason why he should; his hunting ground is more full of game than the churchyard where the un-dead woman sleep, and the one old man watch. "therefore i write this in case.... take the papers that are with this, the diaries of harker and the rest, and read them, and then find this great un-dead, and cut off his head and burn his heart or drive a stake through it, so that the world may rest from him. "if it be so, farewell. "van helsing." _dr. seward's diary._ _28 september._--it is wonderful what a good night's sleep will do for one. yesterday i was almost willing to accept van helsing's monstrous ideas; but now they seem to start out lurid before me as outrages on common sense. i have no doubt that he believes it all. i wonder if his mind can have become in any way unhinged. surely there must be _some_ rational explanation of all these mysterious things. is it possible that the professor can have done it himself? he is so abnormally clever that if he went off his head he would carry out his intent with regard to some fixed idea in a wonderful way. i am loath to think it, and indeed it would be almost as great a marvel as the other to find that van helsing was mad; but anyhow i shall watch him carefully. i may get some light on the mystery. * * * * * _29 september, morning._.... last night, at a little before ten o'clock, arthur and quincey came into van helsing's room; he told us all that he wanted us to do, but especially addressing himself to arthur, as if all our wills were centred in his. he began by saying that he hoped we would all come with him too, "for," he said, "there is a grave duty to be done there. you were doubtless surprised at my letter?" this query was directly addressed to lord godalming. "i was. it rather upset me for a bit. there has been so much trouble around my house of late that i could do without any more. i have been curious, too, as to what you mean. quincey and i talked it over; but the more we talked, the more puzzled we got, till now i can say for myself that i'm about up a tree as to any meaning about anything." "me too," said quincey morris laconically. "oh," said the professor, "then you are nearer the beginning, both of you, than friend john here, who has to go a long way back before he can even get so far as to begin." it was evident that he recognised my return to my old doubting frame of mind without my saying a word. then, turning to the other two, he said with intense gravity:-"i want your permission to do what i think good this night. it is, i know, much to ask; and when you know what it is i propose to do you will know, and only then, how much. therefore may i ask that you promise me in the dark, so that afterwards, though you may be angry with me for a time--i must not disguise from myself the possibility that such may be--you shall not blame yourselves for anything." "that's frank anyhow," broke in quincey. "i'll answer for the professor. i don't quite see his drift, but i swear he's honest; and that's good enough for me." "i thank you, sir," said van helsing proudly. "i have done myself the honour of counting you one trusting friend, and such endorsement is dear to me." he held out a hand, which quincey took. then arthur spoke out:-"dr. van helsing, i don't quite like to 'buy a pig in a poke,' as they say in scotland, and if it be anything in which my honour as a gentleman or my faith as a christian is concerned, i cannot make such a promise. if you can assure me that what you intend does not violate either of these two, then i give my consent at once; though for the life of me, i cannot understand what you are driving at." "i accept your limitation," said van helsing, "and all i ask of you is that if you feel it necessary to condemn any act of mine, you will first consider it well and be satisfied that it does not violate your reservations." "agreed!" said arthur; "that is only fair. and now that the _pourparlers_ are over, may i ask what it is we are to do?" "i want you to come with me, and to come in secret, to the churchyard at kingstead." arthur's face fell as he said in an amazed sort of way:-"where poor lucy is buried?" the professor bowed. arthur went on: "and when there?" "to enter the tomb!" arthur stood up. "professor, are you in earnest; or it is some monstrous joke? pardon me, i see that you are in earnest." he sat down again, but i could see that he sat firmly and proudly, as one who is on his dignity. there was silence until he asked again:-"and when in the tomb?" "to open the coffin." "this is too much!" he said, angrily rising again. "i am willing to be patient in all things that are reasonable; but in this--this desecration of the grave--of one who----" he fairly choked with indignation. the professor looked pityingly at him. "if i could spare you one pang, my poor friend," he said, "god knows i would. but this night our feet must tread in thorny paths; or later, and for ever, the feet you love must walk in paths of flame!" arthur looked up with set white face and said:-"take care, sir, take care!" "would it not be well to hear what i have to say?" said van helsing. "and then you will at least know the limit of my purpose. shall i go on?" "that's fair enough," broke in morris. after a pause van helsing went on, evidently with an effort:-"miss lucy is dead; is it not so? yes! then there can be no wrong to her. but if she be not dead----" arthur jumped to his feet. "good god!" he cried. "what do you mean? has there been any mistake; has she been buried alive?" he groaned in anguish that not even hope could soften. "i did not say she was alive, my child; i did not think it. i go no further than to say that she might be un-dead." "un-dead! not alive! what do you mean? is this all a nightmare, or what is it?" "there are mysteries which men can only guess at, which age by age they may solve only in part. believe me, we are now on the verge of one. but i have not done. may i cut off the head of dead miss lucy?" "heavens and earth, no!" cried arthur in a storm of passion. "not for the wide world will i consent to any mutilation of her dead body. dr. van helsing, you try me too far. what have i done to you that you should torture me so? what did that poor, sweet girl do that you should want to cast such dishonour on her grave? are you mad that speak such things, or am i mad to listen to them? don't dare to think more of such a desecration; i shall not give my consent to anything you do. i have a duty to do in protecting her grave from outrage; and, by god, i shall do it!" van helsing rose up from where he had all the time been seated, and said, gravely and sternly:-"my lord godalming, i, too, have a duty to do, a duty to others, a duty to you, a duty to the dead; and, by god, i shall do it! all i ask you now is that you come with me, that you look and listen; and if when later i make the same request you do not be more eager for its fulfilment even than i am, then--then i shall do my duty, whatever it may seem to me. and then, to follow of your lordship's wishes i shall hold myself at your disposal to render an account to you, when and where you will." his voice broke a little, and he went on with a voice full of pity:-"but, i beseech you, do not go forth in anger with me. in a long life of acts which were often not pleasant to do, and which sometimes did wring my heart, i have never had so heavy a task as now. believe me that if the time comes for you to change your mind towards me, one look from you will wipe away all this so sad hour, for i would do what a man can to save you from sorrow. just think. for why should i give myself so much of labour and so much of sorrow? i have come here from my own land to do what i can of good; at the first to please my friend john, and then to help a sweet young lady, whom, too, i came to love. for her--i am ashamed to say so much, but i say it in kindness--i gave what you gave; the blood of my veins; i gave it, i, who was not, like you, her lover, but only her physician and her friend. i gave to her my nights and days--before death, after death; and if my death can do her good even now, when she is the dead un-dead, she shall have it freely." he said this with a very grave, sweet pride, and arthur was much affected by it. he took the old man's hand and said in a broken voice:-"oh, it is hard to think of it, and i cannot understand; but at least i shall go with you and wait." chapter xvi dr. seward's diary--_continued_ it was just a quarter before twelve o'clock when we got into the churchyard over the low wall. the night was dark with occasional gleams of moonlight between the rents of the heavy clouds that scudded across the sky. we all kept somehow close together, with van helsing slightly in front as he led the way. when we had come close to the tomb i looked well at arthur, for i feared that the proximity to a place laden with so sorrowful a memory would upset him; but he bore himself well. i took it that the very mystery of the proceeding was in some way a counteractant to his grief. the professor unlocked the door, and seeing a natural hesitation amongst us for various reasons, solved the difficulty by entering first himself. the rest of us followed, and he closed the door. he then lit a dark lantern and pointed to the coffin. arthur stepped forward hesitatingly; van helsing said to me:-"you were with me here yesterday. was the body of miss lucy in that coffin?" "it was." the professor turned to the rest saying:-"you hear; and yet there is no one who does not believe with me." he took his screwdriver and again took off the lid of the coffin. arthur looked on, very pale but silent; when the lid was removed he stepped forward. he evidently did not know that there was a leaden coffin, or, at any rate, had not thought of it. when he saw the rent in the lead, the blood rushed to his face for an instant, but as quickly fell away again, so that he remained of a ghastly whiteness; he was still silent. van helsing forced back the leaden flange, and we all looked in and recoiled. the coffin was empty! for several minutes no one spoke a word. the silence was broken by quincey morris:-"professor, i answered for you. your word is all i want. i wouldn't ask such a thing ordinarily--i wouldn't so dishonour you as to imply a doubt; but this is a mystery that goes beyond any honour or dishonour. is this your doing?" "i swear to you by all that i hold sacred that i have not removed nor touched her. what happened was this: two nights ago my friend seward and i came here--with good purpose, believe me. i opened that coffin, which was then sealed up, and we found it, as now, empty. we then waited, and saw something white come through the trees. the next day we came here in day-time, and she lay there. did she not, friend john?" "yes." "that night we were just in time. one more so small child was missing, and we find it, thank god, unharmed amongst the graves. yesterday i came here before sundown, for at sundown the un-dead can move. i waited here all the night till the sun rose, but i saw nothing. it was most probable that it was because i had laid over the clamps of those doors garlic, which the un-dead cannot bear, and other things which they shun. last night there was no exodus, so to-night before the sundown i took away my garlic and other things. and so it is we find this coffin empty. but bear with me. so far there is much that is strange. wait you with me outside, unseen and unheard, and things much stranger are yet to be. so"--here he shut the dark slide of his lantern--"now to the outside." he opened the door, and we filed out, he coming last and locking the door behind him. oh! but it seemed fresh and pure in the night air after the terror of that vault. how sweet it was to see the clouds race by, and the passing gleams of the moonlight between the scudding clouds crossing and passing--like the gladness and sorrow of a man's life; how sweet it was to breathe the fresh air, that had no taint of death and decay; how humanising to see the red lighting of the sky beyond the hill, and to hear far away the muffled roar that marks the life of a great city. each in his own way was solemn and overcome. arthur was silent, and was, i could see, striving to grasp the purpose and the inner meaning of the mystery. i was myself tolerably patient, and half inclined again to throw aside doubt and to accept van helsing's conclusions. quincey morris was phlegmatic in the way of a man who accepts all things, and accepts them in the spirit of cool bravery, with hazard of all he has to stake. not being able to smoke, he cut himself a good-sized plug of tobacco and began to chew. as to van helsing, he was employed in a definite way. first he took from his bag a mass of what looked like thin, wafer-like biscuit, which was carefully rolled up in a white napkin; next he took out a double-handful of some whitish stuff, like dough or putty. he crumbled the wafer up fine and worked it into the mass between his hands. this he then took, and rolling it into thin strips, began to lay them into the crevices between the door and its setting in the tomb. i was somewhat puzzled at this, and being close, asked him what it was that he was doing. arthur and quincey drew near also, as they too were curious. he answered:-"i am closing the tomb, so that the un-dead may not enter." "and is that stuff you have put there going to do it?" asked quincey. "great scott! is this a game?" "it is." "what is that which you are using?" this time the question was by arthur. van helsing reverently lifted his hat as he answered:-"the host. i brought it from amsterdam. i have an indulgence." it was an answer that appalled the most sceptical of us, and we felt individually that in the presence of such earnest purpose as the professor's, a purpose which could thus use the to him most sacred of things, it was impossible to distrust. in respectful silence we took the places assigned to us close round the tomb, but hidden from the sight of any one approaching. i pitied the others, especially arthur. i had myself been apprenticed by my former visits to this watching horror; and yet i, who had up to an hour ago repudiated the proofs, felt my heart sink within me. never did tombs look so ghastly white; never did cypress, or yew, or juniper so seem the embodiment of funereal gloom; never did tree or grass wave or rustle so ominously; never did bough creak so mysteriously; and never did the far-away howling of dogs send such a woeful presage through the night. there was a long spell of silence, a big, aching void, and then from the professor a keen "s-s-s-s!" he pointed; and far down the avenue of yews we saw a white figure advance--a dim white figure, which held something dark at its breast. the figure stopped, and at the moment a ray of moonlight fell upon the masses of driving clouds and showed in startling prominence a dark-haired woman, dressed in the cerements of the grave. we could not see the face, for it was bent down over what we saw to be a fair-haired child. there was a pause and a sharp little cry, such as a child gives in sleep, or a dog as it lies before the fire and dreams. we were starting forward, but the professor's warning hand, seen by us as he stood behind a yew-tree, kept us back; and then as we looked the white figure moved forwards again. it was now near enough for us to see clearly, and the moonlight still held. my own heart grew cold as ice, and i could hear the gasp of arthur, as we recognised the features of lucy westenra. lucy westenra, but yet how changed. the sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness. van helsing stepped out, and, obedient to his gesture, we all advanced too; the four of us ranged in a line before the door of the tomb. van helsing raised his lantern and drew the slide; by the concentrated light that fell on lucy's face we could see that the lips were crimson with fresh blood, and that the stream had trickled over her chin and stained the purity of her lawn death-robe. we shuddered with horror. i could see by the tremulous light that even van helsing's iron nerve had failed. arthur was next to me, and if i had not seized his arm and held him up, he would have fallen. when lucy--i call the thing that was before us lucy because it bore her shape--saw us she drew back with an angry snarl, such as a cat gives when taken unawares; then her eyes ranged over us. lucy's eyes in form and colour; but lucy's eyes unclean and full of hell-fire, instead of the pure, gentle orbs we knew. at that moment the remnant of my love passed into hate and loathing; had she then to be killed, i could have done it with savage delight. as she looked, her eyes blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a voluptuous smile. oh, god, how it made me shudder to see it! with a careless motion, she flung to the ground, callous as a devil, the child that up to now she had clutched strenuously to her breast, growling over it as a dog growls over a bone. the child gave a sharp cry, and lay there moaning. there was a cold-bloodedness in the act which wrung a groan from arthur; when she advanced to him with outstretched arms and a wanton smile he fell back and hid his face in his hands. she still advanced, however, and with a languorous, voluptuous grace, said:-"come to me, arthur. leave these others and come to me. my arms are hungry for you. come, and we can rest together. come, my husband, come!" there was something diabolically sweet in her tones--something of the tingling of glass when struck--which rang through the brains even of us who heard the words addressed to another. as for arthur, he seemed under a spell; moving his hands from his face, he opened wide his arms. she was leaping for them, when van helsing sprang forward and held between them his little golden crucifix. she recoiled from it, and, with a suddenly distorted face, full of rage, dashed past him as if to enter the tomb. when within a foot or two of the door, however, she stopped, as if arrested by some irresistible force. then she turned, and her face was shown in the clear burst of moonlight and by the lamp, which had now no quiver from van helsing's iron nerves. never did i see such baffled malice on a face; and never, i trust, shall such ever be seen again by mortal eyes. the beautiful colour became livid, the eyes seemed to throw out sparks of hell-fire, the brows were wrinkled as though the folds of the flesh were the coils of medusa's snakes, and the lovely, blood-stained mouth grew to an open square, as in the passion masks of the greeks and japanese. if ever a face meant death--if looks could kill--we saw it at that moment. and so for full half a minute, which seemed an eternity, she remained between the lifted crucifix and the sacred closing of her means of entry. van helsing broke the silence by asking arthur:-"answer me, oh my friend! am i to proceed in my work?" arthur threw himself on his knees, and hid his face in his hands, as he answered:-"do as you will, friend; do as you will. there can be no horror like this ever any more;" and he groaned in spirit. quincey and i simultaneously moved towards him, and took his arms. we could hear the click of the closing lantern as van helsing held it down; coming close to the tomb, he began to remove from the chinks some of the sacred emblem which he had placed there. we all looked on in horrified amazement as we saw, when he stood back, the woman, with a corporeal body as real at that moment as our own, pass in through the interstice where scarce a knife-blade could have gone. we all felt a glad sense of relief when we saw the professor calmly restoring the strings of putty to the edges of the door. when this was done, he lifted the child and said: "come now, my friends; we can do no more till to-morrow. there is a funeral at noon, so here we shall all come before long after that. the friends of the dead will all be gone by two, and when the sexton lock the gate we shall remain. then there is more to do; but not like this of to-night. as for this little one, he is not much harm, and by to-morrow night he shall be well. we shall leave him where the police will find him, as on the other night; and then to home." coming close to arthur, he said:-"my friend arthur, you have had a sore trial; but after, when you look back, you will see how it was necessary. you are now in the bitter waters, my child. by this time to-morrow you will, please god, have passed them, and have drunk of the sweet waters; so do not mourn overmuch. till then i shall not ask you to forgive me." arthur and quincey came home with me, and we tried to cheer each other on the way. we had left the child in safety, and were tired; so we all slept with more or less reality of sleep. * * * * * _29 september, night._--a little before twelve o'clock we three--arthur, quincey morris, and myself--called for the professor. it was odd to notice that by common consent we had all put on black clothes. of course, arthur wore black, for he was in deep mourning, but the rest of us wore it by instinct. we got to the churchyard by half-past one, and strolled about, keeping out of official observation, so that when the gravediggers had completed their task and the sexton under the belief that every one had gone, had locked the gate, we had the place all to ourselves. van helsing, instead of his little black bag, had with him a long leather one, something like a cricketing bag; it was manifestly of fair weight. when we were alone and had heard the last of the footsteps die out up the road, we silently, and as if by ordered intention, followed the professor to the tomb. he unlocked the door, and we entered, closing it behind us. then he took from his bag the lantern, which he lit, and also two wax candles, which, when lighted, he stuck, by melting their own ends, on other coffins, so that they might give light sufficient to work by. when he again lifted the lid off lucy's coffin we all looked--arthur trembling like an aspen--and saw that the body lay there in all its death-beauty. but there was no love in my own heart, nothing but loathing for the foul thing which had taken lucy's shape without her soul. i could see even arthur's face grow hard as he looked. presently he said to van helsing:-"is this really lucy's body, or only a demon in her shape?" "it is her body, and yet not it. but wait a while, and you all see her as she was, and is." she seemed like a nightmare of lucy as she lay there; the pointed teeth, the bloodstained, voluptuous mouth--which it made one shudder to see--the whole carnal and unspiritual appearance, seeming like a devilish mockery of lucy's sweet purity. van helsing, with his usual methodicalness, began taking the various contents from his bag and placing them ready for use. first he took out a soldering iron and some plumbing solder, and then a small oil-lamp, which gave out, when lit in a corner of the tomb, gas which burned at fierce heat with a blue flame; then his operating knives, which he placed to hand; and last a round wooden stake, some two and a half or three inches thick and about three feet long. one end of it was hardened by charring in the fire, and was sharpened to a fine point. with this stake came a heavy hammer, such as in households is used in the coal-cellar for breaking the lumps. to me, a doctor's preparations for work of any kind are stimulating and bracing, but the effect of these things on both arthur and quincey was to cause them a sort of consternation. they both, however, kept their courage, and remained silent and quiet. when all was ready, van helsing said:-"before we do anything, let me tell you this; it is out of the lore and experience of the ancients and of all those who have studied the powers of the un-dead. when they become such, there comes with the change the curse of immortality; they cannot die, but must go on age after age adding new victims and multiplying the evils of the world; for all that die from the preying of the un-dead becomes themselves un-dead, and prey on their kind. and so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the ripples from a stone thrown in the water. friend arthur, if you had met that kiss which you know of before poor lucy die; or again, last night when you open your arms to her, you would in time, when you had died, have become _nosferatu_, as they call it in eastern europe, and would all time make more of those un-deads that so have fill us with horror. the career of this so unhappy dear lady is but just begun. those children whose blood she suck are not as yet so much the worse; but if she live on, un-dead, more and more they lose their blood and by her power over them they come to her; and so she draw their blood with that so wicked mouth. but if she die in truth, then all cease; the tiny wounds of the throats disappear, and they go back to their plays unknowing ever of what has been. but of the most blessed of all, when this now un-dead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor lady whom we love shall again be free. instead of working wickedness by night and growing more debased in the assimilating of it by day, she shall take her place with the other angels. so that, my friend, it will be a blessed hand for her that shall strike the blow that sets her free. to this i am willing; but is there none amongst us who has a better right? will it be no joy to think of hereafter in the silence of the night when sleep is not: 'it was my hand that sent her to the stars; it was the hand of him that loved her best; the hand that of all she would herself have chosen, had it been to her to choose?' tell me if there be such a one amongst us?" we all looked at arthur. he saw, too, what we all did, the infinite kindness which suggested that his should be the hand which would restore lucy to us as a holy, and not an unholy, memory; he stepped forward and said bravely, though his hand trembled, and his face was as pale as snow:-"my true friend, from the bottom of my broken heart i thank you. tell me what i am to do, and i shall not falter!" van helsing laid a hand on his shoulder, and said:-"brave lad! a moment's courage, and it is done. this stake must be driven through her. it will be a fearful ordeal--be not deceived in that--but it will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more than your pain was great; from this grim tomb you will emerge as though you tread on air. but you must not falter when once you have begun. only think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray for you all the time." "go on," said arthur hoarsely. "tell me what i am to do." "take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point over the heart, and the hammer in your right. then when we begin our prayer for the dead--i shall read him, i have here the book, and the others shall follow--strike in god's name, that so all may be well with the dead that we love and that the un-dead pass away." arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on action his hands never trembled nor even quivered. van helsing opened his missal and began to read, and quincey and i followed as well as we could. arthur placed the point over the heart, and as i looked i could see its dint in the white flesh. then he struck with all his might. the thing in the coffin writhed; and a hideous, blood-curdling screech came from the opened red lips. the body shook and quivered and twisted in wild contortions; the sharp white teeth champed together till the lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. but arthur never faltered. he looked like a figure of thor as his untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake, whilst the blood from the pierced heart welled and spurted up around it. his face was set, and high duty seemed to shine through it; the sight of it gave us courage so that our voices seemed to ring through the little vault. and then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the teeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver. finally it lay still. the terrible task was over. the hammer fell from arthur's hand. he reeled and would have fallen had we not caught him. the great drops of sweat sprang from his forehead, and his breath came in broken gasps. it had indeed been an awful strain on him; and had he not been forced to his task by more than human considerations he could never have gone through with it. for a few minutes we were so taken up with him that we did not look towards the coffin. when we did, however, a murmur of startled surprise ran from one to the other of us. we gazed so eagerly that arthur rose, for he had been seated on the ground, and came and looked too; and then a glad, strange light broke over his face and dispelled altogether the gloom of horror that lay upon it. there, in the coffin lay no longer the foul thing that we had so dreaded and grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a privilege to the one best entitled to it, but lucy as we had seen her in her life, with her face of unequalled sweetness and purity. true that there were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care and pain and waste; but these were all dear to us, for they marked her truth to what we knew. one and all we felt that the holy calm that lay like sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an earthly token and symbol of the calm that was to reign for ever. van helsing came and laid his hand on arthur's shoulder, and said to him:-"and now, arthur my friend, dear lad, am i not forgiven?" the reaction of the terrible strain came as he took the old man's hand in his, and raising it to his lips, pressed it, and said:-"forgiven! god bless you that you have given my dear one her soul again, and me peace." he put his hands on the professor's shoulder, and laying his head on his breast, cried for a while silently, whilst we stood unmoving. when he raised his head van helsing said to him:-"and now, my child, you may kiss her. kiss her dead lips if you will, as she would have you to, if for her to choose. for she is not a grinning devil now--not any more a foul thing for all eternity. no longer she is the devil's un-dead. she is god's true dead, whose soul is with him!" arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and quincey out of the tomb; the professor and i sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point of it in the body. then we cut off the head and filled the mouth with garlic. we soldered up the leaden coffin, screwed on the coffin-lid, and gathering up our belongings, came away. when the professor locked the door he gave the key to arthur. outside the air was sweet, the sun shone, and the birds sang, and it seemed as if all nature were tuned to a different pitch. there was gladness and mirth and peace everywhere, for we were at rest ourselves on one account, and we were glad, though it was with a tempered joy. before we moved away van helsing said:-"now, my friends, one step of our work is done, one the most harrowing to ourselves. but there remains a greater task: to find out the author of all this our sorrow and to stamp him out. i have clues which we can follow; but it is a long task, and a difficult, and there is danger in it, and pain. shall you not all help me? we have learned to believe, all of us--is it not so? and since so, do we not see our duty? yes! and do we not promise to go on to the bitter end?" each in turn, we took his hand, and the promise was made. then said the professor as we moved off:-"two nights hence you shall meet with me and dine together at seven of the clock with friend john. i shall entreat two others, two that you know not as yet; and i shall be ready to all our work show and our plans unfold. friend john, you come with me home, for i have much to consult about, and you can help me. to-night i leave for amsterdam, but shall return to-morrow night. and then begins our great quest. but first i shall have much to say, so that you may know what is to do and to dread. then our promise shall be made to each other anew; for there is a terrible task before us, and once our feet are on the ploughshare we must not draw back." chapter xvii dr. seward's diary--_continued_ when we arrived at the berkeley hotel, van helsing found a telegram waiting for him:- "am coming up by train. jonathan at whitby. important news.--mina harker." the professor was delighted. "ah, that wonderful madam mina," he said, "pearl among women! she arrive, but i cannot stay. she must go to your house, friend john. you must meet her at the station. telegraph her _en route_, so that she may be prepared." when the wire was despatched he had a cup of tea; over it he told me of a diary kept by jonathan harker when abroad, and gave me a typewritten copy of it, as also of mrs. harker's diary at whitby. "take these," he said, "and study them well. when i have returned you will be master of all the facts, and we can then better enter on our inquisition. keep them safe, for there is in them much of treasure. you will need all your faith, even you who have had such an experience as that of to-day. what is here told," he laid his hand heavily and gravely on the packet of papers as he spoke, "may be the beginning of the end to you and me and many another; or it may sound the knell of the un-dead who walk the earth. read all, i pray you, with the open mind; and if you can add in any way to the story here told do so, for it is all-important. you have kept diary of all these so strange things; is it not so? yes! then we shall go through all these together when we meet." he then made ready for his departure, and shortly after drove off to liverpool street. i took my way to paddington, where i arrived about fifteen minutes before the train came in. the crowd melted away, after the bustling fashion common to arrival platforms; and i was beginning to feel uneasy, lest i might miss my guest, when a sweet-faced, dainty-looking girl stepped up to me, and, after a quick glance, said: "dr. seward, is it not?" "and you are mrs. harker!" i answered at once; whereupon she held out her hand. "i knew you from the description of poor dear lucy; but----" she stopped suddenly, and a quick blush overspread her face. the blush that rose to my own cheeks somehow set us both at ease, for it was a tacit answer to her own. i got her luggage, which included a typewriter, and we took the underground to fenchurch street, after i had sent a wire to my housekeeper to have a sitting-room and bedroom prepared at once for mrs. harker. in due time we arrived. she knew, of course, that the place was a lunatic asylum, but i could see that she was unable to repress a shudder when we entered. she told me that, if she might, she would come presently to my study, as she had much to say. so here i am finishing my entry in my phonograph diary whilst i await her. as yet i have not had the chance of looking at the papers which van helsing left with me, though they lie open before me. i must get her interested in something, so that i may have an opportunity of reading them. she does not know how precious time is, or what a task we have in hand. i must be careful not to frighten her. here she is! _mina harker's journal._ _29 september._--after i had tidied myself, i went down to dr. seward's study. at the door i paused a moment, for i thought i heard him talking with some one. as, however, he had pressed me to be quick, i knocked at the door, and on his calling out, "come in," i entered. to my intense surprise, there was no one with him. he was quite alone, and on the table opposite him was what i knew at once from the description to be a phonograph. i had never seen one, and was much interested. "i hope i did not keep you waiting," i said; "but i stayed at the door as i heard you talking, and thought there was some one with you." "oh," he replied with a smile, "i was only entering my diary." "your diary?" i asked him in surprise. "yes," he answered. "i keep it in this." as he spoke he laid his hand on the phonograph. i felt quite excited over it, and blurted out:-"why, this beats even shorthand! may i hear it say something?" "certainly," he replied with alacrity, and stood up to put it in train for speaking. then he paused, and a troubled look overspread his face. "the fact is," he began awkwardly, "i only keep my diary in it; and as it is entirely--almost entirely--about my cases, it may be awkward--that is, i mean----" he stopped, and i tried to help him out of his embarrassment:-"you helped to attend dear lucy at the end. let me hear how she died; for all that i know of her, i shall be very grateful. she was very, very dear to me." to my surprise, he answered, with a horrorstruck look in his face:-"tell you of her death? not for the wide world!" "why not?" i asked, for some grave, terrible feeling was coming over me. again he paused, and i could see that he was trying to invent an excuse. at length he stammered out:-"you see, i do not know how to pick out any particular part of the diary." even while he was speaking an idea dawned upon him, and he said with unconscious simplicity, in a different voice, and with the naã¯vetã© of a child: "that's quite true, upon my honour. honest indian!" i could not but smile, at which he grimaced. "i gave myself away that time!" he said. "but do you know that, although i have kept the diary for months past, it never once struck me how i was going to find any particular part of it in case i wanted to look it up?" by this time my mind was made up that the diary of a doctor who attended lucy might have something to add to the sum of our knowledge of that terrible being, and i said boldly:-"then, dr. seward, you had better let me copy it out for you on my typewriter." he grew to a positively deathly pallor as he said:-"no! no! no! for all the world, i wouldn't let you know that terrible story!" then it was terrible; my intuition was right! for a moment i thought, and as my eyes ranged the room, unconsciously looking for something or some opportunity to aid me, they lit on a great batch of typewriting on the table. his eyes caught the look in mine, and, without his thinking, followed their direction. as they saw the parcel he realised my meaning. "you do not know me," i said. "when you have read those papers--my own diary and my husband's also, which i have typed--you will know me better. i have not faltered in giving every thought of my own heart in this cause; but, of course, you do not know me--yet; and i must not expect you to trust me so far." he is certainly a man of noble nature; poor dear lucy was right about him. he stood up and opened a large drawer, in which were arranged in order a number of hollow cylinders of metal covered with dark wax, and said:-"you are quite right. i did not trust you because i did not know you. but i know you now; and let me say that i should have known you long ago. i know that lucy told you of me; she told me of you too. may i make the only atonement in my power? take the cylinders and hear them--the first half-dozen of them are personal to me, and they will not horrify you; then you will know me better. dinner will by then be ready. in the meantime i shall read over some of these documents, and shall be better able to understand certain things." he carried the phonograph himself up to my sitting-room and adjusted it for me. now i shall learn something pleasant, i am sure; for it will tell me the other side of a true love episode of which i know one side already.... _dr. seward's diary._ _29 september._--i was so absorbed in that wonderful diary of jonathan harker and that other of his wife that i let the time run on without thinking. mrs. harker was not down when the maid came to announce dinner, so i said: "she is possibly tired; let dinner wait an hour," and i went on with my work. i had just finished mrs. harker's diary, when she came in. she looked sweetly pretty, but very sad, and her eyes were flushed with crying. this somehow moved me much. of late i have had cause for tears, god knows! but the relief of them was denied me; and now the sight of those sweet eyes, brightened with recent tears, went straight to my heart. so i said as gently as i could:-"i greatly fear i have distressed you." "oh, no, not distressed me," she replied, "but i have been more touched than i can say by your grief. that is a wonderful machine, but it is cruelly true. it told me, in its very tones, the anguish of your heart. it was like a soul crying out to almighty god. no one must hear them spoken ever again! see, i have tried to be useful. i have copied out the words on my typewriter, and none other need now hear your heart beat, as i did." "no one need ever know, shall ever know," i said in a low voice. she laid her hand on mine and said very gravely:-"ah, but they must!" "must! but why?" i asked. "because it is a part of the terrible story, a part of poor dear lucy's death and all that led to it; because in the struggle which we have before us to rid the earth of this terrible monster we must have all the knowledge and all the help which we can get. i think that the cylinders which you gave me contained more than you intended me to know; but i can see that there are in your record many lights to this dark mystery. you will let me help, will you not? i know all up to a certain point; and i see already, though your diary only took me to 7 september, how poor lucy was beset, and how her terrible doom was being wrought out. jonathan and i have been working day and night since professor van helsing saw us. he is gone to whitby to get more information, and he will be here to-morrow to help us. we need have no secrets amongst us; working together and with absolute trust, we can surely be stronger than if some of us were in the dark." she looked at me so appealingly, and at the same time manifested such courage and resolution in her bearing, that i gave in at once to her wishes. "you shall," i said, "do as you like in the matter. god forgive me if i do wrong! there are terrible things yet to learn of; but if you have so far travelled on the road to poor lucy's death, you will not be content, i know, to remain in the dark. nay, the end--the very end--may give you a gleam of peace. come, there is dinner. we must keep one another strong for what is before us; we have a cruel and dreadful task. when you have eaten you shall learn the rest, and i shall answer any questions you ask--if there be anything which you do not understand, though it was apparent to us who were present." _mina harker's journal._ _29 september._--after dinner i came with dr. seward to his study. he brought back the phonograph from my room, and i took my typewriter. he placed me in a comfortable chair, and arranged the phonograph so that i could touch it without getting up, and showed me how to stop it in case i should want to pause. then he very thoughtfully took a chair, with his back to me, so that i might be as free as possible, and began to read. i put the forked metal to my ears and listened. when the terrible story of lucy's death, and--and all that followed, was done, i lay back in my chair powerless. fortunately i am not of a fainting disposition. when dr. seward saw me he jumped up with a horrified exclamation, and hurriedly taking a case-bottle from a cupboard, gave me some brandy, which in a few minutes somewhat restored me. my brain was all in a whirl, and only that there came through all the multitude of horrors, the holy ray of light that my dear, dear lucy was at last at peace, i do not think i could have borne it without making a scene. it is all so wild, and mysterious, and strange that if i had not known jonathan's experience in transylvania i could not have believed. as it was, i didn't know what to believe, and so got out of my difficulty by attending to something else. i took the cover off my typewriter, and said to dr. seward:-"let me write this all out now. we must be ready for dr. van helsing when he comes. i have sent a telegram to jonathan to come on here when he arrives in london from whitby. in this matter dates are everything, and i think that if we get all our material ready, and have every item put in chronological order, we shall have done much. you tell me that lord godalming and mr. morris are coming too. let us be able to tell him when they come." he accordingly set the phonograph at a slow pace, and i began to typewrite from the beginning of the seventh cylinder. i used manifold, and so took three copies of the diary, just as i had done with all the rest. it was late when i got through, but dr. seward went about his work of going his round of the patients; when he had finished he came back and sat near me, reading, so that i did not feel too lonely whilst i worked. how good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full of good men--even if there _are_ monsters in it. before i left him i remembered what jonathan put in his diary of the professor's perturbation at reading something in an evening paper at the station at exeter; so, seeing that dr. seward keeps his newspapers, i borrowed the files of "the westminster gazette" and "the pall mall gazette," and took them to my room. i remember how much "the dailygraph" and "the whitby gazette," of which i had made cuttings, helped us to understand the terrible events at whitby when count dracula landed, so i shall look through the evening papers since then, and perhaps i shall get some new light. i am not sleepy, and the work will help to keep me quiet. _dr. seward's diary._ _30 september._--mr. harker arrived at nine o'clock. he had got his wife's wire just before starting. he is uncommonly clever, if one can judge from his face, and full of energy. if this journal be true--and judging by one's own wonderful experiences, it must be--he is also a man of great nerve. that going down to the vault a second time was a remarkable piece of daring. after reading his account of it i was prepared to meet a good specimen of manhood, but hardly the quiet, business-like gentleman who came here to-day. * * * * * _later._--after lunch harker and his wife went back to their own room, and as i passed a while ago i heard the click of the typewriter. they are hard at it. mrs. harker says that they are knitting together in chronological order every scrap of evidence they have. harker has got the letters between the consignee of the boxes at whitby and the carriers in london who took charge of them. he is now reading his wife's typescript of my diary. i wonder what they make out of it. here it is.... strange that it never struck me that the very next house might be the count's hiding-place! goodness knows that we had enough clues from the conduct of the patient renfield! the bundle of letters relating to the purchase of the house were with the typescript. oh, if we had only had them earlier we might have saved poor lucy! stop; that way madness lies! harker has gone back, and is again collating his material. he says that by dinner-time they will be able to show a whole connected narrative. he thinks that in the meantime i should see renfield, as hitherto he has been a sort of index to the coming and going of the count. i hardly see this yet, but when i get at the dates i suppose i shall. what a good thing that mrs. harker put my cylinders into type! we never could have found the dates otherwise.... i found renfield sitting placidly in his room with his hands folded, smiling benignly. at the moment he seemed as sane as any one i ever saw. i sat down and talked with him on a lot of subjects, all of which he treated naturally. he then, of his own accord, spoke of going home, a subject he has never mentioned to my knowledge during his sojourn here. in fact, he spoke quite confidently of getting his discharge at once. i believe that, had i not had the chat with harker and read the letters and the dates of his outbursts, i should have been prepared to sign for him after a brief time of observation. as it is, i am darkly suspicious. all those outbreaks were in some way linked with the proximity of the count. what then does this absolute content mean? can it be that his instinct is satisfied as to the vampire's ultimate triumph? stay; he is himself zoã¶phagous, and in his wild ravings outside the chapel door of the deserted house he always spoke of "master." this all seems confirmation of our idea. however, after a while i came away; my friend is just a little too sane at present to make it safe to probe him too deep with questions. he might begin to think, and then--! so i came away. i mistrust these quiet moods of his; so i have given the attendant a hint to look closely after him, and to have a strait-waistcoat ready in case of need. _jonathan harker's journal._ _29 september, in train to london._--when i received mr. billington's courteous message that he would give me any information in his power i thought it best to go down to whitby and make, on the spot, such inquiries as i wanted. it was now my object to trace that horrid cargo of the count's to its place in london. later, we may be able to deal with it. billington junior, a nice lad, met me at the station, and brought me to his father's house, where they had decided that i must stay the night. they are hospitable, with true yorkshire hospitality: give a guest everything, and leave him free to do as he likes. they all knew that i was busy, and that my stay was short, and mr. billington had ready in his office all the papers concerning the consignment of boxes. it gave me almost a turn to see again one of the letters which i had seen on the count's table before i knew of his diabolical plans. everything had been carefully thought out, and done systematically and with precision. he seemed to have been prepared for every obstacle which might be placed by accident in the way of his intentions being carried out. to use an americanism, he had "taken no chances," and the absolute accuracy with which his instructions were fulfilled, was simply the logical result of his care. i saw the invoice, and took note of it: "fifty cases of common earth, to be used for experimental purposes." also the copy of letter to carter paterson, and their reply; of both of these i got copies. this was all the information mr. billington could give me, so i went down to the port and saw the coastguards, the customs officers and the harbour-master. they had all something to say of the strange entry of the ship, which is already taking its place in local tradition; but no one could add to the simple description "fifty cases of common earth." i then saw the station-master, who kindly put me in communication with the men who had actually received the boxes. their tally was exact with the list, and they had nothing to add except that the boxes were "main and mortal heavy," and that shifting them was dry work. one of them added that it was hard lines that there wasn't any gentleman "such-like as yourself, squire," to show some sort of appreciation of their efforts in a liquid form; another put in a rider that the thirst then generated was such that even the time which had elapsed had not completely allayed it. needless to add, i took care before leaving to lift, for ever and adequately, this source of reproach. * * * * * _30 september._--the station-master was good enough to give me a line to his old companion the station-master at king's cross, so that when i arrived there in the morning i was able to ask him about the arrival of the boxes. he, too, put me at once in communication with the proper officials, and i saw that their tally was correct with the original invoice. the opportunities of acquiring an abnormal thirst had been here limited; a noble use of them had, however, been made, and again i was compelled to deal with the result in an _ex post facto_ manner. from thence i went on to carter paterson's central office, where i met with the utmost courtesy. they looked up the transaction in their day-book and letter-book, and at once telephoned to their king's cross office for more details. by good fortune, the men who did the teaming were waiting for work, and the official at once sent them over, sending also by one of them the way-bill and all the papers connected with the delivery of the boxes at carfax. here again i found the tally agreeing exactly; the carriers' men were able to supplement the paucity of the written words with a few details. these were, i shortly found, connected almost solely with the dusty nature of the job, and of the consequent thirst engendered in the operators. on my affording an opportunity, through the medium of the currency of the realm, of the allaying, at a later period, this beneficial evil, one of the men remarked:-"that 'ere 'ouse, guv'nor, is the rummiest i ever was in. blyme! but it ain't been touched sence a hundred years. there was dust that thick in the place that you might have slep' on it without 'urtin' of yer bones; an' the place was that neglected that yer might 'ave smelled ole jerusalem in it. but the ole chapel--that took the cike, that did! me and my mate, we thort we wouldn't never git out quick enough. lor', i wouldn't take less nor a quid a moment to stay there arter dark." having been in the house, i could well believe him; but if he knew what i know, he would, i think, have raised his terms. of one thing i am now satisfied: that _all_ the boxes which arrived at whitby from varna in the _demeter_ were safely deposited in the old chapel at carfax. there should be fifty of them there, unless any have since been removed--as from dr. seward's diary i fear. i shall try to see the carter who took away the boxes from carfax when renfield attacked them. by following up this clue we may learn a good deal. * * * * * _later._--mina and i have worked all day, and we have put all the papers into order. _mina harker's journal_ _30 september._--i am so glad that i hardly know how to contain myself. it is, i suppose, the reaction from the haunting fear which i have had: that this terrible affair and the reopening of his old wound might act detrimentally on jonathan. i saw him leave for whitby with as brave a face as i could, but i was sick with apprehension. the effort has, however, done him good. he was never so resolute, never so strong, never so full of volcanic energy, as at present. it is just as that dear, good professor van helsing said: he is true grit, and he improves under strain that would kill a weaker nature. he came back full of life and hope and determination; we have got everything in order for to-night. i feel myself quite wild with excitement. i suppose one ought to pity any thing so hunted as is the count. that is just it: this thing is not human--not even beast. to read dr. seward's account of poor lucy's death, and what followed, is enough to dry up the springs of pity in one's heart. * * * * * _later._--lord godalming and mr. morris arrived earlier than we expected. dr. seward was out on business, and had taken jonathan with him, so i had to see them. it was to me a painful meeting, for it brought back all poor dear lucy's hopes of only a few months ago. of course they had heard lucy speak of me, and it seemed that dr. van helsing, too, has been quite "blowing my trumpet," as mr. morris expressed it. poor fellows, neither of them is aware that i know all about the proposals they made to lucy. they did not quite know what to say or do, as they were ignorant of the amount of my knowledge; so they had to keep on neutral subjects. however, i thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that the best thing i could do would be to post them in affairs right up to date. i knew from dr. seward's diary that they had been at lucy's death--her real death--and that i need not fear to betray any secret before the time. so i told them, as well as i could, that i had read all the papers and diaries, and that my husband and i, having typewritten them, had just finished putting them in order. i gave them each a copy to read in the library. when lord godalming got his and turned it over--it does make a pretty good pile--he said:-"did you write all this, mrs. harker?" i nodded, and he went on:-"i don't quite see the drift of it; but you people are all so good and kind, and have been working so earnestly and so energetically, that all i can do is to accept your ideas blindfold and try to help you. i have had one lesson already in accepting facts that should make a man humble to the last hour of his life. besides, i know you loved my poor lucy--" here he turned away and covered his face with his hands. i could hear the tears in his voice. mr. morris, with instinctive delicacy, just laid a hand for a moment on his shoulder, and then walked quietly out of the room. i suppose there is something in woman's nature that makes a man free to break down before her and express his feelings on the tender or emotional side without feeling it derogatory to his manhood; for when lord godalming found himself alone with me he sat down on the sofa and gave way utterly and openly. i sat down beside him and took his hand. i hope he didn't think it forward of me, and that if he ever thinks of it afterwards he never will have such a thought. there i wrong him; i _know_ he never will--he is too true a gentleman. i said to him, for i could see that his heart was breaking:-"i loved dear lucy, and i know what she was to you, and what you were to her. she and i were like sisters; and now she is gone, will you not let me be like a sister to you in your trouble? i know what sorrows you have had, though i cannot measure the depth of them. if sympathy and pity can help in your affliction, won't you let me be of some little service--for lucy's sake?" in an instant the poor dear fellow was overwhelmed with grief. it seemed to me that all that he had of late been suffering in silence found a vent at once. he grew quite hysterical, and raising his open hands, beat his palms together in a perfect agony of grief. he stood up and then sat down again, and the tears rained down his cheeks. i felt an infinite pity for him, and opened my arms unthinkingly. with a sob he laid his head on my shoulder and cried like a wearied child, whilst he shook with emotion. we women have something of the mother in us that makes us rise above smaller matters when the mother-spirit is invoked; i felt this big sorrowing man's head resting on me, as though it were that of the baby that some day may lie on my bosom, and i stroked his hair as though he were my own child. i never thought at the time how strange it all was. after a little bit his sobs ceased, and he raised himself with an apology, though he made no disguise of his emotion. he told me that for days and nights past--weary days and sleepless nights--he had been unable to speak with any one, as a man must speak in his time of sorrow. there was no woman whose sympathy could be given to him, or with whom, owing to the terrible circumstance with which his sorrow was surrounded, he could speak freely. "i know now how i suffered," he said, as he dried his eyes, "but i do not know even yet--and none other can ever know--how much your sweet sympathy has been to me to-day. i shall know better in time; and believe me that, though i am not ungrateful now, my gratitude will grow with my understanding. you will let me be like a brother, will you not, for all our lives--for dear lucy's sake?" "for dear lucy's sake," i said as we clasped hands. "ay, and for your own sake," he added, "for if a man's esteem and gratitude are ever worth the winning, you have won mine to-day. if ever the future should bring to you a time when you need a man's help, believe me, you will not call in vain. god grant that no such time may ever come to you to break the sunshine of your life; but if it should ever come, promise me that you will let me know." he was so earnest, and his sorrow was so fresh, that i felt it would comfort him, so i said:-"i promise." as i came along the corridor i saw mr. morris looking out of a window. he turned as he heard my footsteps. "how is art?" he said. then noticing my red eyes, he went on: "ah, i see you have been comforting him. poor old fellow! he needs it. no one but a woman can help a man when he is in trouble of the heart; and he had no one to comfort him." he bore his own trouble so bravely that my heart bled for him. i saw the manuscript in his hand, and i knew that when he read it he would realise how much i knew; so i said to him:-"i wish i could comfort all who suffer from the heart. will you let me be your friend, and will you come to me for comfort if you need it? you will know, later on, why i speak." he saw that i was in earnest, and stooping, took my hand, and raising it to his lips, kissed it. it seemed but poor comfort to so brave and unselfish a soul, and impulsively i bent over and kissed him. the tears rose in his eyes, and there was a momentary choking in his throat; he said quite calmly:-"little girl, you will never regret that true-hearted kindness, so long as ever you live!" then he went into the study to his friend. "little girl!"--the very words he had used to lucy, and oh, but he proved himself a friend! chapter xviii dr. seward's diary _30 september._--i got home at five o'clock, and found that godalming and morris had not only arrived, but had already studied the transcript of the various diaries and letters which harker and his wonderful wife had made and arranged. harker had not yet returned from his visit to the carriers' men, of whom dr. hennessey had written to me. mrs. harker gave us a cup of tea, and i can honestly say that, for the first time since i have lived in it, this old house seemed like _home_. when we had finished, mrs. harker said:-"dr. seward, may i ask a favour? i want to see your patient, mr. renfield. do let me see him. what you have said of him in your diary interests me so much!" she looked so appealing and so pretty that i could not refuse her, and there was no possible reason why i should; so i took her with me. when i went into the room, i told the man that a lady would like to see him; to which he simply answered: "why?" "she is going through the house, and wants to see every one in it," i answered. "oh, very well," he said; "let her come in, by all means; but just wait a minute till i tidy up the place." his method of tidying was peculiar: he simply swallowed all the flies and spiders in the boxes before i could stop him. it was quite evident that he feared, or was jealous of, some interference. when he had got through his disgusting task, he said cheerfully: "let the lady come in," and sat down on the edge of his bed with his head down, but with his eyelids raised so that he could see her as she entered. for a moment i thought that he might have some homicidal intent; i remembered how quiet he had been just before he attacked me in my own study, and i took care to stand where i could seize him at once if he attempted to make a spring at her. she came into the room with an easy gracefulness which would at once command the respect of any lunatic--for easiness is one of the qualities mad people most respect. she walked over to him, smiling pleasantly, and held out her hand. "good-evening, mr. renfield," said she. "you see, i know you, for dr. seward has told me of you." he made no immediate reply, but eyed her all over intently with a set frown on his face. this look gave way to one of wonder, which merged in doubt; then, to my intense astonishment, he said:-"you're not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? you can't be, you know, for she's dead." mrs. harker smiled sweetly as she replied:-"oh no! i have a husband of my own, to whom i was married before i ever saw dr. seward, or he me. i am mrs. harker." "then what are you doing here?" "my husband and i are staying on a visit with dr. seward." "then don't stay." "but why not?" i thought that this style of conversation might not be pleasant to mrs. harker, any more than it was to me, so i joined in:-"how did you know i wanted to marry any one?" his reply was simply contemptuous, given in a pause in which he turned his eyes from mrs. harker to me, instantly turning them back again:-"what an asinine question!" "i don't see that at all, mr. renfield," said mrs. harker, at once championing me. he replied to her with as much courtesy and respect as he had shown contempt to me:-"you will, of course, understand, mrs. harker, that when a man is so loved and honoured as our host is, everything regarding him is of interest in our little community. dr. seward is loved not only by his household and his friends, but even by his patients, who, being some of them hardly in mental equilibrium, are apt to distort causes and effects. since i myself have been an inmate of a lunatic asylum, i cannot but notice that the sophistic tendencies of some of its inmates lean towards the errors of _non causa_ and _ignoratio elenchi_." i positively opened my eyes at this new development. here was my own pet lunatic--the most pronounced of his type that i had ever met with--talking elemental philosophy, and with the manner of a polished gentleman. i wonder if it was mrs. harker's presence which had touched some chord in his memory. if this new phase was spontaneous, or in any way due to her unconscious influence, she must have some rare gift or power. we continued to talk for some time; and, seeing that he was seemingly quite reasonable, she ventured, looking at me questioningly as she began, to lead him to his favourite topic. i was again astonished, for he addressed himself to the question with the impartiality of the completest sanity; he even took himself as an example when he mentioned certain things. "why, i myself am an instance of a man who had a strange belief. indeed, it was no wonder that my friends were alarmed, and insisted on my being put under control. i used to fancy that life was a positive and perpetual entity, and that by consuming a multitude of live things, no matter how low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong life. at times i held the belief so strongly that i actually tried to take human life. the doctor here will bear me out that on one occasion i tried to kill him for the purpose of strengthening my vital powers by the assimilation with my own body of his life through the medium of his blood--relying, of course, upon the scriptural phrase, 'for the blood is the life.' though, indeed, the vendor of a certain nostrum has vulgarised the truism to the very point of contempt. isn't that true, doctor?" i nodded assent, for i was so amazed that i hardly knew what to either think or say; it was hard to imagine that i had seen him eat up his spiders and flies not five minutes before. looking at my watch, i saw that i should go to the station to meet van helsing, so i told mrs. harker that it was time to leave. she came at once, after saying pleasantly to mr. renfield: "good-bye, and i hope i may see you often, under auspices pleasanter to yourself," to which, to my astonishment, he replied:-"good-bye, my dear. i pray god i may never see your sweet face again. may he bless and keep you!" when i went to the station to meet van helsing i left the boys behind me. poor art seemed more cheerful than he has been since lucy first took ill, and quincey is more like his own bright self than he has been for many a long day. van helsing stepped from the carriage with the eager nimbleness of a boy. he saw me at once, and rushed up to me, saying:-"ah, friend john, how goes all? well? so! i have been busy, for i come here to stay if need be. all affairs are settled with me, and i have much to tell. madam mina is with you? yes. and her so fine husband? and arthur and my friend quincey, they are with you, too? good!" as i drove to the house i told him of what had passed, and of how my own diary had come to be of some use through mrs. harker's suggestion; at which the professor interrupted me:-"ah, that wonderful madam mina! she has man's brain--a brain that a man should have were he much gifted--and a woman's heart. the good god fashioned her for a purpose, believe me, when he made that so good combination. friend john, up to now fortune has made that woman of help to us; after to-night she must not have to do with this so terrible affair. it is not good that she run a risk so great. we men are determined--nay, are we not pledged?--to destroy this monster; but it is no part for a woman. even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer--both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams. and, besides, she is young woman and not so long married; there may be other things to think of some time, if not now. you tell me she has wrote all, then she must consult with us; but to-morrow she say good-bye to this work, and we go alone." i agreed heartily with him, and then i told him what we had found in his absence: that the house which dracula had bought was the very next one to my own. he was amazed, and a great concern seemed to come on him. "oh that we had known it before!" he said, "for then we might have reached him in time to save poor lucy. however, 'the milk that is spilt cries not out afterwards,' as you say. we shall not think of that, but go on our way to the end." then he fell into a silence that lasted till we entered my own gateway. before we went to prepare for dinner he said to mrs. harker:-"i am told, madam mina, by my friend john that you and your husband have put up in exact order all things that have been, up to this moment." "not up to this moment, professor," she said impulsively, "but up to this morning." "but why not up to now? we have seen hitherto how good light all the little things have made. we have told our secrets, and yet no one who has told is the worse for it." mrs. harker began to blush, and taking a paper from her pockets, she said:-"dr. van helsing, will you read this, and tell me if it must go in. it is my record of to-day. i too have seen the need of putting down at present everything, however trivial; but there is little in this except what is personal. must it go in?" the professor read it over gravely, and handed it back, saying:-"it need not go in if you do not wish it; but i pray that it may. it can but make your husband love you the more, and all us, your friends, more honour you--as well as more esteem and love." she took it back with another blush and a bright smile. and so now, up to this very hour, all the records we have are complete and in order. the professor took away one copy to study after dinner, and before our meeting, which is fixed for nine o'clock. the rest of us have already read everything; so when we meet in the study we shall all be informed as to facts, and can arrange our plan of battle with this terrible and mysterious enemy. _mina harker's journal._ _30 september._--when we met in dr. seward's study two hours after dinner, which had been at six o'clock, we unconsciously formed a sort of board or committee. professor van helsing took the head of the table, to which dr. seward motioned him as he came into the room. he made me sit next to him on his right, and asked me to act as secretary; jonathan sat next to me. opposite us were lord godalming, dr. seward, and mr. morris--lord godalming being next the professor, and dr. seward in the centre. the professor said:-"i may, i suppose, take it that we are all acquainted with the facts that are in these papers." we all expressed assent, and he went on:-"then it were, i think good that i tell you something of the kind of enemy with which we have to deal. i shall then make known to you something of the history of this man, which has been ascertained for me. so we then can discuss how we shall act, and can take our measure according. "there are such beings as vampires; some of us have evidence that they exist. even had we not the proof of our own unhappy experience, the teachings and the records of the past give proof enough for sane peoples. i admit that at the first i was sceptic. were it not that through long years i have train myself to keep an open mind, i could not have believe until such time as that fact thunder on my ear. 'see! see! i prove; i prove.' alas! had i known at the first what now i know--nay, had i even guess at him--one so precious life had been spared to many of us who did love her. but that is gone; and we must so work, that other poor souls perish not, whilst we can save. the _nosferatu_ do not die like the bee when he sting once. he is only stronger; and being stronger, have yet more power to work evil. this vampire which is amongst us is of himself so strong in person as twenty men; he is of cunning more than mortal, for his cunning be the growth of ages; he have still the aids of necromancy, which is, as his etymology imply, the divination by the dead, and all the dead that he can come nigh to are for him at command; he is brute, and more than brute; he is devil in callous, and the heart of him is not; he can, within limitations, appear at will when, and where, and in any of the forms that are to him; he can, within his range, direct the elements; the storm, the fog, the thunder; he can command all the meaner things: the rat, and the owl, and the bat--the moth, and the fox, and the wolf; he can grow and become small; and he can at times vanish and come unknown. how then are we to begin our strike to destroy him? how shall we find his where; and having found it, how can we destroy? my friends, this is much; it is a terrible task that we undertake, and there may be consequence to make the brave shudder. for if we fail in this our fight he must surely win; and then where end we? life is nothings; i heed him not. but to fail here, is not mere life or death. it is that we become as him; that we henceforward become foul things of the night like him--without heart or conscience, preying on the bodies and the souls of those we love best. to us for ever are the gates of heaven shut; for who shall open them to us again? we go on for all time abhorred by all; a blot on the face of god's sunshine; an arrow in the side of him who died for man. but we are face to face with duty; and in such case must we shrink? for me, i say, no; but then i am old, and life, with his sunshine, his fair places, his song of birds, his music and his love, lie far behind. you others are young. some have seen sorrow; but there are fair days yet in store. what say you?" whilst he was speaking, jonathan had taken my hand. i feared, oh so much, that the appalling nature of our danger was overcoming him when i saw his hand stretch out; but it was life to me to feel its touch--so strong, so self-reliant, so resolute. a brave man's hand can speak for itself; it does not even need a woman's love to hear its music. when the professor had done speaking my husband looked in my eyes, and i in his; there was no need for speaking between us. "i answer for mina and myself," he said. "count me in, professor," said mr. quincey morris, laconically as usual. "i am with you," said lord godalming, "for lucy's sake, if for no other reason." dr. seward simply nodded. the professor stood up and, after laying his golden crucifix on the table, held out his hand on either side. i took his right hand, and lord godalming his left; jonathan held my right with his left and stretched across to mr. morris. so as we all took hands our solemn compact was made. i felt my heart icy cold, but it did not even occur to me to draw back. we resumed our places, and dr. van helsing went on with a sort of cheerfulness which showed that the serious work had begun. it was to be taken as gravely, and in as businesslike a way, as any other transaction of life:-"well, you know what we have to contend against; but we, too, are not without strength. we have on our side power of combination--a power denied to the vampire kind; we have sources of science; we are free to act and think; and the hours of the day and the night are ours equally. in fact, so far as our powers extend, they are unfettered, and we are free to use them. we have self-devotion in a cause, and an end to achieve which is not a selfish one. these things are much. "now let us see how far the general powers arrayed against us are restrict, and how the individual cannot. in fine, let us consider the limitations of the vampire in general, and of this one in particular. "all we have to go upon are traditions and superstitions. these do not at the first appear much, when the matter is one of life and death--nay of more than either life or death. yet must we be satisfied; in the first place because we have to be--no other means is at our control--and secondly, because, after all, these things--tradition and superstition--are everything. does not the belief in vampires rest for others--though not, alas! for us--on them? a year ago which of us would have received such a possibility, in the midst of our scientific, sceptical, matter-of-fact nineteenth century? we even scouted a belief that we saw justified under our very eyes. take it, then, that the vampire, and the belief in his limitations and his cure, rest for the moment on the same base. for, let me tell you, he is known everywhere that men have been. in old greece, in old rome; he flourish in germany all over, in france, in india, even in the chernosese; and in china, so far from us in all ways, there even is he, and the peoples fear him at this day. he have follow the wake of the berserker icelander, the devil-begotten hun, the slav, the saxon, the magyar. so far, then, we have all we may act upon; and let me tell you that very much of the beliefs are justified by what we have seen in our own so unhappy experience. the vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the time; he can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the living. even more, we have seen amongst us that he can even grow younger; that his vital faculties grow strenuous, and seem as though they refresh themselves when his special pabulum is plenty. but he cannot flourish without this diet; he eat not as others. even friend jonathan, who lived with him for weeks, did never see him to eat, never! he throws no shadow; he make in the mirror no reflect, as again jonathan observe. he has the strength of many of his hand--witness again jonathan when he shut the door against the wolfs, and when he help him from the diligence too. he can transform himself to wolf, as we gather from the ship arrival in whitby, when he tear open the dog; he can be as bat, as madam mina saw him on the window at whitby, and as friend john saw him fly from this so near house, and as my friend quincey saw him at the window of miss lucy. he can come in mist which he create--that noble ship's captain proved him of this; but, from what we know, the distance he can make this mist is limited, and it can only be round himself. he come on moonlight rays as elemental dust--as again jonathan saw those sisters in the castle of dracula. he become so small--we ourselves saw miss lucy, ere she was at peace, slip through a hairbreadth space at the tomb door. he can, when once he find his way, come out from anything or into anything, no matter how close it be bound or even fused up with fire--solder you call it. he can see in the dark--no small power this, in a world which is one half shut from the light. ah, but hear me through. he can do all these things, yet he is not free. nay; he is even more prisoner than the slave of the galley, than the madman in his cell. he cannot go where he lists; he who is not of nature has yet to obey some of nature's laws--why we know not. he may not enter anywhere at the first, unless there be some one of the household who bid him to come; though afterwards he can come as he please. his power ceases, as does that of all evil things, at the coming of the day. only at certain times can he have limited freedom. if he be not at the place whither he is bound, he can only change himself at noon or at exact sunrise or sunset. these things are we told, and in this record of ours we have proof by inference. thus, whereas he can do as he will within his limit, when he have his earth-home, his coffin-home, his hell-home, the place unhallowed, as we saw when he went to the grave of the suicide at whitby; still at other time he can only change when the time come. it is said, too, that he can only pass running water at the slack or the flood of the tide. then there are things which so afflict him that he has no power, as the garlic that we know of; and as for things sacred, as this symbol, my crucifix, that was amongst us even now when we resolve, to them he is nothing, but in their presence he take his place far off and silent with respect. there are others, too, which i shall tell you of, lest in our seeking we may need them. the branch of wild rose on his coffin keep him that he move not from it; a sacred bullet fired into the coffin kill him so that he be true dead; and as for the stake through him, we know already of its peace; or the cut-off head that giveth rest. we have seen it with our eyes. "thus when we find the habitation of this man-that-was, we can confine him to his coffin and destroy him, if we obey what we know. but he is clever. i have asked my friend arminius, of buda-pesth university, to make his record; and, from all the means that are, he tell me of what he has been. he must, indeed, have been that voivode dracula who won his name against the turk, over the great river on the very frontier of turkey-land. if it be so, then was he no common man; for in that time, and for centuries after, he was spoken of as the cleverest and the most cunning, as well as the bravest of the sons of the 'land beyond the forest.' that mighty brain and that iron resolution went with him to his grave, and are even now arrayed against us. the draculas were, says arminius, a great and noble race, though now and again were scions who were held by their coevals to have had dealings with the evil one. they learned his secrets in the scholomance, amongst the mountains over lake hermanstadt, where the devil claims the tenth scholar as his due. in the records are such words as 'stregoica'--witch, 'ordog,' and 'pokol'--satan and hell; and in one manuscript this very dracula is spoken of as 'wampyr,' which we all understand too well. there have been from the loins of this very one great men and good women, and their graves make sacred the earth where alone this foulness can dwell. for it is not the least of its terrors that this evil thing is rooted deep in all good; in soil barren of holy memories it cannot rest." whilst they were talking mr. morris was looking steadily at the window, and he now got up quietly, and went out of the room. there was a little pause, and then the professor went on:-"and now we must settle what we do. we have here much data, and we must proceed to lay out our campaign. we know from the inquiry of jonathan that from the castle to whitby came fifty boxes of earth, all of which were delivered at carfax; we also know that at least some of these boxes have been removed. it seems to me, that our first step should be to ascertain whether all the rest remain in the house beyond that wall where we look to-day; or whether any more have been removed. if the latter, we must trace----" here we were interrupted in a very startling way. outside the house came the sound of a pistol-shot; the glass of the window was shattered with a bullet, which, ricochetting from the top of the embrasure, struck the far wall of the room. i am afraid i am at heart a coward, for i shrieked out. the men all jumped to their feet; lord godalming flew over to the window and threw up the sash. as he did so we heard mr. morris's voice without:-"sorry! i fear i have alarmed you. i shall come in and tell you about it." a minute later he came in and said:-"it was an idiotic thing of me to do, and i ask your pardon, mrs. harker, most sincerely; i fear i must have frightened you terribly. but the fact is that whilst the professor was talking there came a big bat and sat on the window-sill. i have got such a horror of the damned brutes from recent events that i cannot stand them, and i went out to have a shot, as i have been doing of late of evenings, whenever i have seen one. you used to laugh at me for it then, art." "did you hit it?" asked dr. van helsing. "i don't know; i fancy not, for it flew away into the wood." without saying any more he took his seat, and the professor began to resume his statement:-"we must trace each of these boxes; and when we are ready, we must either capture or kill this monster in his lair; or we must, so to speak, sterilise the earth, so that no more he can seek safety in it. thus in the end we may find him in his form of man between the hours of noon and sunset, and so engage with him when he is at his most weak. "and now for you, madam mina, this night is the end until all be well. you are too precious to us to have such risk. when we part to-night, you no more must question. we shall tell you all in good time. we are men and are able to bear; but you must be our star and our hope, and we shall act all the more free that you are not in the danger, such as we are." all the men, even jonathan, seemed relieved; but it did not seem to me good that they should brave danger and, perhaps, lessen their safety--strength being the best safety--through care of me; but their minds were made up, and, though it was a bitter pill for me to swallow, i could say nothing, save to accept their chivalrous care of me. mr. morris resumed the discussion:-"as there is no time to lose, i vote we have a look at his house right now. time is everything with him; and swift action on our part may save another victim." i own that my heart began to fail me when the time for action came so close, but i did not say anything, for i had a greater fear that if i appeared as a drag or a hindrance to their work, they might even leave me out of their counsels altogether. they have now gone off to carfax, with means to get into the house. manlike, they had told me to go to bed and sleep; as if a woman can sleep when those she loves are in danger! i shall lie down and pretend to sleep, lest jonathan have added anxiety about me when he returns. _dr. seward's diary._ _1 october, 4 a. m._--just as we were about to leave the house, an urgent message was brought to me from renfield to know if i would see him at once, as he had something of the utmost importance to say to me. i told the messenger to say that i would attend to his wishes in the morning; i was busy just at the moment. the attendant added:-"he seems very importunate, sir. i have never seen him so eager. i don't know but what, if you don't see him soon, he will have one of his violent fits." i knew the man would not have said this without some cause, so i said: "all right; i'll go now"; and i asked the others to wait a few minutes for me, as i had to go and see my "patient." "take me with you, friend john," said the professor. "his case in your diary interest me much, and it had bearing, too, now and again on _our_ case. i should much like to see him, and especial when his mind is disturbed." "may i come also?" asked lord godalming. "me too?" said quincey morris. "may i come?" said harker. i nodded, and we all went down the passage together. we found him in a state of considerable excitement, but far more rational in his speech and manner than i had ever seen him. there was an unusual understanding of himself, which was unlike anything i had ever met with in a lunatic; and he took it for granted that his reasons would prevail with others entirely sane. we all four went into the room, but none of the others at first said anything. his request was that i would at once release him from the asylum and send him home. this he backed up with arguments regarding his complete recovery, and adduced his own existing sanity. "i appeal to your friends," he said, "they will, perhaps, not mind sitting in judgment on my case. by the way, you have not introduced me." i was so much astonished, that the oddness of introducing a madman in an asylum did not strike me at the moment; and, besides, there was a certain dignity in the man's manner, so much of the habit of equality, that i at once made the introduction: "lord godalming; professor van helsing; mr. quincey morris, of texas; mr. renfield." he shook hands with each of them, saying in turn:-"lord godalming, i had the honour of seconding your father at the windham; i grieve to know, by your holding the title, that he is no more. he was a man loved and honoured by all who knew him; and in his youth was, i have heard, the inventor of a burnt rum punch, much patronised on derby night. mr. morris, you should be proud of your great state. its reception into the union was a precedent which may have far-reaching effects hereafter, when the pole and the tropics may hold alliance to the stars and stripes. the power of treaty may yet prove a vast engine of enlargement, when the monroe doctrine takes its true place as a political fable. what shall any man say of his pleasure at meeting van helsing? sir, i make no apology for dropping all forms of conventional prefix. when an individual has revolutionised therapeutics by his discovery of the continuous evolution of brain-matter, conventional forms are unfitting, since they would seem to limit him to one of a class. you, gentlemen, who by nationality, by heredity, or by the possession of natural gifts, are fitted to hold your respective places in the moving world, i take to witness that i am as sane as at least the majority of men who are in full possession of their liberties. and i am sure that you, dr. seward, humanitarian and medico-jurist as well as scientist, will deem it a moral duty to deal with me as one to be considered as under exceptional circumstances." he made this last appeal with a courtly air of conviction which was not without its own charm. i think we were all staggered. for my own part, i was under the conviction, despite my knowledge of the man's character and history, that his reason had been restored; and i felt under a strong impulse to tell him that i was satisfied as to his sanity, and would see about the necessary formalities for his release in the morning. i thought it better to wait, however, before making so grave a statement, for of old i knew the sudden changes to which this particular patient was liable. so i contented myself with making a general statement that he appeared to be improving very rapidly; that i would have a longer chat with him in the morning, and would then see what i could do in the direction of meeting his wishes. this did not at all satisfy him, for he said quickly:-"but i fear, dr. seward, that you hardly apprehend my wish. i desire to go at once--here--now--this very hour--this very moment, if i may. time presses, and in our implied agreement with the old scytheman it is of the essence of the contract. i am sure it is only necessary to put before so admirable a practitioner as dr. seward so simple, yet so momentous a wish, to ensure its fulfilment." he looked at me keenly, and seeing the negative in my face, turned to the others, and scrutinised them closely. not meeting any sufficient response, he went on:-"is it possible that i have erred in my supposition?" "you have," i said frankly, but at the same time, as i felt, brutally. there was a considerable pause, and then he said slowly:-"then i suppose i must only shift my ground of request. let me ask for this concession--boon, privilege, what you will. i am content to implore in such a case, not on personal grounds, but for the sake of others. i am not at liberty to give you the whole of my reasons; but you may, i assure you, take it from me that they are good ones, sound and unselfish, and spring from the highest sense of duty. could you look, sir, into my heart, you would approve to the full the sentiments which animate me. nay, more, you would count me amongst the best and truest of your friends." again he looked at us all keenly. i had a growing conviction that this sudden change of his entire intellectual method was but yet another form or phase of his madness, and so determined to let him go on a little longer, knowing from experience that he would, like all lunatics, give himself away in the end. van helsing was gazing at him with a look of utmost intensity, his bushy eyebrows almost meeting with the fixed concentration of his look. he said to renfield in a tone which did not surprise me at the time, but only when i thought of it afterwards--for it was as of one addressing an equal:-"can you not tell frankly your real reason for wishing to be free to-night? i will undertake that if you will satisfy even me--a stranger, without prejudice, and with the habit of keeping an open mind--dr. seward will give you, at his own risk and on his own responsibility, the privilege you seek." he shook his head sadly, and with a look of poignant regret on his face. the professor went on:-"come, sir, bethink yourself. you claim the privilege of reason in the highest degree, since you seek to impress us with your complete reasonableness. you do this, whose sanity we have reason to doubt, since you are not yet released from medical treatment for this very defect. if you will not help us in our effort to choose the wisest course, how can we perform the duty which you yourself put upon us? be wise, and help us; and if we can we shall aid you to achieve your wish." he still shook his head as he said:-"dr. van helsing, i have nothing to say. your argument is complete, and if i were free to speak i should not hesitate a moment; but i am not my own master in the matter. i can only ask you to trust me. if i am refused, the responsibility does not rest with me." i thought it was now time to end the scene, which was becoming too comically grave, so i went towards the door, simply saying:-"come, my friends, we have work to do. good-night." as, however, i got near the door, a new change came over the patient. he moved towards me so quickly that for the moment i feared that he was about to make another homicidal attack. my fears, however, were groundless, for he held up his two hands imploringly, and made his petition in a moving manner. as he saw that the very excess of his emotion was militating against him, by restoring us more to our old relations, he became still more demonstrative. i glanced at van helsing, and saw my conviction reflected in his eyes; so i became a little more fixed in my manner, if not more stern, and motioned to him that his efforts were unavailing. i had previously seen something of the same constantly growing excitement in him when he had to make some request of which at the time he had thought much, such, for instance, as when he wanted a cat; and i was prepared to see the collapse into the same sullen acquiescence on this occasion. my expectation was not realised, for, when he found that his appeal would not be successful, he got into quite a frantic condition. he threw himself on his knees, and held up his hands, wringing them in plaintive supplication, and poured forth a torrent of entreaty, with the tears rolling down his cheeks, and his whole face and form expressive of the deepest emotion:-"let me entreat you, dr. seward, oh, let me implore you, to let me out of this house at once. send me away how you will and where you will; send keepers with me with whips and chains; let them take me in a strait-waistcoat, manacled and leg-ironed, even to a gaol; but let me go out of this. you don't know what you do by keeping me here. i am speaking from the depths of my heart--of my very soul. you don't know whom you wrong, or how; and i may not tell. woe is me! i may not tell. by all you hold sacred--by all you hold dear--by your love that is lost--by your hope that lives--for the sake of the almighty, take me out of this and save my soul from guilt! can't you hear me, man? can't you understand? will you never learn? don't you know that i am sane and earnest now; that i am no lunatic in a mad fit, but a sane man fighting for his soul? oh, hear me! hear me! let me go! let me go! let me go!" i thought that the longer this went on the wilder he would get, and so would bring on a fit; so i took him by the hand and raised him up. "come," i said sternly, "no more of this; we have had quite enough already. get to your bed and try to behave more discreetly." he suddenly stopped and looked at me intently for several moments. then, without a word, he rose and moving over, sat down on the side of the bed. the collapse had come, as on former occasion, just as i had expected. when i was leaving the room, last of our party, he said to me in a quiet, well-bred voice:-"you will, i trust, dr. seward, do me the justice to bear in mind, later on, that i did what i could to convince you to-night." chapter xix jonathan harker's journal _1 october, 5 a. m._--i went with the party to the search with an easy mind, for i think i never saw mina so absolutely strong and well. i am so glad that she consented to hold back and let us men do the work. somehow, it was a dread to me that she was in this fearful business at all; but now that her work is done, and that it is due to her energy and brains and foresight that the whole story is put together in such a way that every point tells, she may well feel that her part is finished, and that she can henceforth leave the rest to us. we were, i think, all a little upset by the scene with mr. renfield. when we came away from his room we were silent till we got back to the study. then mr. morris said to dr. seward:-"say, jack, if that man wasn't attempting a bluff, he is about the sanest lunatic i ever saw. i'm not sure, but i believe that he had some serious purpose, and if he had, it was pretty rough on him not to get a chance." lord godalming and i were silent, but dr. van helsing added:-"friend john, you know more of lunatics than i do, and i'm glad of it, for i fear that if it had been to me to decide i would before that last hysterical outburst have given him free. but we live and learn, and in our present task we must take no chance, as my friend quincey would say. all is best as they are." dr. seward seemed to answer them both in a dreamy kind of way:-"i don't know but that i agree with you. if that man had been an ordinary lunatic i would have taken my chance of trusting him; but he seems so mixed up with the count in an indexy kind of way that i am afraid of doing anything wrong by helping his fads. i can't forget how he prayed with almost equal fervour for a cat, and then tried to tear my throat out with his teeth. besides, he called the count 'lord and master,' and he may want to get out to help him in some diabolical way. that horrid thing has the wolves and the rats and his own kind to help him, so i suppose he isn't above trying to use a respectable lunatic. he certainly did seem earnest, though. i only hope we have done what is best. these things, in conjunction with the wild work we have in hand, help to unnerve a man." the professor stepped over, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said in his grave, kindly way:-"friend john, have no fear. we are trying to do our duty in a very sad and terrible case; we can only do as we deem best. what else have we to hope for, except the pity of the good god?" lord godalming had slipped away for a few minutes, but now he returned. he held up a little silver whistle, as he remarked:-"that old place may be full of rats, and if so, i've got an antidote on call." having passed the wall, we took our way to the house, taking care to keep in the shadows of the trees on the lawn when the moonlight shone out. when we got to the porch the professor opened his bag and took out a lot of things, which he laid on the step, sorting them into four little groups, evidently one for each. then he spoke:-"my friends, we are going into a terrible danger, and we need arms of many kinds. our enemy is not merely spiritual. remember that he has the strength of twenty men, and that, though our necks or our windpipes are of the common kind--and therefore breakable or crushable--his are not amenable to mere strength. a stronger man, or a body of men more strong in all than him, can at certain times hold him; but they cannot hurt him as we can be hurt by him. we must, therefore, guard ourselves from his touch. keep this near your heart"--as he spoke he lifted a little silver crucifix and held it out to me, i being nearest to him--"put these flowers round your neck"--here he handed to me a wreath of withered garlic blossoms--"for other enemies more mundane, this revolver and this knife; and for aid in all, these so small electric lamps, which you can fasten to your breast; and for all, and above all at the last, this, which we must not desecrate needless." this was a portion of sacred wafer, which he put in an envelope and handed to me. each of the others was similarly equipped. "now," he said, "friend john, where are the skeleton keys? if so that we can open the door, we need not break house by the window, as before at miss lucy's." dr. seward tried one or two skeleton keys, his mechanical dexterity as a surgeon standing him in good stead. presently he got one to suit; after a little play back and forward the bolt yielded, and, with a rusty clang, shot back. we pressed on the door, the rusty hinges creaked, and it slowly opened. it was startlingly like the image conveyed to me in dr. seward's diary of the opening of miss westenra's tomb; i fancy that the same idea seemed to strike the others, for with one accord they shrank back. the professor was the first to move forward, and stepped into the open door. "_in manus tuas, domine!_" he said, crossing himself as he passed over the threshold. we closed the door behind us, lest when we should have lit our lamps we should possibly attract attention from the road. the professor carefully tried the lock, lest we might not be able to open it from within should we be in a hurry making our exit. then we all lit our lamps and proceeded on our search. the light from the tiny lamps fell in all sorts of odd forms, as the rays crossed each other, or the opacity of our bodies threw great shadows. i could not for my life get away from the feeling that there was some one else amongst us. i suppose it was the recollection, so powerfully brought home to me by the grim surroundings, of that terrible experience in transylvania. i think the feeling was common to us all, for i noticed that the others kept looking over their shoulders at every sound and every new shadow, just as i felt myself doing. the whole place was thick with dust. the floor was seemingly inches deep, except where there were recent footsteps, in which on holding down my lamp i could see marks of hobnails where the dust was cracked. the walls were fluffy and heavy with dust, and in the corners were masses of spider's webs, whereon the dust had gathered till they looked like old tattered rags as the weight had torn them partly down. on a table in the hall was a great bunch of keys, with a time-yellowed label on each. they had been used several times, for on the table were several similar rents in the blanket of dust, similar to that exposed when the professor lifted them. he turned to me and said:-"you know this place, jonathan. you have copied maps of it, and you know it at least more than we do. which is the way to the chapel?" i had an idea of its direction, though on my former visit i had not been able to get admission to it; so i led the way, and after a few wrong turnings found myself opposite a low, arched oaken door, ribbed with iron bands. "this is the spot," said the professor as he turned his lamp on a small map of the house, copied from the file of my original correspondence regarding the purchase. with a little trouble we found the key on the bunch and opened the door. we were prepared for some unpleasantness, for as we were opening the door a faint, malodorous air seemed to exhale through the gaps, but none of us ever expected such an odour as we encountered. none of the others had met the count at all at close quarters, and when i had seen him he was either in the fasting stage of his existence in his rooms or, when he was gloated with fresh blood, in a ruined building open to the air; but here the place was small and close, and the long disuse had made the air stagnant and foul. there was an earthy smell, as of some dry miasma, which came through the fouler air. but as to the odour itself, how shall i describe it? it was not alone that it was composed of all the ills of mortality and with the pungent, acrid smell of blood, but it seemed as though corruption had become itself corrupt. faugh! it sickens me to think of it. every breath exhaled by that monster seemed to have clung to the place and intensified its loathsomeness. under ordinary circumstances such a stench would have brought our enterprise to an end; but this was no ordinary case, and the high and terrible purpose in which we were involved gave us a strength which rose above merely physical considerations. after the involuntary shrinking consequent on the first nauseous whiff, we one and all set about our work as though that loathsome place were a garden of roses. we made an accurate examination of the place, the professor saying as we began:-"the first thing is to see how many of the boxes are left; we must then examine every hole and corner and cranny and see if we cannot get some clue as to what has become of the rest." a glance was sufficient to show how many remained, for the great earth chests were bulky, and there was no mistaking them. there were only twenty-nine left out of the fifty! once i got a fright, for, seeing lord godalming suddenly turn and look out of the vaulted door into the dark passage beyond, i looked too, and for an instant my heart stood still. somewhere, looking out from the shadow, i seemed to see the high lights of the count's evil face, the ridge of the nose, the red eyes, the red lips, the awful pallor. it was only for a moment, for, as lord godalming said, "i thought i saw a face, but it was only the shadows," and resumed his inquiry, i turned my lamp in the direction, and stepped into the passage. there was no sign of any one; and as there were no corners, no doors, no aperture of any kind, but only the solid walls of the passage, there could be no hiding-place even for _him_. i took it that fear had helped imagination, and said nothing. a few minutes later i saw morris step suddenly back from a corner, which he was examining. we all followed his movements with our eyes, for undoubtedly some nervousness was growing on us, and we saw a whole mass of phosphorescence, which twinkled like stars. we all instinctively drew back. the whole place was becoming alive with rats. for a moment or two we stood appalled, all save lord godalming, who was seemingly prepared for such an emergency. rushing over to the great iron-bound oaken door, which dr. seward had described from the outside, and which i had seen myself, he turned the key in the lock, drew the huge bolts, and swung the door open. then, taking his little silver whistle from his pocket, he blew a low, shrill call. it was answered from behind dr. seward's house by the yelping of dogs, and after about a minute three terriers came dashing round the corner of the house. unconsciously we had all moved towards the door, and as we moved i noticed that the dust had been much disturbed: the boxes which had been taken out had been brought this way. but even in the minute that had elapsed the number of the rats had vastly increased. they seemed to swarm over the place all at once, till the lamplight, shining on their moving dark bodies and glittering, baleful eyes, made the place look like a bank of earth set with fireflies. the dogs dashed on, but at the threshold suddenly stopped and snarled, and then, simultaneously lifting their noses, began to howl in most lugubrious fashion. the rats were multiplying in thousands, and we moved out. lord godalming lifted one of the dogs, and carrying him in, placed him on the floor. the instant his feet touched the ground he seemed to recover his courage, and rushed at his natural enemies. they fled before him so fast that before he had shaken the life out of a score, the other dogs, who had by now been lifted in the same manner, had but small prey ere the whole mass had vanished. with their going it seemed as if some evil presence had departed, for the dogs frisked about and barked merrily as they made sudden darts at their prostrate foes, and turned them over and over and tossed them in the air with vicious shakes. we all seemed to find our spirits rise. whether it was the purifying of the deadly atmosphere by the opening of the chapel door, or the relief which we experienced by finding ourselves in the open i know not; but most certainly the shadow of dread seemed to slip from us like a robe, and the occasion of our coming lost something of its grim significance, though we did not slacken a whit in our resolution. we closed the outer door and barred and locked it, and bringing the dogs with us, began our search of the house. we found nothing throughout except dust in extraordinary proportions, and all untouched save for my own footsteps when i had made my first visit. never once did the dogs exhibit any symptom of uneasiness, and even when we returned to the chapel they frisked about as though they had been rabbit-hunting in a summer wood. the morning was quickening in the east when we emerged from the front. dr. van helsing had taken the key of the hall-door from the bunch, and locked the door in orthodox fashion, putting the key into his pocket when he had done. "so far," he said, "our night has been eminently successful. no harm has come to us such as i feared might be and yet we have ascertained how many boxes are missing. more than all do i rejoice that this, our first--and perhaps our most difficult and dangerous--step has been accomplished without the bringing thereinto our most sweet madam mina or troubling her waking or sleeping thoughts with sights and sounds and smells of horror which she might never forget. one lesson, too, we have learned, if it be allowable to argue _a particulari_: that the brute beasts which are to the count's command are yet themselves not amenable to his spiritual power; for look, these rats that would come to his call, just as from his castle top he summon the wolves to your going and to that poor mother's cry, though they come to him, they run pell-mell from the so little dogs of my friend arthur. we have other matters before us, other dangers, other fears; and that monster--he has not used his power over the brute world for the only or the last time to-night. so be it that he has gone elsewhere. good! it has given us opportunity to cry 'check' in some ways in this chess game, which we play for the stake of human souls. and now let us go home. the dawn is close at hand, and we have reason to be content with our first night's work. it may be ordained that we have many nights and days to follow, if full of peril; but we must go on, and from no danger shall we shrink." the house was silent when we got back, save for some poor creature who was screaming away in one of the distant wards, and a low, moaning sound from renfield's room. the poor wretch was doubtless torturing himself, after the manner of the insane, with needless thoughts of pain. i came tiptoe into our own room, and found mina asleep, breathing so softly that i had to put my ear down to hear it. she looks paler than usual. i hope the meeting to-night has not upset her. i am truly thankful that she is to be left out of our future work, and even of our deliberations. it is too great a strain for a woman to bear. i did not think so at first, but i know better now. therefore i am glad that it is settled. there may be things which would frighten her to hear; and yet to conceal them from her might be worse than to tell her if once she suspected that there was any concealment. henceforth our work is to be a sealed book to her, till at least such time as we can tell her that all is finished, and the earth free from a monster of the nether world. i daresay it will be difficult to begin to keep silence after such confidence as ours; but i must be resolute, and to-morrow i shall keep dark over to-night's doings, and shall refuse to speak of anything that has happened. i rest on the sofa, so as not to disturb her. * * * * * _1 october, later._--i suppose it was natural that we should have all overslept ourselves, for the day was a busy one, and the night had no rest at all. even mina must have felt its exhaustion, for though i slept till the sun was high, i was awake before her, and had to call two or three times before she awoke. indeed, she was so sound asleep that for a few seconds she did not recognize me, but looked at me with a sort of blank terror, as one looks who has been waked out of a bad dream. she complained a little of being tired, and i let her rest till later in the day. we now know of twenty-one boxes having been removed, and if it be that several were taken in any of these removals we may be able to trace them all. such will, of course, immensely simplify our labour, and the sooner the matter is attended to the better. i shall look up thomas snelling to-day. _dr. seward's diary._ _1 october._--it was towards noon when i was awakened by the professor walking into my room. he was more jolly and cheerful than usual, and it is quite evident that last night's work has helped to take some of the brooding weight off his mind. after going over the adventure of the night he suddenly said:-"your patient interests me much. may it be that with you i visit him this morning? or if that you are too occupy, i can go alone if it may be. it is a new experience to me to find a lunatic who talk philosophy, and reason so sound." i had some work to do which pressed, so i told him that if he would go alone i would be glad, as then i should not have to keep him waiting; so i called an attendant and gave him the necessary instructions. before the professor left the room i cautioned him against getting any false impression from my patient. "but," he answered, "i want him to talk of himself and of his delusion as to consuming live things. he said to madam mina, as i see in your diary of yesterday, that he had once had such a belief. why do you smile, friend john?" "excuse me," i said, "but the answer is here." i laid my hand on the type-written matter. "when our sane and learned lunatic made that very statement of how he _used_ to consume life, his mouth was actually nauseous with the flies and spiders which he had eaten just before mrs. harker entered the room." van helsing smiled in turn. "good!" he said. "your memory is true, friend john. i should have remembered. and yet it is this very obliquity of thought and memory which makes mental disease such a fascinating study. perhaps i may gain more knowledge out of the folly of this madman than i shall from the teaching of the most wise. who knows?" i went on with my work, and before long was through that in hand. it seemed that the time had been very short indeed, but there was van helsing back in the study. "do i interrupt?" he asked politely as he stood at the door. "not at all," i answered. "come in. my work is finished, and i am free. i can go with you now, if you like. "it is needless; i have seen him!" "well?" "i fear that he does not appraise me at much. our interview was short. when i entered his room he was sitting on a stool in the centre, with his elbows on his knees, and his face was the picture of sullen discontent. i spoke to him as cheerfully as i could, and with such a measure of respect as i could assume. he made no reply whatever. "don't you know me?" i asked. his answer was not reassuring: "i know you well enough; you are the old fool van helsing. i wish you would take yourself and your idiotic brain theories somewhere else. damn all thick-headed dutchmen!" not a word more would he say, but sat in his implacable sullenness as indifferent to me as though i had not been in the room at all. thus departed for this time my chance of much learning from this so clever lunatic; so i shall go, if i may, and cheer myself with a few happy words with that sweet soul madam mina. friend john, it does rejoice me unspeakable that she is no more to be pained, no more to be worried with our terrible things. though we shall much miss her help, it is better so." "i agree with you with all my heart," i answered earnestly, for i did not want him to weaken in this matter. "mrs. harker is better out of it. things are quite bad enough for us, all men of the world, and who have been in many tight places in our time; but it is no place for a woman, and if she had remained in touch with the affair, it would in time infallibly have wrecked her." so van helsing has gone to confer with mrs. harker and harker; quincey and art are all out following up the clues as to the earth-boxes. i shall finish my round of work and we shall meet to-night. _mina harker's journal._ _1 october._--it is strange to me to be kept in the dark as i am to-day; after jonathan's full confidence for so many years, to see him manifestly avoid certain matters, and those the most vital of all. this morning i slept late after the fatigues of yesterday, and though jonathan was late too, he was the earlier. he spoke to me before he went out, never more sweetly or tenderly, but he never mentioned a word of what had happened in the visit to the count's house. and yet he must have known how terribly anxious i was. poor dear fellow! i suppose it must have distressed him even more than it did me. they all agreed that it was best that i should not be drawn further into this awful work, and i acquiesced. but to think that he keeps anything from me! and now i am crying like a silly fool, when i _know_ it comes from my husband's great love and from the good, good wishes of those other strong men. that has done me good. well, some day jonathan will tell me all; and lest it should ever be that he should think for a moment that i kept anything from him, i still keep my journal as usual. then if he has feared of my trust i shall show it to him, with every thought of my heart put down for his dear eyes to read. i feel strangely sad and low-spirited to-day. i suppose it is the reaction from the terrible excitement. last night i went to bed when the men had gone, simply because they told me to. i didn't feel sleepy, and i did feel full of devouring anxiety. i kept thinking over everything that has been ever since jonathan came to see me in london, and it all seems like a horrible tragedy, with fate pressing on relentlessly to some destined end. everything that one does seems, no matter how right it may be, to bring on the very thing which is most to be deplored. if i hadn't gone to whitby, perhaps poor dear lucy would be with us now. she hadn't taken to visiting the churchyard till i came, and if she hadn't come there in the day-time with me she wouldn't have walked there in her sleep; and if she hadn't gone there at night and asleep, that monster couldn't have destroyed her as he did. oh, why did i ever go to whitby? there now, crying again! i wonder what has come over me to-day. i must hide it from jonathan, for if he knew that i had been crying twice in one morning--i, who never cried on my own account, and whom he has never caused to shed a tear--the dear fellow would fret his heart out. i shall put a bold face on, and if i do feel weepy, he shall never see it. i suppose it is one of the lessons that we poor women have to learn.... i can't quite remember how i fell asleep last night. i remember hearing the sudden barking of the dogs and a lot of queer sounds, like praying on a very tumultuous scale, from mr. renfield's room, which is somewhere under this. and then there was silence over everything, silence so profound that it startled me, and i got up and looked out of the window. all was dark and silent, the black shadows thrown by the moonlight seeming full of a silent mystery of their own. not a thing seemed to be stirring, but all to be grim and fixed as death or fate; so that a thin streak of white mist, that crept with almost imperceptible slowness across the grass towards the house, seemed to have a sentience and a vitality of its own. i think that the digression of my thoughts must have done me good, for when i got back to bed i found a lethargy creeping over me. i lay a while, but could not quite sleep, so i got out and looked out of the window again. the mist was spreading, and was now close up to the house, so that i could see it lying thick against the wall, as though it were stealing up to the windows. the poor man was more loud than ever, and though i could not distinguish a word he said, i could in some way recognise in his tones some passionate entreaty on his part. then there was the sound of a struggle, and i knew that the attendants were dealing with him. i was so frightened that i crept into bed, and pulled the clothes over my head, putting my fingers in my ears. i was not then a bit sleepy, at least so i thought; but i must have fallen asleep, for, except dreams, i do not remember anything until the morning, when jonathan woke me. i think that it took me an effort and a little time to realise where i was, and that it was jonathan who was bending over me. my dream was very peculiar, and was almost typical of the way that waking thoughts become merged in, or continued in, dreams. i thought that i was asleep, and waiting for jonathan to come back. i was very anxious about him, and i was powerless to act; my feet, and my hands, and my brain were weighted, so that nothing could proceed at the usual pace. and so i slept uneasily and thought. then it began to dawn upon me that the air was heavy, and dank, and cold. i put back the clothes from my face, and found, to my surprise, that all was dim around. the gaslight which i had left lit for jonathan, but turned down, came only like a tiny red spark through the fog, which had evidently grown thicker and poured into the room. then it occurred to me that i had shut the window before i had come to bed. i would have got out to make certain on the point, but some leaden lethargy seemed to chain my limbs and even my will. i lay still and endured; that was all. i closed my eyes, but could still see through my eyelids. (it is wonderful what tricks our dreams play us, and how conveniently we can imagine.) the mist grew thicker and thicker and i could see now how it came in, for i could see it like smoke--or with the white energy of boiling water--pouring in, not through the window, but through the joinings of the door. it got thicker and thicker, till it seemed as if it became concentrated into a sort of pillar of cloud in the room, through the top of which i could see the light of the gas shining like a red eye. things began to whirl through my brain just as the cloudy column was now whirling in the room, and through it all came the scriptural words "a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night." was it indeed some such spiritual guidance that was coming to me in my sleep? but the pillar was composed of both the day and the night-guiding, for the fire was in the red eye, which at the thought got a new fascination for me; till, as i looked, the fire divided, and seemed to shine on me through the fog like two red eyes, such as lucy told me of in her momentary mental wandering when, on the cliff, the dying sunlight struck the windows of st. mary's church. suddenly the horror burst upon me that it was thus that jonathan had seen those awful women growing into reality through the whirling mist in the moonlight, and in my dream i must have fainted, for all became black darkness. the last conscious effort which imagination made was to show me a livid white face bending over me out of the mist. i must be careful of such dreams, for they would unseat one's reason if there were too much of them. i would get dr. van helsing or dr. seward to prescribe something for me which would make me sleep, only that i fear to alarm them. such a dream at the present time would become woven into their fears for me. to-night i shall strive hard to sleep naturally. if i do not, i shall to-morrow night get them to give me a dose of chloral; that cannot hurt me for once, and it will give me a good night's sleep. last night tired me more than if i had not slept at all. * * * * * _2 october 10 p. m._--last night i slept, but did not dream. i must have slept soundly, for i was not waked by jonathan coming to bed; but the sleep has not refreshed me, for to-day i feel terribly weak and spiritless. i spent all yesterday trying to read, or lying down dozing. in the afternoon mr. renfield asked if he might see me. poor man, he was very gentle, and when i came away he kissed my hand and bade god bless me. some way it affected me much; i am crying when i think of him. this is a new weakness, of which i must be careful. jonathan would be miserable if he knew i had been crying. he and the others were out till dinner-time, and they all came in tired. i did what i could to brighten them up, and i suppose that the effort did me good, for i forgot how tired i was. after dinner they sent me to bed, and all went off to smoke together, as they said, but i knew that they wanted to tell each other of what had occurred to each during the day; i could see from jonathan's manner that he had something important to communicate. i was not so sleepy as i should have been; so before they went i asked dr. seward to give me a little opiate of some kind, as i had not slept well the night before. he very kindly made me up a sleeping draught, which he gave to me, telling me that it would do me no harm, as it was very mild.... i have taken it, and am waiting for sleep, which still keeps aloof. i hope i have not done wrong, for as sleep begins to flirt with me, a new fear comes: that i may have been foolish in thus depriving myself of the power of waking. i might want it. here comes sleep. good-night. chapter xx jonathan harker's journal _1 october, evening._--i found thomas snelling in his house at bethnal green, but unhappily he was not in a condition to remember anything. the very prospect of beer which my expected coming had opened to him had proved too much, and he had begun too early on his expected debauch. i learned, however, from his wife, who seemed a decent, poor soul, that he was only the assistant to smollet, who of the two mates was the responsible person. so off i drove to walworth, and found mr. joseph smollet at home and in his shirtsleeves, taking a late tea out of a saucer. he is a decent, intelligent fellow, distinctly a good, reliable type of workman, and with a headpiece of his own. he remembered all about the incident of the boxes, and from a wonderful dog's-eared notebook, which he produced from some mysterious receptacle about the seat of his trousers, and which had hieroglyphical entries in thick, half-obliterated pencil, he gave me the destinations of the boxes. there were, he said, six in the cartload which he took from carfax and left at 197, chicksand street, mile end new town, and another six which he deposited at jamaica lane, bermondsey. if then the count meant to scatter these ghastly refuges of his over london, these places were chosen as the first of delivery, so that later he might distribute more fully. the systematic manner in which this was done made me think that he could not mean to confine himself to two sides of london. he was now fixed on the far east of the northern shore, on the east of the southern shore, and on the south. the north and west were surely never meant to be left out of his diabolical scheme--let alone the city itself and the very heart of fashionable london in the south-west and west. i went back to smollet, and asked him if he could tell us if any other boxes had been taken from carfax. he replied:-"well, guv'nor, you've treated me wery 'an'some"--i had given him half a sovereign--"an' i'll tell yer all i know. i heard a man by the name of bloxam say four nights ago in the 'are an' 'ounds, in pincher's alley, as 'ow he an' his mate 'ad 'ad a rare dusty job in a old 'ouse at purfect. there ain't a-many such jobs as this 'ere, an' i'm thinkin' that maybe sam bloxam could tell ye summut." i asked if he could tell me where to find him. i told him that if he could get me the address it would be worth another half-sovereign to him. so he gulped down the rest of his tea and stood up, saying that he was going to begin the search then and there. at the door he stopped, and said:-"look 'ere, guv'nor, there ain't no sense in me a-keepin' you 'ere. i may find sam soon, or i mayn't; but anyhow he ain't like to be in a way to tell ye much to-night. sam is a rare one when he starts on the booze. if you can give me a envelope with a stamp on it, and put yer address on it, i'll find out where sam is to be found and post it ye to-night. but ye'd better be up arter 'im soon in the mornin', or maybe ye won't ketch 'im; for sam gets off main early, never mind the booze the night afore." this was all practical, so one of the children went off with a penny to buy an envelope and a sheet of paper, and to keep the change. when she came back, i addressed the envelope and stamped it, and when smollet had again faithfully promised to post the address when found, i took my way to home. we're on the track anyhow. i am tired to-night, and want sleep. mina is fast asleep, and looks a little too pale; her eyes look as though she had been crying. poor dear, i've no doubt it frets her to be kept in the dark, and it may make her doubly anxious about me and the others. but it is best as it is. it is better to be disappointed and worried in such a way now than to have her nerve broken. the doctors were quite right to insist on her being kept out of this dreadful business. i must be firm, for on me this particular burden of silence must rest. i shall not ever enter on the subject with her under any circumstances. indeed, it may not be a hard task, after all, for she herself has become reticent on the subject, and has not spoken of the count or his doings ever since we told her of our decision. * * * * * _2 october, evening._--a long and trying and exciting day. by the first post i got my directed envelope with a dirty scrap of paper enclosed, on which was written with a carpenter's pencil in a sprawling hand:-"sam bloxam, korkrans, 4, poters cort, bartel street, walworth. arsk for the depite." i got the letter in bed, and rose without waking mina. she looked heavy and sleepy and pale, and far from well. i determined not to wake her, but that, when i should return from this new search, i would arrange for her going back to exeter. i think she would be happier in our own home, with her daily tasks to interest her, than in being here amongst us and in ignorance. i only saw dr. seward for a moment, and told him where i was off to, promising to come back and tell the rest so soon as i should have found out anything. i drove to walworth and found, with some difficulty, potter's court. mr. smollet's spelling misled me, as i asked for poter's court instead of potter's court. however, when i had found the court, i had no difficulty in discovering corcoran's lodging-house. when i asked the man who came to the door for the "depite," he shook his head, and said: "i dunno 'im. there ain't no such a person 'ere; i never 'eard of 'im in all my bloomin' days. don't believe there ain't nobody of that kind livin' ere or anywheres." i took out smollet's letter, and as i read it it seemed to me that the lesson of the spelling of the name of the court might guide me. "what are you?" i asked. "i'm the depity," he answered. i saw at once that i was on the right track; phonetic spelling had again misled me. a half-crown tip put the deputy's knowledge at my disposal, and i learned that mr. bloxam, who had slept off the remains of his beer on the previous night at corcoran's, had left for his work at poplar at five o'clock that morning. he could not tell me where the place of work was situated, but he had a vague idea that it was some kind of a "new-fangled ware'us"; and with this slender clue i had to start for poplar. it was twelve o'clock before i got any satisfactory hint of such a building, and this i got at a coffee-shop, where some workmen were having their dinner. one of these suggested that there was being erected at cross angel street a new "cold storage" building; and as this suited the condition of a "new-fangled ware'us," i at once drove to it. an interview with a surly gatekeeper and a surlier foreman, both of whom were appeased with the coin of the realm, put me on the track of bloxam; he was sent for on my suggesting that i was willing to pay his day's wages to his foreman for the privilege of asking him a few questions on a private matter. he was a smart enough fellow, though rough of speech and bearing. when i had promised to pay for his information and given him an earnest, he told me that he had made two journeys between carfax and a house in piccadilly, and had taken from this house to the latter nine great boxes--"main heavy ones"--with a horse and cart hired by him for this purpose. i asked him if he could tell me the number of the house in piccadilly, to which he replied:-"well, guv'nor, i forgits the number, but it was only a few doors from a big white church or somethink of the kind, not long built. it was a dusty old 'ouse, too, though nothin' to the dustiness of the 'ouse we tooked the bloomin' boxes from." "how did you get into the houses if they were both empty?" "there was the old party what engaged me a-waitin' in the 'ouse at purfleet. he 'elped me to lift the boxes and put them in the dray. curse me, but he was the strongest chap i ever struck, an' him a old feller, with a white moustache, one that thin you would think he couldn't throw a shadder." how this phrase thrilled through me! "why, 'e took up 'is end o' the boxes like they was pounds of tea, and me a-puffin' an' a-blowin' afore i could up-end mine anyhow--an' i'm no chicken, neither." "how did you get into the house in piccadilly?" i asked. "he was there too. he must 'a' started off and got there afore me, for when i rung of the bell he kem an' opened the door 'isself an' 'elped me to carry the boxes into the 'all." "the whole nine?" i asked. "yus; there was five in the first load an' four in the second. it was main dry work, an' i don't so well remember 'ow i got 'ome." i interrupted him:-"were the boxes left in the hall?" "yus; it was a big 'all, an' there was nothin' else in it." i made one more attempt to further matters:-"you didn't have any key?" "never used no key nor nothink. the old gent, he opened the door 'isself an' shut it again when i druv off. i don't remember the last time--but that was the beer." "and you can't remember the number of the house?" "no, sir. but ye needn't have no difficulty about that. it's a 'igh 'un with a stone front with a bow on it, an' 'igh steps up to the door. i know them steps, 'avin' 'ad to carry the boxes up with three loafers what come round to earn a copper. the old gent give them shillin's, an' they seein' they got so much, they wanted more; but 'e took one of them by the shoulder and was like to throw 'im down the steps, till the lot of them went away cussin'." i thought that with this description i could find the house, so, having paid my friend for his information, i started off for piccadilly. i had gained a new painful experience; the count could, it was evident, handle the earth-boxes himself. if so, time was precious; for, now that he had achieved a certain amount of distribution, he could, by choosing his own time, complete the task unobserved. at piccadilly circus i discharged my cab, and walked westward; beyond the junior constitutional i came across the house described, and was satisfied that this was the next of the lairs arranged by dracula. the house looked as though it had been long untenanted. the windows were encrusted with dust, and the shutters were up. all the framework was black with time, and from the iron the paint had mostly scaled away. it was evident that up to lately there had been a large notice-board in front of the balcony; it had, however, been roughly torn away, the uprights which had supported it still remaining. behind the rails of the balcony i saw there were some loose boards, whose raw edges looked white. i would have given a good deal to have been able to see the notice-board intact, as it would, perhaps, have given some clue to the ownership of the house. i remembered my experience of the investigation and purchase of carfax, and i could not but feel that if i could find the former owner there might be some means discovered of gaining access to the house. there was at present nothing to be learned from the piccadilly side, and nothing could be done; so i went round to the back to see if anything could be gathered from this quarter. the mews were active, the piccadilly houses being mostly in occupation. i asked one or two of the grooms and helpers whom i saw around if they could tell me anything about the empty house. one of them said that he heard it had lately been taken, but he couldn't say from whom. he told me, however, that up to very lately there had been a notice-board of "for sale" up, and that perhaps mitchell, sons, & candy, the house agents, could tell me something, as he thought he remembered seeing the name of that firm on the board. i did not wish to seem too eager, or to let my informant know or guess too much, so, thanking him in the usual manner, i strolled away. it was now growing dusk, and the autumn night was closing in, so i did not lose any time. having learned the address of mitchell, sons, & candy from a directory at the berkeley, i was soon at their office in sackville street. the gentleman who saw me was particularly suave in manner, but uncommunicative in equal proportion. having once told me that the piccadilly house--which throughout our interview he called a "mansion"--was sold, he considered my business as concluded. when i asked who had purchased it, he opened his eyes a thought wider, and paused a few seconds before replying:-"it is sold, sir." "pardon me," i said, with equal politeness, "but i have a special reason for wishing to know who purchased it." again he paused longer, and raised his eyebrows still more. "it is sold, sir," was again his laconic reply. "surely," i said, "you do not mind letting me know so much." "but i do mind," he answered. "the affairs of their clients are absolutely safe in the hands of mitchell, sons, & candy." this was manifestly a prig of the first water, and there was no use arguing with him. i thought i had best meet him on his own ground, so i said:-"your clients, sir, are happy in having so resolute a guardian of their confidence. i am myself a professional man." here i handed him my card. "in this instance i am not prompted by curiosity; i act on the part of lord godalming, who wishes to know something of the property which was, he understood, lately for sale." these words put a different complexion on affairs. he said:-"i would like to oblige you if i could, mr. harker, and especially would i like to oblige his lordship. we once carried out a small matter of renting some chambers for him when he was the honourable arthur holmwood. if you will let me have his lordship's address i will consult the house on the subject, and will, in any case, communicate with his lordship by to-night's post. it will be a pleasure if we can so far deviate from our rules as to give the required information to his lordship." i wanted to secure a friend, and not to make an enemy, so i thanked him, gave the address at dr. seward's and came away. it was now dark, and i was tired and hungry. i got a cup of tea at the aã«rated bread company and came down to purfleet by the next train. i found all the others at home. mina was looking tired and pale, but she made a gallant effort to be bright and cheerful, it wrung my heart to think that i had had to keep anything from her and so caused her inquietude. thank god, this will be the last night of her looking on at our conferences, and feeling the sting of our not showing our confidence. it took all my courage to hold to the wise resolution of keeping her out of our grim task. she seems somehow more reconciled; or else the very subject seems to have become repugnant to her, for when any accidental allusion is made she actually shudders. i am glad we made our resolution in time, as with such a feeling as this, our growing knowledge would be torture to her. i could not tell the others of the day's discovery till we were alone; so after dinner--followed by a little music to save appearances even amongst ourselves--i took mina to her room and left her to go to bed. the dear girl was more affectionate with me than ever, and clung to me as though she would detain me; but there was much to be talked of and i came away. thank god, the ceasing of telling things has made no difference between us. when i came down again i found the others all gathered round the fire in the study. in the train i had written my diary so far, and simply read it off to them as the best means of letting them get abreast of my own information; when i had finished van helsing said:-"this has been a great day's work, friend jonathan. doubtless we are on the track of the missing boxes. if we find them all in that house, then our work is near the end. but if there be some missing, we must search until we find them. then shall we make our final _coup_, and hunt the wretch to his real death." we all sat silent awhile and all at once mr. morris spoke:-"say! how are we going to get into that house?" "we got into the other," answered lord godalming quickly. "but, art, this is different. we broke house at carfax, but we had night and a walled park to protect us. it will be a mighty different thing to commit burglary in piccadilly, either by day or night. i confess i don't see how we are going to get in unless that agency duck can find us a key of some sort; perhaps we shall know when you get his letter in the morning." lord godalming's brows contracted, and he stood up and walked about the room. by-and-by he stopped and said, turning from one to another of us:-"quincey's head is level. this burglary business is getting serious; we got off once all right; but we have now a rare job on hand--unless we can find the count's key basket." as nothing could well be done before morning, and as it would be at least advisable to wait till lord godalming should hear from mitchell's, we decided not to take any active step before breakfast time. for a good while we sat and smoked, discussing the matter in its various lights and bearings; i took the opportunity of bringing this diary right up to the moment. i am very sleepy and shall go to bed.... just a line. mina sleeps soundly and her breathing is regular. her forehead is puckered up into little wrinkles, as though she thinks even in her sleep. she is still too pale, but does not look so haggard as she did this morning. to-morrow will, i hope, mend all this; she will be herself at home in exeter. oh, but i am sleepy! _dr. seward's diary._ _1 october._--i am puzzled afresh about renfield. his moods change so rapidly that i find it difficult to keep touch of them, and as they always mean something more than his own well-being, they form a more than interesting study. this morning, when i went to see him after his repulse of van helsing, his manner was that of a man commanding destiny. he was, in fact, commanding destiny--subjectively. he did not really care for any of the things of mere earth; he was in the clouds and looked down on all the weaknesses and wants of us poor mortals. i thought i would improve the occasion and learn something, so i asked him:-"what about the flies these times?" he smiled on me in quite a superior sort of way--such a smile as would have become the face of malvolio--as he answered me:-"the fly, my dear sir, has one striking feature; its wings are typical of the aã«rial powers of the psychic faculties. the ancients did well when they typified the soul as a butterfly!" i thought i would push his analogy to its utmost logically, so i said quickly:-"oh, it is a soul you are after now, is it?" his madness foiled his reason, and a puzzled look spread over his face as, shaking his head with a decision which i had but seldom seen in him, he said:-"oh, no, oh no! i want no souls. life is all i want." here he brightened up; "i am pretty indifferent about it at present. life is all right; i have all i want. you must get a new patient, doctor, if you wish to study zoã¶phagy!" this puzzled me a little, so i drew him on:-"then you command life; you are a god, i suppose?" he smiled with an ineffably benign superiority. "oh no! far be it from me to arrogate to myself the attributes of the deity. i am not even concerned in his especially spiritual doings. if i may state my intellectual position i am, so far as concerns things purely terrestrial, somewhat in the position which enoch occupied spiritually!" this was a poser to me. i could not at the moment recall enoch's appositeness; so i had to ask a simple question, though i felt that by so doing i was lowering myself in the eyes of the lunatic:-"and why with enoch?" "because he walked with god." i could not see the analogy, but did not like to admit it; so i harked back to what he had denied:-"so you don't care about life and you don't want souls. why not?" i put my question quickly and somewhat sternly, on purpose to disconcert him. the effort succeeded; for an instant he unconsciously relapsed into his old servile manner, bent low before me, and actually fawned upon me as he replied:-"i don't want any souls, indeed, indeed! i don't. i couldn't use them if i had them; they would be no manner of use to me. i couldn't eat them or----" he suddenly stopped and the old cunning look spread over his face, like a wind-sweep on the surface of the water. "and doctor, as to life, what is it after all? when you've got all you require, and you know that you will never want, that is all. i have friends--good friends--like you, dr. seward"; this was said with a leer of inexpressible cunning. "i know that i shall never lack the means of life!" i think that through the cloudiness of his insanity he saw some antagonism in me, for he at once fell back on the last refuge of such as he--a dogged silence. after a short time i saw that for the present it was useless to speak to him. he was sulky, and so i came away. later in the day he sent for me. ordinarily i would not have come without special reason, but just at present i am so interested in him that i would gladly make an effort. besides, i am glad to have anything to help to pass the time. harker is out, following up clues; and so are lord godalming and quincey. van helsing sits in my study poring over the record prepared by the harkers; he seems to think that by accurate knowledge of all details he will light upon some clue. he does not wish to be disturbed in the work, without cause. i would have taken him with me to see the patient, only i thought that after his last repulse he might not care to go again. there was also another reason: renfield might not speak so freely before a third person as when he and i were alone. i found him sitting out in the middle of the floor on his stool, a pose which is generally indicative of some mental energy on his part. when i came in, he said at once, as though the question had been waiting on his lips:-"what about souls?" it was evident then that my surmise had been correct. unconscious cerebration was doing its work, even with the lunatic. i determined to have the matter out. "what about them yourself?" i asked. he did not reply for a moment but looked all round him, and up and down, as though he expected to find some inspiration for an answer. "i don't want any souls!" he said in a feeble, apologetic way. the matter seemed preying on his mind, and so i determined to use it--to "be cruel only to be kind." so i said:-"you like life, and you want life?" "oh yes! but that is all right; you needn't worry about that!" "but," i asked, "how are we to get the life without getting the soul also?" this seemed to puzzle him, so i followed it up:-"a nice time you'll have some time when you're flying out there, with the souls of thousands of flies and spiders and birds and cats buzzing and twittering and miauing all round you. you've got their lives, you know, and you must put up with their souls!" something seemed to affect his imagination, for he put his fingers to his ears and shut his eyes, screwing them up tightly just as a small boy does when his face is being soaped. there was something pathetic in it that touched me; it also gave me a lesson, for it seemed that before me was a child--only a child, though the features were worn, and the stubble on the jaws was white. it was evident that he was undergoing some process of mental disturbance, and, knowing how his past moods had interpreted things seemingly foreign to himself, i thought i would enter into his mind as well as i could and go with him. the first step was to restore confidence, so i asked him, speaking pretty loud so that he would hear me through his closed ears:-"would you like some sugar to get your flies round again?" he seemed to wake up all at once, and shook his head. with a laugh he replied:-"not much! flies are poor things, after all!" after a pause he added, "but i don't want their souls buzzing round me, all the same." "or spiders?" i went on. "blow spiders! what's the use of spiders? there isn't anything in them to eat or"--he stopped suddenly, as though reminded of a forbidden topic. "so, so!" i thought to myself, "this is the second time he has suddenly stopped at the word 'drink'; what does it mean?" renfield seemed himself aware of having made a lapse, for he hurried on, as though to distract my attention from it:-"i don't take any stock at all in such matters. 'rats and mice and such small deer,' as shakespeare has it, 'chicken-feed of the larder' they might be called. i'm past all that sort of nonsense. you might as well ask a man to eat molecules with a pair of chop-sticks, as to try to interest me about the lesser carnivora, when i know of what is before me." "i see," i said. "you want big things that you can make your teeth meet in? how would you like to breakfast on elephant?" "what ridiculous nonsense you are talking!" he was getting too wide awake, so i thought i would press him hard. "i wonder," i said reflectively, "what an elephant's soul is like!" the effect i desired was obtained, for he at once fell from his high-horse and became a child again. "i don't want an elephant's soul, or any soul at all!" he said. for a few moments he sat despondently. suddenly he jumped to his feet, with his eyes blazing and all the signs of intense cerebral excitement. "to hell with you and your souls!" he shouted. "why do you plague me about souls? haven't i got enough to worry, and pain, and distract me already, without thinking of souls!" he looked so hostile that i thought he was in for another homicidal fit, so i blew my whistle. the instant, however, that i did so he became calm, and said apologetically:-"forgive me, doctor; i forgot myself. you do not need any help. i am so worried in my mind that i am apt to be irritable. if you only knew the problem i have to face, and that i am working out, you would pity, and tolerate, and pardon me. pray do not put me in a strait-waistcoat. i want to think and i cannot think freely when my body is confined. i am sure you will understand!" he had evidently self-control; so when the attendants came i told them not to mind, and they withdrew. renfield watched them go; when the door was closed he said, with considerable dignity and sweetness:-"dr. seward, you have been very considerate towards me. believe me that i am very, very grateful to you!" i thought it well to leave him in this mood, and so i came away. there is certainly something to ponder over in this man's state. several points seem to make what the american interviewer calls "a story," if one could only get them in proper order. here they are:-will not mention "drinking." fears the thought of being burdened with the "soul" of anything. has no dread of wanting "life" in the future. despises the meaner forms of life altogether, though he dreads being haunted by their souls. logically all these things point one way! he has assurance of some kind that he will acquire some higher life. he dreads the consequence--the burden of a soul. then it is a human life he looks to! and the assurance--? merciful god! the count has been to him, and there is some new scheme of terror afoot! * * * * * _later._--i went after my round to van helsing and told him my suspicion. he grew very grave; and, after thinking the matter over for a while asked me to take him to renfield. i did so. as we came to the door we heard the lunatic within singing gaily, as he used to do in the time which now seems so long ago. when we entered we saw with amazement that he had spread out his sugar as of old; the flies, lethargic with the autumn, were beginning to buzz into the room. we tried to make him talk of the subject of our previous conversation, but he would not attend. he went on with his singing, just as though we had not been present. he had got a scrap of paper and was folding it into a note-book. we had to come away as ignorant as we went in. his is a curious case indeed; we must watch him to-night. _letter, mitchell, sons and candy to lord godalming._ _"1 october._ "my lord, "we are at all times only too happy to meet your wishes. we beg, with regard to the desire of your lordship, expressed by mr. harker on your behalf, to supply the following information concerning the sale and purchase of no. 347, piccadilly. the original vendors are the executors of the late mr. archibald winter-suffield. the purchaser is a foreign nobleman, count de ville, who effected the purchase himself paying the purchase money in notes 'over the counter,' if your lordship will pardon us using so vulgar an expression. beyond this we know nothing whatever of him. "we are, my lord, "your lordship's humble servants, "mitchell, sons & candy." _dr. seward's diary._ _2 october._--i placed a man in the corridor last night, and told him to make an accurate note of any sound he might hear from renfield's room, and gave him instructions that if there should be anything strange he was to call me. after dinner, when we had all gathered round the fire in the study--mrs. harker having gone to bed--we discussed the attempts and discoveries of the day. harker was the only one who had any result, and we are in great hopes that his clue may be an important one. before going to bed i went round to the patient's room and looked in through the observation trap. he was sleeping soundly, and his heart rose and fell with regular respiration. this morning the man on duty reported to me that a little after midnight he was restless and kept saying his prayers somewhat loudly. i asked him if that was all; he replied that it was all he heard. there was something about his manner so suspicious that i asked him point blank if he had been asleep. he denied sleep, but admitted to having "dozed" for a while. it is too bad that men cannot be trusted unless they are watched. to-day harker is out following up his clue, and art and quincey are looking after horses. godalming thinks that it will be well to have horses always in readiness, for when we get the information which we seek there will be no time to lose. we must sterilise all the imported earth between sunrise and sunset; we shall thus catch the count at his weakest, and without a refuge to fly to. van helsing is off to the british museum looking up some authorities on ancient medicine. the old physicians took account of things which their followers do not accept, and the professor is searching for witch and demon cures which may be useful to us later. i sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats. * * * * * _later._--we have met again. we seem at last to be on the track, and our work of to-morrow may be the beginning of the end. i wonder if renfield's quiet has anything to do with this. his moods have so followed the doings of the count, that the coming destruction of the monster may be carried to him in some subtle way. if we could only get some hint as to what passed in his mind, between the time of my argument with him to-day and his resumption of fly-catching, it might afford us a valuable clue. he is now seemingly quiet for a spell.... is he?---that wild yell seemed to come from his room.... * * * * * the attendant came bursting into my room and told me that renfield had somehow met with some accident. he had heard him yell; and when he went to him found him lying on his face on the floor, all covered with blood. i must go at once.... chapter xxi dr. seward's diary _3 october._--let me put down with exactness all that happened, as well as i can remember it, since last i made an entry. not a detail that i can recall must be forgotten; in all calmness i must proceed. when i came to renfield's room i found him lying on the floor on his left side in a glittering pool of blood. when i went to move him, it became at once apparent that he had received some terrible injuries; there seemed none of that unity of purpose between the parts of the body which marks even lethargic sanity. as the face was exposed i could see that it was horribly bruised, as though it had been beaten against the floor--indeed it was from the face wounds that the pool of blood originated. the attendant who was kneeling beside the body said to me as we turned him over:-"i think, sir, his back is broken. see, both his right arm and leg and the whole side of his face are paralysed." how such a thing could have happened puzzled the attendant beyond measure. he seemed quite bewildered, and his brows were gathered in as he said:-"i can't understand the two things. he could mark his face like that by beating his own head on the floor. i saw a young woman do it once at the eversfield asylum before anyone could lay hands on her. and i suppose he might have broke his neck by falling out of bed, if he got in an awkward kink. but for the life of me i can't imagine how the two things occurred. if his back was broke, he couldn't beat his head; and if his face was like that before the fall out of bed, there would be marks of it." i said to him:-"go to dr. van helsing, and ask him to kindly come here at once. i want him without an instant's delay." the man ran off, and within a few minutes the professor, in his dressing gown and slippers, appeared. when he saw renfield on the ground, he looked keenly at him a moment, and then turned to me. i think he recognised my thought in my eyes, for he said very quietly, manifestly for the ears of the attendant:-"ah, a sad accident! he will need very careful watching, and much attention. i shall stay with you myself; but i shall first dress myself. if you will remain i shall in a few minutes join you." the patient was now breathing stertorously and it was easy to see that he had suffered some terrible injury. van helsing returned with extraordinary celerity, bearing with him a surgical case. he had evidently been thinking and had his mind made up; for, almost before he looked at the patient, he whispered to me:-"send the attendant away. we must be alone with him when he becomes conscious, after the operation." so i said:-"i think that will do now, simmons. we have done all that we can at present. you had better go your round, and dr. van helsing will operate. let me know instantly if there be anything unusual anywhere." the man withdrew, and we went into a strict examination of the patient. the wounds of the face was superficial; the real injury was a depressed fracture of the skull, extending right up through the motor area. the professor thought a moment and said:-"we must reduce the pressure and get back to normal conditions, as far as can be; the rapidity of the suffusion shows the terrible nature of his injury. the whole motor area seems affected. the suffusion of the brain will increase quickly, so we must trephine at once or it may be too late." as he was speaking there was a soft tapping at the door. i went over and opened it and found in the corridor without, arthur and quincey in pajamas and slippers: the former spoke:-"i heard your man call up dr. van helsing and tell him of an accident. so i woke quincey or rather called for him as he was not asleep. things are moving too quickly and too strangely for sound sleep for any of us these times. i've been thinking that to-morrow night will not see things as they have been. we'll have to look back--and forward a little more than we have done. may we come in?" i nodded, and held the door open till they had entered; then i closed it again. when quincey saw the attitude and state of the patient, and noted the horrible pool on the floor, he said softly:-"my god! what has happened to him? poor, poor devil!" i told him briefly, and added that we expected he would recover consciousness after the operation--for a short time, at all events. he went at once and sat down on the edge of the bed, with godalming beside him; we all watched in patience. "we shall wait," said van helsing, "just long enough to fix the best spot for trephining, so that we may most quickly and perfectly remove the blood clot; for it is evident that the hã¦morrhage is increasing." the minutes during which we waited passed with fearful slowness. i had a horrible sinking in my heart, and from van helsing's face i gathered that he felt some fear or apprehension as to what was to come. i dreaded the words that renfield might speak. i was positively afraid to think; but the conviction of what was coming was on me, as i have read of men who have heard the death-watch. the poor man's breathing came in uncertain gasps. each instant he seemed as though he would open his eyes and speak; but then would follow a prolonged stertorous breath, and he would relapse into a more fixed insensibility. inured as i was to sick beds and death, this suspense grew, and grew upon me. i could almost hear the beating of my own heart; and the blood surging through my temples sounded like blows from a hammer. the silence finally became agonising. i looked at my companions, one after another, and saw from their flushed faces and damp brows that they were enduring equal torture. there was a nervous suspense over us all, as though overhead some dread bell would peal out powerfully when we should least expect it. at last there came a time when it was evident that the patient was sinking fast; he might die at any moment. i looked up at the professor and caught his eyes fixed on mine. his face was sternly set as he spoke:-"there is no time to lose. his words may be worth many lives; i have been thinking so, as i stood here. it may be there is a soul at stake! we shall operate just above the ear." without another word he made the operation. for a few moments the breathing continued to be stertorous. then there came a breath so prolonged that it seemed as though it would tear open his chest. suddenly his eyes opened, and became fixed in a wild, helpless stare. this was continued for a few moments; then it softened into a glad surprise, and from the lips came a sigh of relief. he moved convulsively, and as he did so, said:-"i'll be quiet, doctor. tell them to take off the strait-waistcoat. i have had a terrible dream, and it has left me so weak that i cannot move. what's wrong with my face? it feels all swollen, and it smarts dreadfully." he tried to turn his head; but even with the effort his eyes seemed to grow glassy again so i gently put it back. then van helsing said in a quiet grave tone:-"tell us your dream, mr. renfield." as he heard the voice his face brightened, through its mutilation, and he said:-"that is dr. van helsing. how good it is of you to be here. give me some water, my lips are dry; and i shall try to tell you. i dreamed"--he stopped and seemed fainting, i called quietly to quincey--"the brandy--it is in my study--quick!" he flew and returned with a glass, the decanter of brandy and a carafe of water. we moistened the parched lips, and the patient quickly revived. it seemed, however, that his poor injured brain had been working in the interval, for, when he was quite conscious, he looked at me piercingly with an agonised confusion which i shall never forget, and said:-"i must not deceive myself; it was no dream, but all a grim reality." then his eyes roved round the room; as they caught sight of the two figures sitting patiently on the edge of the bed he went on:-"if i were not sure already, i would know from them." for an instant his eyes closed--not with pain or sleep but voluntarily, as though he were bringing all his faculties to bear; when he opened them he said, hurriedly, and with more energy than he had yet displayed:-"quick, doctor, quick. i am dying! i feel that i have but a few minutes; and then i must go back to death--or worse! wet my lips with brandy again. i have something that i must say before i die; or before my poor crushed brain dies anyhow. thank you! it was that night after you left me, when i implored you to let me go away. i couldn't speak then, for i felt my tongue was tied; but i was as sane then, except in that way, as i am now. i was in an agony of despair for a long time after you left me; it seemed hours. then there came a sudden peace to me. my brain seemed to become cool again, and i realised where i was. i heard the dogs bark behind our house, but not where he was!" as he spoke, van helsing's eyes never blinked, but his hand came out and met mine and gripped it hard. he did not, however, betray himself; he nodded slightly and said: "go on," in a low voice. renfield proceeded:-"he came up to the window in the mist, as i had seen him often before; but he was solid then--not a ghost, and his eyes were fierce like a man's when angry. he was laughing with his red mouth; the sharp white teeth glinted in the moonlight when he turned to look back over the belt of trees, to where the dogs were barking. i wouldn't ask him to come in at first, though i knew he wanted to--just as he had wanted all along. then he began promising me things--not in words but by doing them." he was interrupted by a word from the professor:-"how?" "by making them happen; just as he used to send in the flies when the sun was shining. great big fat ones with steel and sapphire on their wings; and big moths, in the night, with skull and cross-bones on their backs." van helsing nodded to him as he whispered to me unconsciously:-"the _acherontia aitetropos of the sphinges_--what you call the 'death's-head moth'?" the patient went on without stopping. "then he began to whisper: 'rats, rats, rats! hundreds, thousands, millions of them, and every one a life; and dogs to eat them, and cats too. all lives! all red blood, with years of life in it; and not merely buzzing flies!' i laughed at him, for i wanted to see what he could do. then the dogs howled, away beyond the dark trees in his house. he beckoned me to the window. i got up and looked out, and he raised his hands, and seemed to call out without using any words. a dark mass spread over the grass, coming on like the shape of a flame of fire; and then he moved the mist to the right and left, and i could see that there were thousands of rats with their eyes blazing red--like his, only smaller. he held up his hand, and they all stopped; and i thought he seemed to be saying: 'all these lives will i give you, ay, and many more and greater, through countless ages, if you will fall down and worship me!' and then a red cloud, like the colour of blood, seemed to close over my eyes; and before i knew what i was doing, i found myself opening the sash and saying to him: 'come in, lord and master!' the rats were all gone, but he slid into the room through the sash, though it was only open an inch wide--just as the moon herself has often come in through the tiniest crack and has stood before me in all her size and splendour." his voice was weaker, so i moistened his lips with the brandy again, and he continued; but it seemed as though his memory had gone on working in the interval for his story was further advanced. i was about to call him back to the point, but van helsing whispered to me: "let him go on. do not interrupt him; he cannot go back, and maybe could not proceed at all if once he lost the thread of his thought." he proceeded:-"all day i waited to hear from him, but he did not send me anything, not even a blow-fly, and when the moon got up i was pretty angry with him. when he slid in through the window, though it was shut, and did not even knock, i got mad with him. he sneered at me, and his white face looked out of the mist with his red eyes gleaming, and he went on as though he owned the whole place, and i was no one. he didn't even smell the same as he went by me. i couldn't hold him. i thought that, somehow, mrs. harker had come into the room." the two men sitting on the bed stood up and came over, standing behind him so that he could not see them, but where they could hear better. they were both silent, but the professor started and quivered; his face, however, grew grimmer and sterner still. renfield went on without noticing:-"when mrs. harker came in to see me this afternoon she wasn't the same; it was like tea after the teapot had been watered." here we all moved, but no one said a word; he went on:-"i didn't know that she was here till she spoke; and she didn't look the same. i don't care for the pale people; i like them with lots of blood in them, and hers had all seemed to have run out. i didn't think of it at the time; but when she went away i began to think, and it made me mad to know that he had been taking the life out of her." i could feel that the rest quivered, as i did, but we remained otherwise still. "so when he came to-night i was ready for him. i saw the mist stealing in, and i grabbed it tight. i had heard that madmen have unnatural strength; and as i knew i was a madman--at times anyhow--i resolved to use my power. ay, and he felt it too, for he had to come out of the mist to struggle with me. i held tight; and i thought i was going to win, for i didn't mean him to take any more of her life, till i saw his eyes. they burned into me, and my strength became like water. he slipped through it, and when i tried to cling to him, he raised me up and flung me down. there was a red cloud before me, and a noise like thunder, and the mist seemed to steal away under the door." his voice was becoming fainter and his breath more stertorous. van helsing stood up instinctively. "we know the worst now," he said. "he is here, and we know his purpose. it may not be too late. let us be armed--the same as we were the other night, but lose no time; there is not an instant to spare." there was no need to put our fear, nay our conviction, into words--we shared them in common. we all hurried and took from our rooms the same things that we had when we entered the count's house. the professor had his ready, and as we met in the corridor he pointed to them significantly as he said:-"they never leave me; and they shall not till this unhappy business is over. be wise also, my friends. it is no common enemy that we deal with. alas! alas! that that dear madam mina should suffer!" he stopped; his voice was breaking, and i do not know if rage or terror predominated in my own heart. outside the harkers' door we paused. art and quincey held back, and the latter said:-"should we disturb her?" "we must," said van helsing grimly. "if the door be locked, i shall break it in." "may it not frighten her terribly? it is unusual to break into a lady's room!" van helsing said solemnly, "you are always right; but this is life and death. all chambers are alike to the doctor; and even were they not they are all as one to me to-night. friend john, when i turn the handle, if the door does not open, do you put your shoulder down and shove; and you too, my friends. now!" he turned the handle as he spoke, but the door did not yield. we threw ourselves against it; with a crash it burst open, and we almost fell headlong into the room. the professor did actually fall, and i saw across him as he gathered himself up from hands and knees. what i saw appalled me. i felt my hair rise like bristles on the back of my neck, and my heart seemed to stand still. the moonlight was so bright that through the thick yellow blind the room was light enough to see. on the bed beside the window lay jonathan harker, his face flushed and breathing heavily as though in a stupor. kneeling on the near edge of the bed facing outwards was the white-clad figure of his wife. by her side stood a tall, thin man, clad in black. his face was turned from us, but the instant we saw we all recognised the count--in every way, even to the scar on his forehead. with his left hand he held both mrs. harker's hands, keeping them away with her arms at full tension; his right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. her white nightdress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man's bare breast which was shown by his torn-open dress. the attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child forcing a kitten's nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink. as we burst into the room, the count turned his face, and the hellish look that i had heard described seemed to leap into it. his eyes flamed red with devilish passion; the great nostrils of the white aquiline nose opened wide and quivered at the edge; and the white sharp teeth, behind the full lips of the blood-dripping mouth, champed together like those of a wild beast. with a wrench, which threw his victim back upon the bed as though hurled from a height, he turned and sprang at us. but by this time the professor had gained his feet, and was holding towards him the envelope which contained the sacred wafer. the count suddenly stopped, just as poor lucy had done outside the tomb, and cowered back. further and further back he cowered, as we, lifting our crucifixes, advanced. the moonlight suddenly failed, as a great black cloud sailed across the sky; and when the gaslight sprang up under quincey's match, we saw nothing but a faint vapour. this, as we looked, trailed under the door, which with the recoil from its bursting open, had swung back to its old position. van helsing, art, and i moved forward to mrs. harker, who by this time had drawn her breath and with it had given a scream so wild, so ear-piercing, so despairing that it seems to me now that it will ring in my ears till my dying day. for a few seconds she lay in her helpless attitude and disarray. her face was ghastly, with a pallor which was accentuated by the blood which smeared her lips and cheeks and chin; from her throat trickled a thin stream of blood; her eyes were mad with terror. then she put before her face her poor crushed hands, which bore on their whiteness the red mark of the count's terrible grip, and from behind them came a low desolate wail which made the terrible scream seem only the quick expression of an endless grief. van helsing stepped forward and drew the coverlet gently over her body, whilst art, after looking at her face for an instant despairingly, ran out of the room. van helsing whispered to me:-"jonathan is in a stupor such as we know the vampire can produce. we can do nothing with poor madam mina for a few moments till she recovers herself; i must wake him!" he dipped the end of a towel in cold water and with it began to flick him on the face, his wife all the while holding her face between her hands and sobbing in a way that was heart-breaking to hear. i raised the blind, and looked out of the window. there was much moonshine; and as i looked i could see quincey morris run across the lawn and hide himself in the shadow of a great yew-tree. it puzzled me to think why he was doing this; but at the instant i heard harker's quick exclamation as he woke to partial consciousness, and turned to the bed. on his face, as there might well be, was a look of wild amazement. he seemed dazed for a few seconds, and then full consciousness seemed to burst upon him all at once, and he started up. his wife was aroused by the quick movement, and turned to him with her arms stretched out, as though to embrace him; instantly, however, she drew them in again, and putting her elbows together, held her hands before her face, and shuddered till the bed beneath her shook. "in god's name what does this mean?" harker cried out. "dr. seward, dr. van helsing, what is it? what has happened? what is wrong? mina, dear, what is it? what does that blood mean? my god, my god! has it come to this!" and, raising himself to his knees, he beat his hands wildly together. "good god help us! help her! oh, help her!" with a quick movement he jumped from bed, and began to pull on his clothes,--all the man in him awake at the need for instant exertion. "what has happened? tell me all about it!" he cried without pausing. "dr. van helsing, you love mina, i know. oh, do something to save her. it cannot have gone too far yet. guard her while i look for _him_!" his wife, through her terror and horror and distress, saw some sure danger to him: instantly forgetting her own grief, she seized hold of him and cried out:-"no! no! jonathan, you must not leave me. i have suffered enough to-night, god knows, without the dread of his harming you. you must stay with me. stay with these friends who will watch over you!" her expression became frantic as she spoke; and, he yielding to her, she pulled him down sitting on the bed side, and clung to him fiercely. van helsing and i tried to calm them both. the professor held up his little golden crucifix, and said with wonderful calmness:-"do not fear, my dear. we are here; and whilst this is close to you no foul thing can approach. you are safe for to-night; and we must be calm and take counsel together." she shuddered and was silent, holding down her head on her husband's breast. when she raised it, his white night-robe was stained with blood where her lips had touched, and where the thin open wound in her neck had sent forth drops. the instant she saw it she drew back, with a low wail, and whispered, amidst choking sobs:-"unclean, unclean! i must touch him or kiss him no more. oh, that it should be that it is i who am now his worst enemy, and whom he may have most cause to fear." to this he spoke out resolutely:-"nonsense, mina. it is a shame to me to hear such a word. i would not hear it of you; and i shall not hear it from you. may god judge me by my deserts, and punish me with more bitter suffering than even this hour, if by any act or will of mine anything ever come between us!" he put out his arms and folded her to his breast; and for a while she lay there sobbing. he looked at us over her bowed head, with eyes that blinked damply above his quivering nostrils; his mouth was set as steel. after a while her sobs became less frequent and more faint, and then he said to me, speaking with a studied calmness which i felt tried his nervous power to the utmost:-"and now, dr. seward, tell me all about it. too well i know the broad fact; tell me all that has been." i told him exactly what had happened, and he listened with seeming impassiveness; but his nostrils twitched and his eyes blazed as i told how the ruthless hands of the count had held his wife in that terrible and horrid position, with her mouth to the open wound in his breast. it interested me, even at that moment, to see, that, whilst the face of white set passion worked convulsively over the bowed head, the hands tenderly and lovingly stroked the ruffled hair. just as i had finished, quincey and godalming knocked at the door. they entered in obedience to our summons. van helsing looked at me questioningly. i understood him to mean if we were to take advantage of their coming to divert if possible the thoughts of the unhappy husband and wife from each other and from themselves; so on nodding acquiescence to him he asked them what they had seen or done. to which lord godalming answered:-"i could not see him anywhere in the passage, or in any of our rooms. i looked in the study but, though he had been there, he had gone. he had, however----" he stopped suddenly, looking at the poor drooping figure on the bed. van helsing said gravely:-"go on, friend arthur. we want here no more concealments. our hope now is in knowing all. tell freely!" so art went on:-"he had been there, and though it could only have been for a few seconds, he made rare hay of the place. all the manuscript had been burned, and the blue flames were flickering amongst the white ashes; the cylinders of your phonograph too were thrown on the fire, and the wax had helped the flames." here i interrupted. "thank god there is the other copy in the safe!" his face lit for a moment, but fell again as he went on: "i ran downstairs then, but could see no sign of him. i looked into renfield's room; but there was no trace there except----!" again he paused. "go on," said harker hoarsely; so he bowed his head and moistening his lips with his tongue, added: "except that the poor fellow is dead." mrs. harker raised her head, looking from one to the other of us she said solemnly:-"god's will be done!" i could not but feel that art was keeping back something; but, as i took it that it was with a purpose, i said nothing. van helsing turned to morris and asked:-"and you, friend quincey, have you any to tell?" "a little," he answered. "it may be much eventually, but at present i can't say. i thought it well to know if possible where the count would go when he left the house. i did not see him; but i saw a bat rise from renfield's window, and flap westward. i expected to see him in some shape go back to carfax; but he evidently sought some other lair. he will not be back to-night; for the sky is reddening in the east, and the dawn is close. we must work to-morrow!" he said the latter words through his shut teeth. for a space of perhaps a couple of minutes there was silence, and i could fancy that i could hear the sound of our hearts beating; then van helsing said, placing his hand very tenderly on mrs. harker's head:-"and now, madam mina--poor, dear, dear madam mina--tell us exactly what happened. god knows that i do not want that you be pained; but it is need that we know all. for now more than ever has all work to be done quick and sharp, and in deadly earnest. the day is close to us that must end all, if it may be so; and now is the chance that we may live and learn." the poor, dear lady shivered, and i could see the tension of her nerves as she clasped her husband closer to her and bent her head lower and lower still on his breast. then she raised her head proudly, and held out one hand to van helsing who took it in his, and, after stooping and kissing it reverently, held it fast. the other hand was locked in that of her husband, who held his other arm thrown round her protectingly. after a pause in which she was evidently ordering her thoughts, she began:-"i took the sleeping draught which you had so kindly given me, but for a long time it did not act. i seemed to become more wakeful, and myriads of horrible fancies began to crowd in upon my mind--all of them connected with death, and vampires; with blood, and pain, and trouble." her husband involuntarily groaned as she turned to him and said lovingly: "do not fret, dear. you must be brave and strong, and help me through the horrible task. if you only knew what an effort it is to me to tell of this fearful thing at all, you would understand how much i need your help. well, i saw i must try to help the medicine to its work with my will, if it was to do me any good, so i resolutely set myself to sleep. sure enough sleep must soon have come to me, for i remember no more. jonathan coming in had not waked me, for he lay by my side when next i remember. there was in the room the same thin white mist that i had before noticed. but i forget now if you know of this; you will find it in my diary which i shall show you later. i felt the same vague terror which had come to me before and the same sense of some presence. i turned to wake jonathan, but found that he slept so soundly that it seemed as if it was he who had taken the sleeping draught, and not i. i tried, but i could not wake him. this caused me a great fear, and i looked around terrified. then indeed, my heart sank within me: beside the bed, as if he had stepped out of the mist--or rather as if the mist had turned into his figure, for it had entirely disappeared--stood a tall, thin man, all in black. i knew him at once from the description of the others. the waxen face; the high aquiline nose, on which the light fell in a thin white line; the parted red lips, with the sharp white teeth showing between; and the red eyes that i had seemed to see in the sunset on the windows of st. mary's church at whitby. i knew, too, the red scar on his forehead where jonathan had struck him. for an instant my heart stood still, and i would have screamed out, only that i was paralysed. in the pause he spoke in a sort of keen, cutting whisper, pointing as he spoke to jonathan:-"'silence! if you make a sound i shall take him and dash his brains out before your very eyes.' i was appalled and was too bewildered to do or say anything. with a mocking smile, he placed one hand upon my shoulder and, holding me tight, bared my throat with the other, saying as he did so, 'first, a little refreshment to reward my exertions. you may as well be quiet; it is not the first time, or the second, that your veins have appeased my thirst!' i was bewildered, and, strangely enough, i did not want to hinder him. i suppose it is a part of the horrible curse that such is, when his touch is on his victim. and oh, my god, my god, pity me! he placed his reeking lips upon my throat!" her husband groaned again. she clasped his hand harder, and looked at him pityingly, as if he were the injured one, and went on:-"i felt my strength fading away, and i was in a half swoon. how long this horrible thing lasted i know not; but it seemed that a long time must have passed before he took his foul, awful, sneering mouth away. i saw it drip with the fresh blood!" the remembrance seemed for a while to overpower her, and she drooped and would have sunk down but for her husband's sustaining arm. with a great effort she recovered herself and went on:-"then he spoke to me mockingly, 'and so you, like the others, would play your brains against mine. you would help these men to hunt me and frustrate me in my designs! you know now, and they know in part already, and will know in full before long, what it is to cross my path. they should have kept their energies for use closer to home. whilst they played wits against me--against me who commanded nations, and intrigued for them, and fought for them, hundreds of years before they were born--i was countermining them. and you, their best beloved one, are now to me, flesh of my flesh; blood of my blood; kin of my kin; my bountiful wine-press for a while; and shall be later on my companion and my helper. you shall be avenged in turn; for not one of them but shall minister to your needs. but as yet you are to be punished for what you have done. you have aided in thwarting me; now you shall come to my call. when my brain says "come!" to you, you shall cross land or sea to do my bidding; and to that end this!' with that he pulled open his shirt, and with his long sharp nails opened a vein in his breast. when the blood began to spurt out, he took my hands in one of his, holding them tight, and with the other seized my neck and pressed my mouth to the wound, so that i must either suffocate or swallow some of the---oh my god! my god! what have i done? what have i done to deserve such a fate, i who have tried to walk in meekness and righteousness all my days. god pity me! look down on a poor soul in worse than mortal peril; and in mercy pity those to whom she is dear!" then she began to rub her lips as though to cleanse them from pollution. as she was telling her terrible story, the eastern sky began to quicken, and everything became more and more clear. harker was still and quiet; but over his face, as the awful narrative went on, came a grey look which deepened and deepened in the morning light, till when the first red streak of the coming dawn shot up, the flesh stood darkly out against the whitening hair. we have arranged that one of us is to stay within call of the unhappy pair till we can meet together and arrange about taking action. of this i am sure: the sun rises to-day on no more miserable house in all the great round of its daily course. chapter xxii jonathan harker's journal _3 october._--as i must do something or go mad, i write this diary. it is now six o'clock, and we are to meet in the study in half an hour and take something to eat; for dr. van helsing and dr. seward are agreed that if we do not eat we cannot work our best. our best will be, god knows, required to-day. i must keep writing at every chance, for i dare not stop to think. all, big and little, must go down; perhaps at the end the little things may teach us most. the teaching, big or little, could not have landed mina or me anywhere worse than we are to-day. however, we must trust and hope. poor mina told me just now, with the tears running down her dear cheeks, that it is in trouble and trial that our faith is tested--that we must keep on trusting; and that god will aid us up to the end. the end! oh my god! what end?... to work! to work! when dr. van helsing and dr. seward had come back from seeing poor renfield, we went gravely into what was to be done. first, dr. seward told us that when he and dr. van helsing had gone down to the room below they had found renfield lying on the floor, all in a heap. his face was all bruised and crushed in, and the bones of the neck were broken. dr. seward asked the attendant who was on duty in the passage if he had heard anything. he said that he had been sitting down--he confessed to half dozing--when he heard loud voices in the room, and then renfield had called out loudly several times, "god! god! god!" after that there was a sound of falling, and when he entered the room he found him lying on the floor, face down, just as the doctors had seen him. van helsing asked if he had heard "voices" or "a voice," and he said he could not say; that at first it had seemed to him as if there were two, but as there was no one in the room it could have been only one. he could swear to it, if required, that the word "god" was spoken by the patient. dr. seward said to us, when we were alone, that he did not wish to go into the matter; the question of an inquest had to be considered, and it would never do to put forward the truth, as no one would believe it. as it was, he thought that on the attendant's evidence he could give a certificate of death by misadventure in falling from bed. in case the coroner should demand it, there would be a formal inquest, necessarily to the same result. when the question began to be discussed as to what should be our next step, the very first thing we decided was that mina should be in full confidence; that nothing of any sort--no matter how painful--should be kept from her. she herself agreed as to its wisdom, and it was pitiful to see her so brave and yet so sorrowful, and in such a depth of despair. "there must be no concealment," she said, "alas! we have had too much already. and besides there is nothing in all the world that can give me more pain than i have already endured--than i suffer now! whatever may happen, it must be of new hope or of new courage to me!" van helsing was looking at her fixedly as she spoke, and said, suddenly but quietly:-"but dear madam mina, are you not afraid; not for yourself, but for others from yourself, after what has happened?" her face grew set in its lines, but her eyes shone with the devotion of a martyr as she answered:-"ah no! for my mind is made up!" "to what?" he asked gently, whilst we were all very still; for each in our own way we had a sort of vague idea of what she meant. her answer came with direct simplicity, as though she were simply stating a fact:-"because if i find in myself--and i shall watch keenly for it--a sign of harm to any that i love, i shall die!" "you would not kill yourself?" he asked, hoarsely. "i would; if there were no friend who loved me, who would save me such a pain, and so desperate an effort!" she looked at him meaningly as she spoke. he was sitting down; but now he rose and came close to her and put his hand on her head as he said solemnly: "my child, there is such an one if it were for your good. for myself i could hold it in my account with god to find such an euthanasia for you, even at this moment if it were best. nay, were it safe! but my child----" for a moment he seemed choked, and a great sob rose in his throat; he gulped it down and went on:-"there are here some who would stand between you and death. you must not die. you must not die by any hand; but least of all by your own. until the other, who has fouled your sweet life, is true dead you must not die; for if he is still with the quick un-dead, your death would make you even as he is. no, you must live! you must struggle and strive to live, though death would seem a boon unspeakable. you must fight death himself, though he come to you in pain or in joy; by the day, or the night; in safety or in peril! on your living soul i charge you that you do not die--nay, nor think of death--till this great evil be past." the poor dear grew white as death, and shock and shivered, as i have seen a quicksand shake and shiver at the incoming of the tide. we were all silent; we could do nothing. at length she grew more calm and turning to him said, sweetly, but oh! so sorrowfully, as she held out her hand:-"i promise you, my dear friend, that if god will let me live, i shall strive to do so; till, if it may be in his good time, this horror may have passed away from me." she was so good and brave that we all felt that our hearts were strengthened to work and endure for her, and we began to discuss what we were to do. i told her that she was to have all the papers in the safe, and all the papers or diaries and phonographs we might hereafter use; and was to keep the record as she had done before. she was pleased with the prospect of anything to do--if "pleased" could be used in connection with so grim an interest. as usual van helsing had thought ahead of everyone else, and was prepared with an exact ordering of our work. "it is perhaps well," he said, "that at our meeting after our visit to carfax we decided not to do anything with the earth-boxes that lay there. had we done so, the count must have guessed our purpose, and would doubtless have taken measures in advance to frustrate such an effort with regard to the others; but now he does not know our intentions. nay, more, in all probability, he does not know that such a power exists to us as can sterilise his lairs, so that he cannot use them as of old. we are now so much further advanced in our knowledge as to their disposition that, when we have examined the house in piccadilly, we may track the very last of them. to-day, then, is ours; and in it rests our hope. the sun that rose on our sorrow this morning guards us in its course. until it sets to-night, that monster must retain whatever form he now has. he is confined within the limitations of his earthly envelope. he cannot melt into thin air nor disappear through cracks or chinks or crannies. if he go through a doorway, he must open the door like a mortal. and so we have this day to hunt out all his lairs and sterilise them. so we shall, if we have not yet catch him and destroy him, drive him to bay in some place where the catching and the destroying shall be, in time, sure." here i started up for i could not contain myself at the thought that the minutes and seconds so preciously laden with mina's life and happiness were flying from us, since whilst we talked action was impossible. but van helsing held up his hand warningly. "nay, friend jonathan," he said, "in this, the quickest way home is the longest way, so your proverb say. we shall all act and act with desperate quick, when the time has come. but think, in all probable the key of the situation is in that house in piccadilly. the count may have many houses which he has bought. of them he will have deeds of purchase, keys and other things. he will have paper that he write on; he will have his book of cheques. there are many belongings that he must have somewhere; why not in this place so central, so quiet, where he come and go by the front or the back at all hour, when in the very vast of the traffic there is none to notice. we shall go there and search that house; and when we learn what it holds, then we do what our friend arthur call, in his phrases of hunt 'stop the earths' and so we run down our old fox--so? is it not?" "then let us come at once," i cried, "we are wasting the precious, precious time!" the professor did not move, but simply said:-"and how are we to get into that house in piccadilly?" "any way!" i cried. "we shall break in if need be." "and your police; where will they be, and what will they say?" i was staggered; but i knew that if he wished to delay he had a good reason for it. so i said, as quietly as i could:-"don't wait more than need be; you know, i am sure, what torture i am in." "ah, my child, that i do; and indeed there is no wish of me to add to your anguish. but just think, what can we do, until all the world be at movement. then will come our time. i have thought and thought, and it seems to me that the simplest way is the best of all. now we wish to get into the house, but we have no key; is it not so?" i nodded. "now suppose that you were, in truth, the owner of that house, and could not still get it; and think there was to you no conscience of the housebreaker, what would you do?" "i should get a respectable locksmith, and set him to work to pick the lock for me." "and your police, they would interfere, would they not?" "oh, no! not if they knew the man was properly employed." "then," he looked at me as keenly as he spoke, "all that is in doubt is the conscience of the employer, and the belief of your policemen as to whether or no that employer has a good conscience or a bad one. your police must indeed be zealous men and clever--oh, so clever!--in reading the heart, that they trouble themselves in such matter. no, no, my friend jonathan, you go take the lock off a hundred empty house in this your london, or of any city in the world; and if you do it as such things are rightly done, and at the time such things are rightly done, no one will interfere. i have read of a gentleman who owned a so fine house in london, and when he went for months of summer to switzerland and lock up his house, some burglar came and broke window at back and got in. then he went and made open the shutters in front and walk out and in through the door, before the very eyes of the police. then he have an auction in that house, and advertise it, and put up big notice; and when the day come he sell off by a great auctioneer all the goods of that other man who own them. then he go to a builder, and he sell him that house, making an agreement that he pull it down and take all away within a certain time. and your police and other authority help him all they can. and when that owner come back from his holiday in switzerland he find only an empty hole where his house had been. this was all done _en rã¨gle_; and in our work we shall be _en rã¨gle_ too. we shall not go so early that the policemen who have then little to think of, shall deem it strange; but we shall go after ten o'clock, when there are many about, and such things would be done were we indeed owners of the house." i could not but see how right he was and the terrible despair of mina's face became relaxed a thought; there was hope in such good counsel. van helsing went on:-"when once within that house we may find more clues; at any rate some of us can remain there whilst the rest find the other places where there be more earth-boxes--at bermondsey and mile end." lord godalming stood up. "i can be of some use here," he said. "i shall wire to my people to have horses and carriages where they will be most convenient." "look here, old fellow," said morris, "it is a capital idea to have all ready in case we want to go horsebacking; but don't you think that one of your snappy carriages with its heraldic adornments in a byway of walworth or mile end would attract too much attention for our purposes? it seems to me that we ought to take cabs when we go south or east; and even leave them somewhere near the neighbourhood we are going to." "friend quincey is right!" said the professor. "his head is what you call in plane with the horizon. it is a difficult thing that we go to do, and we do not want no peoples to watch us if so it may." mina took a growing interest in everything and i was rejoiced to see that the exigency of affairs was helping her to forget for a time the terrible experience of the night. she was very, very pale--almost ghastly, and so thin that her lips were drawn away, showing her teeth in somewhat of prominence. i did not mention this last, lest it should give her needless pain; but it made my blood run cold in my veins to think of what had occurred with poor lucy when the count had sucked her blood. as yet there was no sign of the teeth growing sharper; but the time as yet was short, and there was time for fear. when we came to the discussion of the sequence of our efforts and of the disposition of our forces, there were new sources of doubt. it was finally agreed that before starting for piccadilly we should destroy the count's lair close at hand. in case he should find it out too soon, we should thus be still ahead of him in our work of destruction; and his presence in his purely material shape, and at his weakest, might give us some new clue. as to the disposal of forces, it was suggested by the professor that, after our visit to carfax, we should all enter the house in piccadilly; that the two doctors and i should remain there, whilst lord godalming and quincey found the lairs at walworth and mile end and destroyed them. it was possible, if not likely, the professor urged, that the count might appear in piccadilly during the day, and that if so we might be able to cope with him then and there. at any rate, we might be able to follow him in force. to this plan i strenuously objected, and so far as my going was concerned, for i said that i intended to stay and protect mina, i thought that my mind was made up on the subject; but mina would not listen to my objection. she said that there might be some law matter in which i could be useful; that amongst the count's papers might be some clue which i could understand out of my experience in transylvania; and that, as it was, all the strength we could muster was required to cope with the count's extraordinary power. i had to give in, for mina's resolution was fixed; she said that it was the last hope for _her_ that we should all work together. "as for me," she said, "i have no fear. things have been as bad as they can be; and whatever may happen must have in it some element of hope or comfort. go, my husband! god can, if he wishes it, guard me as well alone as with any one present." so i started up crying out: "then in god's name let us come at once, for we are losing time. the count may come to piccadilly earlier than we think." "not so!" said van helsing, holding up his hand. "but why?" i asked. "do you forget," he said, with actually a smile, "that last night he banqueted heavily, and will sleep late?" did i forget! shall i ever--can i ever! can any of us ever forget that terrible scene! mina struggled hard to keep her brave countenance; but the pain overmastered her and she put her hands before her face, and shuddered whilst she moaned. van helsing had not intended to recall her frightful experience. he had simply lost sight of her and her part in the affair in his intellectual effort. when it struck him what he said, he was horrified at his thoughtlessness and tried to comfort her. "oh, madam mina," he said, "dear, dear madam mina, alas! that i of all who so reverence you should have said anything so forgetful. these stupid old lips of mine and this stupid old head do not deserve so; but you will forget it, will you not?" he bent low beside her as he spoke; she took his hand, and looking at him through her tears, said hoarsely:-"no, i shall not forget, for it is well that i remember; and with it i have so much in memory of you that is sweet, that i take it all together. now, you must all be going soon. breakfast is ready, and we must all eat that we may be strong." breakfast was a strange meal to us all. we tried to be cheerful and encourage each other, and mina was the brightest and most cheerful of us. when it was over, van helsing stood up and said:-"now, my dear friends, we go forth to our terrible enterprise. are we all armed, as we were on that night when first we visited our enemy's lair; armed against ghostly as well as carnal attack?" we all assured him. "then it is well. now, madam mina, you are in any case _quite_ safe here until the sunset; and before then we shall return--if---we shall return! but before we go let me see you armed against personal attack. i have myself, since you came down, prepared your chamber by the placing of things of which we know, so that he may not enter. now let me guard yourself. on your forehead i touch this piece of sacred wafer in the name of the father, the son, and----" there was a fearful scream which almost froze our hearts to hear. as he had placed the wafer on mina's forehead, it had seared it--had burned into the flesh as though it had been a piece of white-hot metal. my poor darling's brain had told her the significance of the fact as quickly as her nerves received the pain of it; and the two so overwhelmed her that her overwrought nature had its voice in that dreadful scream. but the words to her thought came quickly; the echo of the scream had not ceased to ring on the air when there came the reaction, and she sank on her knees on the floor in an agony of abasement. pulling her beautiful hair over her face, as the leper of old his mantle, she wailed out:-"unclean! unclean! even the almighty shuns my polluted flesh! i must bear this mark of shame upon my forehead until the judgment day." they all paused. i had thrown myself beside her in an agony of helpless grief, and putting my arms around held her tight. for a few minutes our sorrowful hearts beat together, whilst the friends around us turned away their eyes that ran tears silently. then van helsing turned and said gravely; so gravely that i could not help feeling that he was in some way inspired, and was stating things outside himself:-"it may be that you may have to bear that mark till god himself see fit, as he most surely shall, on the judgment day, to redress all wrongs of the earth and of his children that he has placed thereon. and oh, madam mina, my dear, my dear, may we who love you be there to see, when that red scar, the sign of god's knowledge of what has been, shall pass away, and leave your forehead as pure as the heart we know. for so surely as we live, that scar shall pass away when god sees right to lift the burden that is hard upon us. till then we bear our cross, as his son did in obedience to his will. it may be that we are chosen instruments of his good pleasure, and that we ascend to his bidding as that other through stripes and shame; through tears and blood; through doubts and fears, and all that makes the difference between god and man." there was hope in his words, and comfort; and they made for resignation. mina and i both felt so, and simultaneously we each took one of the old man's hands and bent over and kissed it. then without a word we all knelt down together, and, all holding hands, swore to be true to each other. we men pledged ourselves to raise the veil of sorrow from the head of her whom, each in his own way, we loved; and we prayed for help and guidance in the terrible task which lay before us. it was then time to start. so i said farewell to mina, a parting which neither of us shall forget to our dying day; and we set out. to one thing i have made up my mind: if we find out that mina must be a vampire in the end, then she shall not go into that unknown and terrible land alone. i suppose it is thus that in old times one vampire meant many; just as their hideous bodies could only rest in sacred earth, so the holiest love was the recruiting sergeant for their ghastly ranks. we entered carfax without trouble and found all things the same as on the first occasion. it was hard to believe that amongst so prosaic surroundings of neglect and dust and decay there was any ground for such fear as already we knew. had not our minds been made up, and had there not been terrible memories to spur us on, we could hardly have proceeded with our task. we found no papers, or any sign of use in the house; and in the old chapel the great boxes looked just as we had seen them last. dr. van helsing said to us solemnly as we stood before them:-"and now, my friends, we have a duty here to do. we must sterilise this earth, so sacred of holy memories, that he has brought from a far distant land for such fell use. he has chosen this earth because it has been holy. thus we defeat him with his own weapon, for we make it more holy still. it was sanctified to such use of man, now we sanctify it to god." as he spoke he took from his bag a screwdriver and a wrench, and very soon the top of one of the cases was thrown open. the earth smelled musty and close; but we did not somehow seem to mind, for our attention was concentrated on the professor. taking from his box a piece of the sacred wafer he laid it reverently on the earth, and then shutting down the lid began to screw it home, we aiding him as he worked. one by one we treated in the same way each of the great boxes, and left them as we had found them to all appearance; but in each was a portion of the host. when we closed the door behind us, the professor said solemnly:-"so much is already done. if it may be that with all the others we can be so successful, then the sunset of this evening may shine on madam mina's forehead all white as ivory and with no stain!" as we passed across the lawn on our way to the station to catch our train we could see the front of the asylum. i looked eagerly, and in the window of my own room saw mina. i waved my hand to her, and nodded to tell that our work there was successfully accomplished. she nodded in reply to show that she understood. the last i saw, she was waving her hand in farewell. it was with a heavy heart that we sought the station and just caught the train, which was steaming in as we reached the platform. i have written this in the train. * * * * * _piccadilly, 12:30 o'clock._--just before we reached fenchurch street lord godalming said to me:-"quincey and i will find a locksmith. you had better not come with us in case there should be any difficulty; for under the circumstances it wouldn't seem so bad for us to break into an empty house. but you are a solicitor and the incorporated law society might tell you that you should have known better." i demurred as to my not sharing any danger even of odium, but he went on: "besides, it will attract less attention if there are not too many of us. my title will make it all right with the locksmith, and with any policeman that may come along. you had better go with jack and the professor and stay in the green park, somewhere in sight of the house; and when you see the door opened and the smith has gone away, do you all come across. we shall be on the lookout for you, and shall let you in." "the advice is good!" said van helsing, so we said no more. godalming and morris hurried off in a cab, we following in another. at the corner of arlington street our contingent got out and strolled into the green park. my heart beat as i saw the house on which so much of our hope was centred, looming up grim and silent in its deserted condition amongst its more lively and spruce-looking neighbours. we sat down on a bench within good view, and began to smoke cigars so as to attract as little attention as possible. the minutes seemed to pass with leaden feet as we waited for the coming of the others. at length we saw a four-wheeler drive up. out of it, in leisurely fashion, got lord godalming and morris; and down from the box descended a thick-set working man with his rush-woven basket of tools. morris paid the cabman, who touched his hat and drove away. together the two ascended the steps, and lord godalming pointed out what he wanted done. the workman took off his coat leisurely and hung it on one of the spikes of the rail, saying something to a policeman who just then sauntered along. the policeman nodded acquiescence, and the man kneeling down placed his bag beside him. after searching through it, he took out a selection of tools which he produced to lay beside him in orderly fashion. then he stood up, looked into the keyhole, blew into it, and turning to his employers, made some remark. lord godalming smiled, and the man lifted a good-sized bunch of keys; selecting one of them, he began to probe the lock, as if feeling his way with it. after fumbling about for a bit he tried a second, and then a third. all at once the door opened under a slight push from him, and he and the two others entered the hall. we sat still; my own cigar burnt furiously, but van helsing's went cold altogether. we waited patiently as we saw the workman come out and bring in his bag. then he held the door partly open, steadying it with his knees, whilst he fitted a key to the lock. this he finally handed to lord godalming, who took out his purse and gave him something. the man touched his hat, took his bag, put on his coat and departed; not a soul took the slightest notice of the whole transaction. when the man had fairly gone, we three crossed the street and knocked at the door. it was immediately opened by quincey morris, beside whom stood lord godalming lighting a cigar. "the place smells so vilely," said the latter as we came in. it did indeed smell vilely--like the old chapel at carfax--and with our previous experience it was plain to us that the count had been using the place pretty freely. we moved to explore the house, all keeping together in case of attack; for we knew we had a strong and wily enemy to deal with, and as yet we did not know whether the count might not be in the house. in the dining-room, which lay at the back of the hall, we found eight boxes of earth. eight boxes only out of the nine, which we sought! our work was not over, and would never be until we should have found the missing box. first we opened the shutters of the window which looked out across a narrow stone-flagged yard at the blank face of a stable, pointed to look like the front of a miniature house. there were no windows in it, so we were not afraid of being over-looked. we did not lose any time in examining the chests. with the tools which we had brought with us we opened them, one by one, and treated them as we had treated those others in the old chapel. it was evident to us that the count was not at present in the house, and we proceeded to search for any of his effects. after a cursory glance at the rest of the rooms, from basement to attic, we came to the conclusion that the dining-room contained any effects which might belong to the count; and so we proceeded to minutely examine them. they lay in a sort of orderly disorder on the great dining-room table. there were title deeds of the piccadilly house in a great bundle; deeds of the purchase of the houses at mile end and bermondsey; note-paper, envelopes, and pens and ink. all were covered up in thin wrapping paper to keep them from the dust. there were also a clothes brush, a brush and comb, and a jug and basin--the latter containing dirty water which was reddened as if with blood. last of all was a little heap of keys of all sorts and sizes, probably those belonging to the other houses. when we had examined this last find, lord godalming and quincey morris taking accurate notes of the various addresses of the houses in the east and the south, took with them the keys in a great bunch, and set out to destroy the boxes in these places. the rest of us are, with what patience we can, waiting their return--or the coming of the count. chapter xxiii dr. seward's diary _3 october._--the time seemed terrible long whilst we were waiting for the coming of godalming and quincey morris. the professor tried to keep our minds active by using them all the time. i could see his beneficent purpose, by the side glances which he threw from time to time at harker. the poor fellow is overwhelmed in a misery that is appalling to see. last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. to-day he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face. his energy is still intact; in fact, he is like a living flame. this may yet be his salvation, for, if all go well, it will tide him over the despairing period; he will then, in a kind of way, wake again to the realities of life. poor fellow, i thought my own trouble was bad enough, but his----! the professor knows this well enough, and is doing his best to keep his mind active. what he has been saying was, under the circumstances, of absorbing interest. so well as i can remember, here it is:-"i have studied, over and over again since they came into my hands, all the papers relating to this monster; and the more i have studied, the greater seems the necessity to utterly stamp him out. all through there are signs of his advance; not only of his power, but of his knowledge of it. as i learned from the researches of my friend arminus of buda-pesth, he was in life a most wonderful man. soldier, statesman, and alchemist--which latter was the highest development of the science-knowledge of his time. he had a mighty brain, a learning beyond compare, and a heart that knew no fear and no remorse. he dared even to attend the scholomance, and there was no branch of knowledge of his time that he did not essay. well, in him the brain powers survived the physical death; though it would seem that memory was not all complete. in some faculties of mind he has been, and is, only a child; but he is growing, and some things that were childish at the first are now of man's stature. he is experimenting, and doing it well; and if it had not been that we have crossed his path he would be yet--he may be yet if we fail--the father or furtherer of a new order of beings, whose road must lead through death, not life." harker groaned and said, "and this is all arrayed against my darling! but how is he experimenting? the knowledge may help us to defeat him!" "he has all along, since his coming, been trying his power, slowly but surely; that big child-brain of his is working. well for us, it is, as yet, a child-brain; for had he dared, at the first, to attempt certain things he would long ago have been beyond our power. however, he means to succeed, and a man who has centuries before him can afford to wait and to go slow. _festina lente_ may well be his motto." "i fail to understand," said harker wearily. "oh, do be more plain to me! perhaps grief and trouble are dulling my brain." the professor laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder as he spoke:-"ah, my child, i will be plain. do you not see how, of late, this monster has been creeping into knowledge experimentally. how he has been making use of the zoã¶phagous patient to effect his entry into friend john's home; for your vampire, though in all afterwards he can come when and how he will, must at the first make entry only when asked thereto by an inmate. but these are not his most important experiments. do we not see how at the first all these so great boxes were moved by others. he knew not then but that must be so. but all the time that so great child-brain of his was growing, and he began to consider whether he might not himself move the box. so he began to help; and then, when he found that this be all-right, he try to move them all alone. and so he progress, and he scatter these graves of him; and none but he know where they are hidden. he may have intend to bury them deep in the ground. so that he only use them in the night, or at such time as he can change his form, they do him equal well; and none may know these are his hiding-place! but, my child, do not despair; this knowledge come to him just too late! already all of his lairs but one be sterilise as for him; and before the sunset this shall be so. then he have no place where he can move and hide. i delayed this morning that so we might be sure. is there not more at stake for us than for him? then why we not be even more careful than him? by my clock it is one hour and already, if all be well, friend arthur and quincey are on their way to us. to-day is our day, and we must go sure, if slow, and lose no chance. see! there are five of us when those absent ones return." whilst he was speaking we were startled by a knock at the hall door, the double postman's knock of the telegraph boy. we all moved out to the hall with one impulse, and van helsing, holding up his hand to us to keep silence, stepped to the door and opened it. the boy handed in a despatch. the professor closed the door again, and, after looking at the direction, opened it and read aloud. "look out for d. he has just now, 12:45, come from carfax hurriedly and hastened towards the south. he seems to be going the round and may want to see you: mina." there was a pause, broken by jonathan harker's voice:-"now, god be thanked, we shall soon meet!" van helsing turned to him quickly and said:-"god will act in his own way and time. do not fear, and do not rejoice as yet; for what we wish for at the moment may be our undoings." "i care for nothing now," he answered hotly, "except to wipe out this brute from the face of creation. i would sell my soul to do it!" "oh, hush, hush, my child!" said van helsing. "god does not purchase souls in this wise; and the devil, though he may purchase, does not keep faith. but god is merciful and just, and knows your pain and your devotion to that dear madam mina. think you, how her pain would be doubled, did she but hear your wild words. do not fear any of us, we are all devoted to this cause, and to-day shall see the end. the time is coming for action; to-day this vampire is limit to the powers of man, and till sunset he may not change. it will take him time to arrive here--see, it is twenty minutes past one--and there are yet some times before he can hither come, be he never so quick. what we must hope for is that my lord arthur and quincey arrive first." about half an hour after we had received mrs. harker's telegram, there came a quiet, resolute knock at the hall door. it was just an ordinary knock, such as is given hourly by thousands of gentlemen, but it made the professor's heart and mine beat loudly. we looked at each other, and together moved out into the hall; we each held ready to use our various armaments--the spiritual in the left hand, the mortal in the right. van helsing pulled back the latch, and, holding the door half open, stood back, having both hands ready for action. the gladness of our hearts must have shown upon our faces when on the step, close to the door, we saw lord godalming and quincey morris. they came quickly in and closed the door behind them, the former saying, as they moved along the hall:-"it is all right. we found both places; six boxes in each and we destroyed them all!" "destroyed?" asked the professor. "for him!" we were silent for a minute, and then quincey said:-"there's nothing to do but to wait here. if, however, he doesn't turn up by five o'clock, we must start off; for it won't do to leave mrs. harker alone after sunset." "he will be here before long now," said van helsing, who had been consulting his pocket-book. "_nota bene_, in madam's telegram he went south from carfax, that means he went to cross the river, and he could only do so at slack of tide, which should be something before one o'clock. that he went south has a meaning for us. he is as yet only suspicious; and he went from carfax first to the place where he would suspect interference least. you must have been at bermondsey only a short time before him. that he is not here already shows that he went to mile end next. this took him some time; for he would then have to be carried over the river in some way. believe me, my friends, we shall not have long to wait now. we should have ready some plan of attack, so that we may throw away no chance. hush, there is no time now. have all your arms! be ready!" he held up a warning hand as he spoke, for we all could hear a key softly inserted in the lock of the hall door. i could not but admire, even at such a moment, the way in which a dominant spirit asserted itself. in all our hunting parties and adventures in different parts of the world, quincey morris had always been the one to arrange the plan of action, and arthur and i had been accustomed to obey him implicitly. now, the old habit seemed to be renewed instinctively. with a swift glance around the room, he at once laid out our plan of attack, and, without speaking a word, with a gesture, placed us each in position. van helsing, harker, and i were just behind the door, so that when it was opened the professor could guard it whilst we two stepped between the incomer and the door. godalming behind and quincey in front stood just out of sight ready to move in front of the window. we waited in a suspense that made the seconds pass with nightmare slowness. the slow, careful steps came along the hall; the count was evidently prepared for some surprise--at least he feared it. suddenly with a single bound he leaped into the room, winning a way past us before any of us could raise a hand to stay him. there was something so panther-like in the movement--something so unhuman, that it seemed to sober us all from the shock of his coming. the first to act was harker, who, with a quick movement, threw himself before the door leading into the room in the front of the house. as the count saw us, a horrible sort of snarl passed over his face, showing the eye-teeth long and pointed; but the evil smile as quickly passed into a cold stare of lion-like disdain. his expression again changed as, with a single impulse, we all advanced upon him. it was a pity that we had not some better organised plan of attack, for even at the moment i wondered what we were to do. i did not myself know whether our lethal weapons would avail us anything. harker evidently meant to try the matter, for he had ready his great kukri knife and made a fierce and sudden cut at him. the blow was a powerful one; only the diabolical quickness of the count's leap back saved him. a second less and the trenchant blade had shorne through his heart. as it was, the point just cut the cloth of his coat, making a wide gap whence a bundle of bank-notes and a stream of gold fell out. the expression of the count's face was so hellish, that for a moment i feared for harker, though i saw him throw the terrible knife aloft again for another stroke. instinctively i moved forward with a protective impulse, holding the crucifix and wafer in my left hand. i felt a mighty power fly along my arm; and it was without surprise that i saw the monster cower back before a similar movement made spontaneously by each one of us. it would be impossible to describe the expression of hate and baffled malignity--of anger and hellish rage--which came over the count's face. his waxen hue became greenish-yellow by the contrast of his burning eyes, and the red scar on the forehead showed on the pallid skin like a palpitating wound. the next instant, with a sinuous dive he swept under harker's arm, ere his blow could fall, and, grasping a handful of the money from the floor, dashed across the room, threw himself at the window. amid the crash and glitter of the falling glass, he tumbled into the flagged area below. through the sound of the shivering glass i could hear the "ting" of the gold, as some of the sovereigns fell on the flagging. we ran over and saw him spring unhurt from the ground. he, rushing up the steps, crossed the flagged yard, and pushed open the stable door. there he turned and spoke to us:-"you think to baffle me, you--with your pale faces all in a row, like sheep in a butcher's. you shall be sorry yet, each one of you! you think you have left me without a place to rest; but i have more. my revenge is just begun! i spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. your girls that you all love are mine already; and through them you and others shall yet be mine--my creatures, to do my bidding and to be my jackals when i want to feed. bah!" with a contemptuous sneer, he passed quickly through the door, and we heard the rusty bolt creak as he fastened it behind him. a door beyond opened and shut. the first of us to speak was the professor, as, realising the difficulty of following him through the stable, we moved toward the hall. "we have learnt something--much! notwithstanding his brave words, he fears us; he fear time, he fear want! for if not, why he hurry so? his very tone betray him, or my ears deceive. why take that money? you follow quick. you are hunters of wild beast, and understand it so. for me, i make sure that nothing here may be of use to him, if so that he return." as he spoke he put the money remaining into his pocket; took the title-deeds in the bundle as harker had left them, and swept the remaining things into the open fireplace, where he set fire to them with a match. godalming and morris had rushed out into the yard, and harker had lowered himself from the window to follow the count. he had, however, bolted the stable door; and by the time they had forced it open there was no sign of him. van helsing and i tried to make inquiry at the back of the house; but the mews was deserted and no one had seen him depart. it was now late in the afternoon, and sunset was not far off. we had to recognise that our game was up; with heavy hearts we agreed with the professor when he said:-"let us go back to madam mina--poor, poor dear madam mina. all we can do just now is done; and we can there, at least, protect her. but we need not despair. there is but one more earth-box, and we must try to find it; when that is done all may yet be well." i could see that he spoke as bravely as he could to comfort harker. the poor fellow was quite broken down; now and again he gave a low groan which he could not suppress--he was thinking of his wife. with sad hearts we came back to my house, where we found mrs. harker waiting us, with an appearance of cheerfulness which did honour to her bravery and unselfishness. when she saw our faces, her own became as pale as death: for a second or two her eyes were closed as if she were in secret prayer; and then she said cheerfully:-"i can never thank you all enough. oh, my poor darling!" as she spoke, she took her husband's grey head in her hands and kissed it--"lay your poor head here and rest it. all will yet be well, dear! god will protect us if he so will it in his good intent." the poor fellow groaned. there was no place for words in his sublime misery. we had a sort of perfunctory supper together, and i think it cheered us all up somewhat. it was, perhaps, the mere animal heat of food to hungry people--for none of us had eaten anything since breakfast--or the sense of companionship may have helped us; but anyhow we were all less miserable, and saw the morrow as not altogether without hope. true to our promise, we told mrs. harker everything which had passed; and although she grew snowy white at times when danger had seemed to threaten her husband, and red at others when his devotion to her was manifested, she listened bravely and with calmness. when we came to the part where harker had rushed at the count so recklessly, she clung to her husband's arm, and held it tight as though her clinging could protect him from any harm that might come. she said nothing, however, till the narration was all done, and matters had been brought right up to the present time. then without letting go her husband's hand she stood up amongst us and spoke. oh, that i could give any idea of the scene; of that sweet, sweet, good, good woman in all the radiant beauty of her youth and animation, with the red scar on her forehead, of which she was conscious, and which we saw with grinding of our teeth--remembering whence and how it came; her loving kindness against our grim hate; her tender faith against all our fears and doubting; and we, knowing that so far as symbols went, she with all her goodness and purity and faith, was outcast from god. "jonathan," she said, and the word sounded like music on her lips it was so full of love and tenderness, "jonathan dear, and you all my true, true friends, i want you to bear something in mind through all this dreadful time. i know that you must fight--that you must destroy even as you destroyed the false lucy so that the true lucy might live hereafter; but it is not a work of hate. that poor soul who has wrought all this misery is the saddest case of all. just think what will be his joy when he, too, is destroyed in his worser part that his better part may have spiritual immortality. you must be pitiful to him, too, though it may not hold your hands from his destruction." as she spoke i could see her husband's face darken and draw together, as though the passion in him were shrivelling his being to its core. instinctively the clasp on his wife's hand grew closer, till his knuckles looked white. she did not flinch from the pain which i knew she must have suffered, but looked at him with eyes that were more appealing than ever. as she stopped speaking he leaped to his feet, almost tearing his hand from hers as he spoke:-"may god give him into my hand just for long enough to destroy that earthly life of him which we are aiming at. if beyond it i could send his soul for ever and ever to burning hell i would do it!" "oh, hush! oh, hush! in the name of the good god. don't say such things, jonathan, my husband; or you will crush me with fear and horror. just think, my dear--i have been thinking all this long, long day of it--that ... perhaps ... some day ... i, too, may need such pity; and that some other like you--and with equal cause for anger--may deny it to me! oh, my husband! my husband, indeed i would have spared you such a thought had there been another way; but i pray that god may not have treasured your wild words, except as the heart-broken wail of a very loving and sorely stricken man. oh, god, let these poor white hairs go in evidence of what he has suffered, who all his life has done no wrong, and on whom so many sorrows have come." we men were all in tears now. there was no resisting them, and we wept openly. she wept, too, to see that her sweeter counsels had prevailed. her husband flung himself on his knees beside her, and putting his arms round her, hid his face in the folds of her dress. van helsing beckoned to us and we stole out of the room, leaving the two loving hearts alone with their god. before they retired the professor fixed up the room against any coming of the vampire, and assured mrs. harker that she might rest in peace. she tried to school herself to the belief, and, manifestly for her husband's sake, tried to seem content. it was a brave struggle; and was, i think and believe, not without its reward. van helsing had placed at hand a bell which either of them was to sound in case of any emergency. when they had retired, quincey, godalming, and i arranged that we should sit up, dividing the night between us, and watch over the safety of the poor stricken lady. the first watch falls to quincey, so the rest of us shall be off to bed as soon as we can. godalming has already turned in, for his is the second watch. now that my work is done i, too, shall go to bed. _jonathan harker's journal._ _3-4 october, close to midnight._--i thought yesterday would never end. there was over me a yearning for sleep, in some sort of blind belief that to wake would be to find things changed, and that any change must now be for the better. before we parted, we discussed what our next step was to be, but we could arrive at no result. all we knew was that one earth-box remained, and that the count alone knew where it was. if he chooses to lie hidden, he may baffle us for years; and in the meantime!--the thought is too horrible, i dare not think of it even now. this i know: that if ever there was a woman who was all perfection, that one is my poor wronged darling. i love her a thousand times more for her sweet pity of last night, a pity that made my own hate of the monster seem despicable. surely god will not permit the world to be the poorer by the loss of such a creature. this is hope to me. we are all drifting reefwards now, and faith is our only anchor. thank god! mina is sleeping, and sleeping without dreams. i fear what her dreams might be like, with such terrible memories to ground them in. she has not been so calm, within my seeing, since the sunset. then, for a while, there came over her face a repose which was like spring after the blasts of march. i thought at the time that it was the softness of the red sunset on her face, but somehow now i think it has a deeper meaning. i am not sleepy myself, though i am weary--weary to death. however, i must try to sleep; for there is to-morrow to think of, and there is no rest for me until.... * * * * * _later._--i must have fallen asleep, for i was awaked by mina, who was sitting up in bed, with a startled look on her face. i could see easily, for we did not leave the room in darkness; she had placed a warning hand over my mouth, and now she whispered in my ear:-"hush! there is someone in the corridor!" i got up softly, and crossing the room, gently opened the door. just outside, stretched on a mattress, lay mr. morris, wide awake. he raised a warning hand for silence as he whispered to me:-"hush! go back to bed; it is all right. one of us will be here all night. we don't mean to take any chances!" his look and gesture forbade discussion, so i came back and told mina. she sighed and positively a shadow of a smile stole over her poor, pale face as she put her arms round me and said softly:-"oh, thank god for good brave men!" with a sigh she sank back again to sleep. i write this now as i am not sleepy, though i must try again. * * * * * _4 october, morning._--once again during the night i was wakened by mina. this time we had all had a good sleep, for the grey of the coming dawn was making the windows into sharp oblongs, and the gas flame was like a speck rather than a disc of light. she said to me hurriedly:-"go, call the professor. i want to see him at once." "why?" i asked. "i have an idea. i suppose it must have come in the night, and matured without my knowing it. he must hypnotise me before the dawn, and then i shall be able to speak. go quick, dearest; the time is getting close." i went to the door. dr. seward was resting on the mattress, and, seeing me, he sprang to his feet. "is anything wrong?" he asked, in alarm. "no," i replied; "but mina wants to see dr. van helsing at once." "i will go," he said, and hurried into the professor's room. in two or three minutes later van helsing was in the room in his dressing-gown, and mr. morris and lord godalming were with dr. seward at the door asking questions. when the professor saw mina a smile--a positive smile ousted the anxiety of his face; he rubbed his hands as he said:-"oh, my dear madam mina, this is indeed a change. see! friend jonathan, we have got our dear madam mina, as of old, back to us to-day!" then turning to her, he said, cheerfully: "and what am i do for you? for at this hour you do not want me for nothings." "i want you to hypnotise me!" she said. "do it before the dawn, for i feel that then i can speak, and speak freely. be quick, for the time is short!" without a word he motioned her to sit up in bed. looking fixedly at her, he commenced to make passes in front of her, from over the top of her head downward, with each hand in turn. mina gazed at him fixedly for a few minutes, during which my own heart beat like a trip hammer, for i felt that some crisis was at hand. gradually her eyes closed, and she sat, stock still; only by the gentle heaving of her bosom could one know that she was alive. the professor made a few more passes and then stopped, and i could see that his forehead was covered with great beads of perspiration. mina opened her eyes; but she did not seem the same woman. there was a far-away look in her eyes, and her voice had a sad dreaminess which was new to me. raising his hand to impose silence, the professor motioned to me to bring the others in. they came on tip-toe, closing the door behind them, and stood at the foot of the bed, looking on. mina appeared not to see them. the stillness was broken by van helsing's voice speaking in a low level tone which would not break the current of her thoughts:-"where are you?" the answer came in a neutral way:-"i do not know. sleep has no place it can call its own." for several minutes there was silence. mina sat rigid, and the professor stood staring at her fixedly; the rest of us hardly dared to breathe. the room was growing lighter; without taking his eyes from mina's face, dr. van helsing motioned me to pull up the blind. i did so, and the day seemed just upon us. a red streak shot up, and a rosy light seemed to diffuse itself through the room. on the instant the professor spoke again:-"where are you now?" the answer came dreamily, but with intention; it were as though she were interpreting something. i have heard her use the same tone when reading her shorthand notes. "i do not know. it is all strange to me!" "what do you see?" "i can see nothing; it is all dark." "what do you hear?" i could detect the strain in the professor's patient voice. "the lapping of water. it is gurgling by, and little waves leap. i can hear them on the outside." "then you are on a ship?" we all looked at each other, trying to glean something each from the other. we were afraid to think. the answer came quick:-"oh, yes!" "what else do you hear?" "the sound of men stamping overhead as they run about. there is the creaking of a chain, and the loud tinkle as the check of the capstan falls into the rachet." "what are you doing?" "i am still--oh, so still. it is like death!" the voice faded away into a deep breath as of one sleeping, and the open eyes closed again. by this time the sun had risen, and we were all in the full light of day. dr. van helsing placed his hands on mina's shoulders, and laid her head down softly on her pillow. she lay like a sleeping child for a few moments, and then, with a long sigh, awoke and stared in wonder to see us all around her. "have i been talking in my sleep?" was all she said. she seemed, however, to know the situation without telling, though she was eager to know what she had told. the professor repeated the conversation, and she said:-"then there is not a moment to lose: it may not be yet too late!" mr. morris and lord godalming started for the door but the professor's calm voice called them back:-"stay, my friends. that ship, wherever it was, was weighing anchor whilst she spoke. there are many ships weighing anchor at the moment in your so great port of london. which of them is it that you seek? god be thanked that we have once again a clue, though whither it may lead us we know not. we have been blind somewhat; blind after the manner of men, since when we can look back we see what we might have seen looking forward if we had been able to see what we might have seen! alas, but that sentence is a puddle; is it not? we can know now what was in the count's mind, when he seize that money, though jonathan's so fierce knife put him in the danger that even he dread. he meant escape. hear me, escape! he saw that with but one earth-box left, and a pack of men following like dogs after a fox, this london was no place for him. he have take his last earth-box on board a ship, and he leave the land. he think to escape, but no! we follow him. tally ho! as friend arthur would say when he put on his red frock! our old fox is wily; oh! so wily, and we must follow with wile. i, too, am wily and i think his mind in a little while. in meantime we may rest and in peace, for there are waters between us which he do not want to pass, and which he could not if he would--unless the ship were to touch the land, and then only at full or slack tide. see, and the sun is just rose, and all day to sunset is to us. let us take bath, and dress, and have breakfast which we all need, and which we can eat comfortably since he be not in the same land with us." mina looked at him appealingly as she asked:-"but why need we seek him further, when he is gone away from us?" he took her hand and patted it as he replied:-"ask me nothings as yet. when we have breakfast, then i answer all questions." he would say no more, and we separated to dress. after breakfast mina repeated her question. he looked at her gravely for a minute and then said sorrowfully:-"because my dear, dear madam mina, now more than ever must we find him even if we have to follow him to the jaws of hell!" she grew paler as she asked faintly:-"why?" "because," he answered solemnly, "he can live for centuries, and you are but mortal woman. time is now to be dreaded--since once he put that mark upon your throat." i was just in time to catch her as she fell forward in a faint. chapter xxiv dr. seward's phonograph diary, spoken by van helsing this to jonathan harker. you are to stay with your dear madam mina. we shall go to make our search--if i can call it so, for it is not search but knowing, and we seek confirmation only. but do you stay and take care of her to-day. this is your best and most holiest office. this day nothing can find him here. let me tell you that so you will know what we four know already, for i have tell them. he, our enemy, have gone away; he have gone back to his castle in transylvania. i know it so well, as if a great hand of fire wrote it on the wall. he have prepare for this in some way, and that last earth-box was ready to ship somewheres. for this he took the money; for this he hurry at the last, lest we catch him before the sun go down. it was his last hope, save that he might hide in the tomb that he think poor miss lucy, being as he thought like him, keep open to him. but there was not of time. when that fail he make straight for his last resource--his last earth-work i might say did i wish _double entente_. he is clever, oh, so clever! he know that his game here was finish; and so he decide he go back home. he find ship going by the route he came, and he go in it. we go off now to find what ship, and whither bound; when we have discover that, we come back and tell you all. then we will comfort you and poor dear madam mina with new hope. for it will be hope when you think it over: that all is not lost. this very creature that we pursue, he take hundreds of years to get so far as london; and yet in one day, when we know of the disposal of him we drive him out. he is finite, though he is powerful to do much harm and suffers not as we do. but we are strong, each in our purpose; and we are all more strong together. take heart afresh, dear husband of madam mina. this battle is but begun, and in the end we shall win--so sure as that god sits on high to watch over his children. therefore be of much comfort till we return. van helsing. _jonathan harker's journal._ _4 october._--when i read to mina, van helsing's message in the phonograph, the poor girl brightened up considerably. already the certainty that the count is out of the country has given her comfort; and comfort is strength to her. for my own part, now that his horrible danger is not face to face with us, it seems almost impossible to believe in it. even my own terrible experiences in castle dracula seem like a long-forgotten dream. here in the crisp autumn air in the bright sunlight---alas! how can i disbelieve! in the midst of my thought my eye fell on the red scar on my poor darling's white forehead. whilst that lasts, there can be no disbelief. and afterwards the very memory of it will keep faith crystal clear. mina and i fear to be idle, so we have been over all the diaries again and again. somehow, although the reality seems greater each time, the pain and the fear seem less. there is something of a guiding purpose manifest throughout, which is comforting. mina says that perhaps we are the instruments of ultimate good. it may be! i shall try to think as she does. we have never spoken to each other yet of the future. it is better to wait till we see the professor and the others after their investigations. the day is running by more quickly than i ever thought a day could run for me again. it is now three o'clock. _mina harker's journal._ _5 october, 5 p. m._--our meeting for report. present: professor van helsing, lord godalming, dr. seward, mr. quincey morris, jonathan harker, mina harker. dr. van helsing described what steps were taken during the day to discover on what boat and whither bound count dracula made his escape:-"as i knew that he wanted to get back to transylvania, i felt sure that he must go by the danube mouth; or by somewhere in the black sea, since by that way he come. it was a dreary blank that was before us. _omne ignotum pro magnifico_; and so with heavy hearts we start to find what ships leave for the black sea last night. he was in sailing ship, since madam mina tell of sails being set. these not so important as to go in your list of the shipping in the _times_, and so we go, by suggestion of lord godalming, to your lloyd's, where are note of all ships that sail, however so small. there we find that only one black-sea-bound ship go out with the tide. she is the _czarina catherine_, and she sail from doolittle's wharf for varna, and thence on to other parts and up the danube. 'soh!' said i, 'this is the ship whereon is the count.' so off we go to doolittle's wharf, and there we find a man in an office of wood so small that the man look bigger than the office. from him we inquire of the goings of the _czarina catherine_. he swear much, and he red face and loud of voice, but he good fellow all the same; and when quincey give him something from his pocket which crackle as he roll it up, and put it in a so small bag which he have hid deep in his clothing, he still better fellow and humble servant to us. he come with us, and ask many men who are rough and hot; these be better fellows too when they have been no more thirsty. they say much of blood and bloom, and of others which i comprehend not, though i guess what they mean; but nevertheless they tell us all things which we want to know. "they make known to us among them, how last afternoon at about five o'clock comes a man so hurry. a tall man, thin and pale, with high nose and teeth so white, and eyes that seem to be burning. that he be all in black, except that he have a hat of straw which suit not him or the time. that he scatter his money in making quick inquiry as to what ship sails for the black sea and for where. some took him to the office and then to the ship, where he will not go aboard but halt at shore end of gang-plank, and ask that the captain come to him. the captain come, when told that he will be pay well; and though he swear much at the first he agree to term. then the thin man go and some one tell him where horse and cart can be hired. he go there and soon he come again, himself driving cart on which a great box; this he himself lift down, though it take several to put it on truck for the ship. he give much talk to captain as to how and where his box is to be place; but the captain like it not and swear at him in many tongues, and tell him that if he like he can come and see where it shall be. but he say 'no'; that he come not yet, for that he have much to do. whereupon the captain tell him that he had better be quick--with blood--for that his ship will leave the place--of blood--before the turn of the tide--with blood. then the thin man smile and say that of course he must go when he think fit; but he will be surprise if he go quite so soon. the captain swear again, polyglot, and the thin man make him bow, and thank him, and say that he will so far intrude on his kindness as to come aboard before the sailing. final the captain, more red than ever, and in more tongues tell him that he doesn't want no frenchmen--with bloom upon them and also with blood--in his ship--with blood on her also. and so, after asking where there might be close at hand a ship where he might purchase ship forms, he departed. "no one knew where he went 'or bloomin' well cared,' as they said, for they had something else to think of--well with blood again; for it soon became apparent to all that the _czarina catherine_ would not sail as was expected. a thin mist began to creep up from the river, and it grew, and grew; till soon a dense fog enveloped the ship and all around her. the captain swore polyglot--very polyglot--polyglot with bloom and blood; but he could do nothing. the water rose and rose; and he began to fear that he would lose the tide altogether. he was in no friendly mood, when just at full tide, the thin man came up the gang-plank again and asked to see where his box had been stowed. then the captain replied that he wished that he and his box--old and with much bloom and blood--were in hell. but the thin man did not be offend, and went down with the mate and saw where it was place, and came up and stood awhile on deck in fog. he must have come off by himself, for none notice him. indeed they thought not of him; for soon the fog begin to melt away, and all was clear again. my friends of the thirst and the language that was of bloom and blood laughed, as they told how the captain's swears exceeded even his usual polyglot, and was more than ever full of picturesque, when on questioning other mariners who were on movement up and down on the river that hour, he found that few of them had seen any of fog at all, except where it lay round the wharf. however, the ship went out on the ebb tide; and was doubtless by morning far down the river mouth. she was by then, when they told us, well out to sea. "and so, my dear madam mina, it is that we have to rest for a time, for our enemy is on the sea, with the fog at his command, on his way to the danube mouth. to sail a ship takes time, go she never so quick; and when we start we go on land more quick, and we meet him there. our best hope is to come on him when in the box between sunrise and sunset; for then he can make no struggle, and we may deal with him as we should. there are days for us, in which we can make ready our plan. we know all about where he go; for we have seen the owner of the ship, who have shown us invoices and all papers that can be. the box we seek is to be landed in varna, and to be given to an agent, one ristics who will there present his credentials; and so our merchant friend will have done his part. when he ask if there be any wrong, for that so, he can telegraph and have inquiry made at varna, we say 'no'; for what is to be done is not for police or of the customs. it must be done by us alone and in our own way." when dr. van helsing had done speaking, i asked him if he were certain that the count had remained on board the ship. he replied: "we have the best proof of that: your own evidence, when in the hypnotic trance this morning." i asked him again if it were really necessary that they should pursue the count, for oh! i dread jonathan leaving me, and i know that he would surely go if the others went. he answered in growing passion, at first quietly. as he went on, however, he grew more angry and more forceful, till in the end we could not but see wherein was at least some of that personal dominance which made him so long a master amongst men:-"yes, it is necessary--necessary--necessary! for your sake in the first, and then for the sake of humanity. this monster has done much harm already, in the narrow scope where he find himself, and in the short time when as yet he was only as a body groping his so small measure in darkness and not knowing. all this have i told these others; you, my dear madam mina, will learn it in the phonograph of my friend john, or in that of your husband. i have told them how the measure of leaving his own barren land--barren of peoples--and coming to a new land where life of man teems till they are like the multitude of standing corn, was the work of centuries. were another of the un-dead, like him, to try to do what he has done, perhaps not all the centuries of the world that have been, or that will be, could aid him. with this one, all the forces of nature that are occult and deep and strong must have worked together in some wondrous way. the very place, where he have been alive, un-dead for all these centuries, is full of strangeness of the geologic and chemical world. there are deep caverns and fissures that reach none know whither. there have been volcanoes, some of whose openings still send out waters of strange properties, and gases that kill or make to vivify. doubtless, there is something magnetic or electric in some of these combinations of occult forces which work for physical life in strange way; and in himself were from the first some great qualities. in a hard and warlike time he was celebrate that he have more iron nerve, more subtle brain, more braver heart, than any man. in him some vital principle have in strange way found their utmost; and as his body keep strong and grow and thrive, so his brain grow too. all this without that diabolic aid which is surely to him; for it have to yield to the powers that come from, and are, symbolic of good. and now this is what he is to us. he have infect you--oh, forgive me, my dear, that i must say such; but it is for good of you that i speak. he infect you in such wise, that even if he do no more, you have only to live--to live in your own old, sweet way; and so in time, death, which is of man's common lot and with god's sanction, shall make you like to him. this must not be! we have sworn together that it must not. thus are we ministers of god's own wish: that the world, and men for whom his son die, will not be given over to monsters, whose very existence would defame him. he have allowed us to redeem one soul already, and we go out as the old knights of the cross to redeem more. like them we shall travel towards the sunrise; and like them, if we fall, we fall in good cause." he paused and i said:-"but will not the count take his rebuff wisely? since he has been driven from england, will he not avoid it, as a tiger does the village from which he has been hunted?" "aha!" he said, "your simile of the tiger good, for me, and i shall adopt him. your man-eater, as they of india call the tiger who has once tasted blood of the human, care no more for the other prey, but prowl unceasing till he get him. this that we hunt from our village is a tiger, too, a man-eater, and he never cease to prowl. nay, in himself he is not one to retire and stay afar. in his life, his living life, he go over the turkey frontier and attack his enemy on his own ground; he be beaten back, but did he stay? no! he come again, and again, and again. look at his persistence and endurance. with the child-brain that was to him he have long since conceive the idea of coming to a great city. what does he do? he find out the place of all the world most of promise for him. then he deliberately set himself down to prepare for the task. he find in patience just how is his strength, and what are his powers. he study new tongues. he learn new social life; new environment of old ways, the politic, the law, the finance, the science, the habit of a new land and a new people who have come to be since he was. his glimpse that he have had, whet his appetite only and enkeen his desire. nay, it help him to grow as to his brain; for it all prove to him how right he was at the first in his surmises. he have done this alone; all alone! from a ruin tomb in a forgotten land. what more may he not do when the greater world of thought is open to him. he that can smile at death, as we know him; who can flourish in the midst of diseases that kill off whole peoples. oh, if such an one was to come from god, and not the devil, what a force for good might he not be in this old world of ours. but we are pledged to set the world free. our toil must be in silence, and our efforts all in secret; for in this enlightened age, when men believe not even what they see, the doubting of wise men would be his greatest strength. it would be at once his sheath and his armour, and his weapons to destroy us, his enemies, who are willing to peril even our own souls for the safety of one we love--for the good of mankind, and for the honour and glory of god." after a general discussion it was determined that for to-night nothing be definitely settled; that we should all sleep on the facts, and try to think out the proper conclusions. to-morrow, at breakfast, we are to meet again, and, after making our conclusions known to one another, we shall decide on some definite cause of action. * * * * * i feel a wonderful peace and rest to-night. it is as if some haunting presence were removed from me. perhaps ... my surmise was not finished, could not be; for i caught sight in the mirror of the red mark upon my forehead; and i knew that i was still unclean. _dr. seward's diary._ _5 october._--we all rose early, and i think that sleep did much for each and all of us. when we met at early breakfast there was more general cheerfulness than any of us had ever expected to experience again. it is really wonderful how much resilience there is in human nature. let any obstructing cause, no matter what, be removed in any way--even by death--and we fly back to first principles of hope and enjoyment. more than once as we sat around the table, my eyes opened in wonder whether the whole of the past days had not been a dream. it was only when i caught sight of the red blotch on mrs. harker's forehead that i was brought back to reality. even now, when i am gravely revolving the matter, it is almost impossible to realise that the cause of all our trouble is still existent. even mrs. harker seems to lose sight of her trouble for whole spells; it is only now and again, when something recalls it to her mind, that she thinks of her terrible scar. we are to meet here in my study in half an hour and decide on our course of action. i see only one immediate difficulty, i know it by instinct rather than reason: we shall all have to speak frankly; and yet i fear that in some mysterious way poor mrs. harker's tongue is tied. i _know_ that she forms conclusions of her own, and from all that has been i can guess how brilliant and how true they must be; but she will not, or cannot, give them utterance. i have mentioned this to van helsing, and he and i are to talk it over when we are alone. i suppose it is some of that horrid poison which has got into her veins beginning to work. the count had his own purposes when he gave her what van helsing called "the vampire's baptism of blood." well, there may be a poison that distils itself out of good things; in an age when the existence of ptomaines is a mystery we should not wonder at anything! one thing i know: that if my instinct be true regarding poor mrs. harker's silences, then there is a terrible difficulty--an unknown danger--in the work before us. the same power that compels her silence may compel her speech. i dare not think further; for so i should in my thoughts dishonour a noble woman! van helsing is coming to my study a little before the others. i shall try to open the subject with him. * * * * * _later._--when the professor came in, we talked over the state of things. i could see that he had something on his mind which he wanted to say, but felt some hesitancy about broaching the subject. after beating about the bush a little, he said suddenly:-"friend john, there is something that you and i must talk of alone, just at the first at any rate. later, we may have to take the others into our confidence"; then he stopped, so i waited; he went on:-"madam mina, our poor, dear madam mina is changing." a cold shiver ran through me to find my worst fears thus endorsed. van helsing continued:-"with the sad experience of miss lucy, we must this time be warned before things go too far. our task is now in reality more difficult than ever, and this new trouble makes every hour of the direst importance. i can see the characteristics of the vampire coming in her face. it is now but very, very slight; but it is to be seen if we have eyes to notice without to prejudge. her teeth are some sharper, and at times her eyes are more hard. but these are not all, there is to her the silence now often; as so it was with miss lucy. she did not speak, even when she wrote that which she wished to be known later. now my fear is this. if it be that she can, by our hypnotic trance, tell what the count see and hear, is it not more true that he who have hypnotise her first, and who have drink of her very blood and make her drink of his, should, if he will, compel her mind to disclose to him that which she know?" i nodded acquiescence; he went on:-"then, what we must do is to prevent this; we must keep her ignorant of our intent, and so she cannot tell what she know not. this is a painful task! oh, so painful that it heart-break me to think of; but it must be. when to-day we meet, i must tell her that for reason which we will not to speak she must not more be of our council, but be simply guarded by us." he wiped his forehead, which had broken out in profuse perspiration at the thought of the pain which he might have to inflict upon the poor soul already so tortured. i knew that it would be some sort of comfort to him if i told him that i also had come to the same conclusion; for at any rate it would take away the pain of doubt. i told him, and the effect was as i expected. it is now close to the time of our general gathering. van helsing has gone away to prepare for the meeting, and his painful part of it. i really believe his purpose is to be able to pray alone. * * * * * _later._--at the very outset of our meeting a great personal relief was experienced by both van helsing and myself. mrs. harker had sent a message by her husband to say that she would not join us at present, as she thought it better that we should be free to discuss our movements without her presence to embarrass us. the professor and i looked at each other for an instant, and somehow we both seemed relieved. for my own part, i thought that if mrs. harker realised the danger herself, it was much pain as well as much danger averted. under the circumstances we agreed, by a questioning look and answer, with finger on lip, to preserve silence in our suspicions, until we should have been able to confer alone again. we went at once into our plan of campaign. van helsing roughly put the facts before us first:-"the _czarina catherine_ left the thames yesterday morning. it will take her at the quickest speed she has ever made at least three weeks to reach varna; but we can travel overland to the same place in three days. now, if we allow for two days less for the ship's voyage, owing to such weather influences as we know that the count can bring to bear; and if we allow a whole day and night for any delays which may occur to us, then we have a margin of nearly two weeks. thus, in order to be quite safe, we must leave here on 17th at latest. then we shall at any rate be in varna a day before the ship arrives, and able to make such preparations as may be necessary. of course we shall all go armed--armed against evil things, spiritual as well as physical." here quincey morris added:-"i understand that the count comes from a wolf country, and it may be that he shall get there before us. i propose that we add winchesters to our armament. i have a kind of belief in a winchester when there is any trouble of that sort around. do you remember, art, when we had the pack after us at tobolsk? what wouldn't we have given then for a repeater apiece!" "good!" said van helsing, "winchesters it shall be. quincey's head is level at all times, but most so when there is to hunt, metaphor be more dishonour to science than wolves be of danger to man. in the meantime we can do nothing here; and as i think that varna is not familiar to any of us, why not go there more soon? it is as long to wait here as there. to-night and to-morrow we can get ready, and then, if all be well, we four can set out on our journey." "we four?" said harker interrogatively, looking from one to another of us. "of course!" answered the professor quickly, "you must remain to take care of your so sweet wife!" harker was silent for awhile and then said in a hollow voice:-"let us talk of that part of it in the morning. i want to consult with mina." i thought that now was the time for van helsing to warn him not to disclose our plans to her; but he took no notice. i looked at him significantly and coughed. for answer he put his finger on his lips and turned away. _jonathan harker's journal._ _5 october, afternoon._--for some time after our meeting this morning i could not think. the new phases of things leave my mind in a state of wonder which allows no room for active thought. mina's determination not to take any part in the discussion set me thinking; and as i could not argue the matter with her, i could only guess. i am as far as ever from a solution now. the way the others received it, too, puzzled me; the last time we talked of the subject we agreed that there was to be no more concealment of anything amongst us. mina is sleeping now, calmly and sweetly like a little child. her lips are curved and her face beams with happiness. thank god, there are such moments still for her. * * * * * _later._--how strange it all is. i sat watching mina's happy sleep, and came as near to being happy myself as i suppose i shall ever be. as the evening drew on, and the earth took its shadows from the sun sinking lower, the silence of the room grew more and more solemn to me. all at once mina opened her eyes, and looking at me tenderly, said:-"jonathan, i want you to promise me something on your word of honour. a promise made to me, but made holily in god's hearing, and not to be broken though i should go down on my knees and implore you with bitter tears. quick, you must make it to me at once." "mina," i said, "a promise like that, i cannot make at once. i may have no right to make it." "but, dear one," she said, with such spiritual intensity that her eyes were like pole stars, "it is i who wish it; and it is not for myself. you can ask dr. van helsing if i am not right; if he disagrees you may do as you will. nay, more, if you all agree, later, you are absolved from the promise." "i promise!" i said, and for a moment she looked supremely happy; though to me all happiness for her was denied by the red scar on her forehead. she said:-"promise me that you will not tell me anything of the plans formed for the campaign against the count. not by word, or inference, or implication; not at any time whilst this remains to me!" and she solemnly pointed to the scar. i saw that she was in earnest, and said solemnly:-"i promise!" and as i said it i felt that from that instant a door had been shut between us. * * * * * _later, midnight._--mina has been bright and cheerful all the evening. so much so that all the rest seemed to take courage, as if infected somewhat with her gaiety; as a result even i myself felt as if the pall of gloom which weighs us down were somewhat lifted. we all retired early. mina is now sleeping like a little child; it is a wonderful thing that her faculty of sleep remains to her in the midst of her terrible trouble. thank god for it, for then at least she can forget her care. perhaps her example may affect me as her gaiety did to-night. i shall try it. oh! for a dreamless sleep. * * * * * _6 october, morning._--another surprise. mina woke me early, about the same time as yesterday, and asked me to bring dr. van helsing. i thought that it was another occasion for hypnotism, and without question went for the professor. he had evidently expected some such call, for i found him dressed in his room. his door was ajar, so that he could hear the opening of the door of our room. he came at once; as he passed into the room, he asked mina if the others might come, too. "no," she said quite simply, "it will not be necessary. you can tell them just as well. i must go with you on your journey." dr. van helsing was as startled as i was. after a moment's pause he asked:-"but why?" "you must take me with you. i am safer with you, and you shall be safer, too." "but why, dear madam mina? you know that your safety is our solemnest duty. we go into danger, to which you are, or may be, more liable than any of us from--from circumstances--things that have been." he paused, embarrassed. as she replied, she raised her finger and pointed to her forehead:-"i know. that is why i must go. i can tell you now, whilst the sun is coming up; i may not be able again. i know that when the count wills me i must go. i know that if he tells me to come in secret, i must come by wile; by any device to hoodwink--even jonathan." god saw the look that she turned on me as she spoke, and if there be indeed a recording angel that look is noted to her everlasting honour. i could only clasp her hand. i could not speak; my emotion was too great for even the relief of tears. she went on:-"you men are brave and strong. you are strong in your numbers, for you can defy that which would break down the human endurance of one who had to guard alone. besides, i may be of service, since you can hypnotise me and so learn that which even i myself do not know." dr. van helsing said very gravely:-"madam mina, you are, as always, most wise. you shall with us come; and together we shall do that which we go forth to achieve." when he had spoken, mina's long spell of silence made me look at her. she had fallen back on her pillow asleep; she did not even wake when i had pulled up the blind and let in the sunlight which flooded the room. van helsing motioned to me to come with him quietly. we went to his room, and within a minute lord godalming, dr. seward, and mr. morris were with us also. he told them what mina had said, and went on:-"in the morning we shall leave for varna. we have now to deal with a new factor: madam mina. oh, but her soul is true. it is to her an agony to tell us so much as she has done; but it is most right, and we are warned in time. there must be no chance lost, and in varna we must be ready to act the instant when that ship arrives." "what shall we do exactly?" asked mr. morris laconically. the professor paused before replying:-"we shall at the first board that ship; then, when we have identified the box, we shall place a branch of the wild rose on it. this we shall fasten, for when it is there none can emerge; so at least says the superstition. and to superstition must we trust at the first; it was man's faith in the early, and it have its root in faith still. then, when we get the opportunity that we seek, when none are near to see, we shall open the box, and--and all will be well." "i shall not wait for any opportunity," said morris. "when i see the box i shall open it and destroy the monster, though there were a thousand men looking on, and if i am to be wiped out for it the next moment!" i grasped his hand instinctively and found it as firm as a piece of steel. i think he understood my look; i hope he did. "good boy," said dr. van helsing. "brave boy. quincey is all man. god bless him for it. my child, believe me none of us shall lag behind or pause from any fear. i do but say what we may do--what we must do. but, indeed, indeed we cannot say what we shall do. there are so many things which may happen, and their ways and their ends are so various that until the moment we may not say. we shall all be armed, in all ways; and when the time for the end has come, our effort shall not be lack. now let us to-day put all our affairs in order. let all things which touch on others dear to us, and who on us depend, be complete; for none of us can tell what, or when, or how, the end may be. as for me, my own affairs are regulate; and as i have nothing else to do, i shall go make arrangements for the travel. i shall have all tickets and so forth for our journey." there was nothing further to be said, and we parted. i shall now settle up all my affairs of earth, and be ready for whatever may come.... * * * * * _later._--it is all done; my will is made, and all complete. mina if she survive is my sole heir. if it should not be so, then the others who have been so good to us shall have remainder. it is now drawing towards the sunset; mina's uneasiness calls my attention to it. i am sure that there is something on her mind which the time of exact sunset will reveal. these occasions are becoming harrowing times for us all, for each sunrise and sunset opens up some new danger--some new pain, which, however, may in god's will be means to a good end. i write all these things in the diary since my darling must not hear them now; but if it may be that she can see them again, they shall be ready. she is calling to me. chapter xxv dr. seward's diary _11 october, evening._--jonathan harker has asked me to note this, as he says he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept. i think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see mrs. harker a little before the time of sunset. we have of late come to understand that sunrise and sunset are to her times of peculiar freedom; when her old self can be manifest without any controlling force subduing or restraining her, or inciting her to action. this mood or condition begins some half hour or more before actual sunrise or sunset, and lasts till either the sun is high, or whilst the clouds are still aglow with the rays streaming above the horizon. at first there is a sort of negative condition, as if some tie were loosened, and then the absolute freedom quickly follows; when, however, the freedom ceases the change-back or relapse comes quickly, preceded only by a spell of warning silence. to-night, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the signs of an internal struggle. i put it down myself to her making a violent effort at the earliest instant she could do so. a very few minutes, however, gave her complete control of herself; then, motioning her husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she was half reclining, she made the rest of us bring chairs up close. taking her husband's hand in hers began:-"we are all here together in freedom, for perhaps the last time! i know, dear; i know that you will always be with me to the end." this was to her husband whose hand had, as we could see, tightened upon hers. "in the morning we go out upon our task, and god alone knows what may be in store for any of us. you are going to be so good to me as to take me with you. i know that all that brave earnest men can do for a poor weak woman, whose soul perhaps is lost--no, no, not yet, but is at any rate at stake--you will do. but you must remember that i am not as you are. there is a poison in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me; which must destroy me, unless some relief comes to us. oh, my friends, you know as well as i do, that my soul is at stake; and though i know there is one way out for me, you must not and i must not take it!" she looked appealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her husband. "what is that way?" asked van helsing in a hoarse voice. "what is that way, which we must not--may not--take?" "that i may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before the greater evil is entirely wrought. i know, and you know, that were i once dead you could and would set free my immortal spirit, even as you did my poor lucy's. were death, or the fear of death, the only thing that stood in the way i would not shrink to die here, now, amidst the friends who love me. but death is not all. i cannot believe that to die in such a case, when there is hope before us and a bitter task to be done, is god's will. therefore, i, on my part, give up here the certainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the blackest things that the world or the nether world holds!" we were all silent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a prelude. the faces of the others were set and harker's grew ashen grey; perhaps he guessed better than any of us what was coming. she continued:-"this is what i can give into the hotch-pot." i could not but note the quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all seriousness. "what will each of you give? your lives i know," she went on quickly, "that is easy for brave men. your lives are god's, and you can give them back to him; but what will you give to me?" she looked again questioningly, but this time avoided her husband's face. quincey seemed to understand; he nodded, and her face lit up. "then i shall tell you plainly what i want, for there must be no doubtful matter in this connection between us now. you must promise me, one and all--even you, my beloved husband--that, should the time come, you will kill me." "what is that time?" the voice was quincey's, but it was low and strained. "when you shall be convinced that i am so changed that it is better that i die that i may live. when i am thus dead in the flesh, then you will, without a moment's delay, drive a stake through me and cut off my head; or do whatever else may be wanting to give me rest!" quincey was the first to rise after the pause. he knelt down before her and taking her hand in his said solemnly:-"i'm only a rough fellow, who hasn't, perhaps, lived as a man should to win such a distinction, but i swear to you by all that i hold sacred and dear that, should the time ever come, i shall not flinch from the duty that you have set us. and i promise you, too, that i shall make all certain, for if i am only doubtful i shall take it that the time has come!" "my true friend!" was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears, as, bending over, she kissed his hand. "i swear the same, my dear madam mina!" said van helsing. "and i!" said lord godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to take the oath. i followed, myself. then her husband turned to her wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor which subdued the snowy whiteness of his hair, and asked:-"and must i, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?" "you too, my dearest," she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her voice and eyes. "you must not shrink. you are nearest and dearest and all the world to me; our souls are knit into one, for all life and all time. think, dear, that there have been times when brave men have killed their wives and their womenkind, to keep them from falling into the hands of the enemy. their hands did not falter any the more because those that they loved implored them to slay them. it is men's duty towards those whom they love, in such times of sore trial! and oh, my dear, if it is to be that i must meet death at any hand, let it be at the hand of him that loves me best. dr. van helsing, i have not forgotten your mercy in poor lucy's case to him who loved"--she stopped with a flying blush, and changed her phrase--"to him who had best right to give her peace. if that time shall come again, i look to you to make it a happy memory of my husband's life that it was his loving hand which set me free from the awful thrall upon me." "again i swear!" came the professor's resonant voice. mrs. harker smiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief she leaned back and said:-"and now one word of warning, a warning which you must never forget: this time, if it ever come, may come quickly and unexpectedly, and in such case you must lose no time in using your opportunity. at such a time i myself might be--nay! if the time ever comes, _shall be_--leagued with your enemy against you." "one more request;" she became very solemn as she said this, "it is not vital and necessary like the other, but i want you to do one thing for me, if you will." we all acquiesced, but no one spoke; there was no need to speak:-"i want you to read the burial service." she was interrupted by a deep groan from her husband; taking his hand in hers, she held it over her heart, and continued: "you must read it over me some day. whatever may be the issue of all this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet thought to all or some of us. you, my dearest, will i hope read it, for then it will be in your voice in my memory for ever--come what may!" "but oh, my dear one," he pleaded, "death is afar off from you." "nay," she said, holding up a warning hand. "i am deeper in death at this moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!" "oh, my wife, must i read it?" he said, before he began. "it would comfort me, my husband!" was all she said; and he began to read when she had got the book ready. "how can i--how could any one--tell of that strange scene, its solemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror; and, withal, its sweetness. even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a travesty of bitter truth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted to the heart had he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends kneeling round that stricken and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender passion of her husband's voice, as in tones so broken with emotion that often he had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service from the burial of the dead. i--i cannot go on--words--and--v-voice--f-fail m-me!" * * * * * she was right in her instinct. strange as it all was, bizarre as it may hereafter seem even to us who felt its potent influence at the time, it comforted us much; and the silence, which showed mrs. harker's coming relapse from her freedom of soul, did not seem so full of despair to any of us as we had dreaded. _jonathan harker's journal._ _15 october, varna._--we left charing cross on the morning of the 12th, got to paris the same night, and took the places secured for us in the orient express. we travelled night and day, arriving here at about five o'clock. lord godalming went to the consulate to see if any telegram had arrived for him, whilst the rest of us came on to this hotel--"the odessus." the journey may have had incidents; i was, however, too eager to get on, to care for them. until the _czarina catherine_ comes into port there will be no interest for me in anything in the wide world. thank god! mina is well, and looks to be getting stronger; her colour is coming back. she sleeps a great deal; throughout the journey she slept nearly all the time. before sunrise and sunset, however, she is very wakeful and alert; and it has become a habit for van helsing to hypnotise her at such times. at first, some effort was needed, and he had to make many passes; but now, she seems to yield at once, as if by habit, and scarcely any action is needed. he seems to have power at these particular moments to simply will, and her thoughts obey him. he always asks her what she can see and hear. she answers to the first:-"nothing; all is dark." and to the second:-"i can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and the water rushing by. canvas and cordage strain and masts and yards creak. the wind is high--i can hear it in the shrouds, and the bow throws back the foam." it is evident that the _czarina catherine_ is still at sea, hastening on her way to varna. lord godalming has just returned. he had four telegrams, one each day since we started, and all to the same effect: that the _czarina catherine_ had not been reported to lloyd's from anywhere. he had arranged before leaving london that his agent should send him every day a telegram saying if the ship had been reported. he was to have a message even if she were not reported, so that he might be sure that there was a watch being kept at the other end of the wire. we had dinner and went to bed early. to-morrow we are to see the vice-consul, and to arrange, if we can, about getting on board the ship as soon as she arrives. van helsing says that our chance will be to get on the boat between sunrise and sunset. the count, even if he takes the form of a bat, cannot cross the running water of his own volition, and so cannot leave the ship. as he dare not change to man's form without suspicion--which he evidently wishes to avoid--he must remain in the box. if, then, we can come on board after sunrise, he is at our mercy; for we can open the box and make sure of him, as we did of poor lucy, before he wakes. what mercy he shall get from us will not count for much. we think that we shall not have much trouble with officials or the seamen. thank god! this is the country where bribery can do anything, and we are well supplied with money. we have only to make sure that the ship cannot come into port between sunset and sunrise without our being warned, and we shall be safe. judge moneybag will settle this case, i think! * * * * * _16 october._--mina's report still the same: lapping waves and rushing water, darkness and favouring winds. we are evidently in good time, and when we hear of the _czarina catherine_ we shall be ready. as she must pass the dardanelles we are sure to have some report. * * * * * _17 october._--everything is pretty well fixed now, i think, to welcome the count on his return from his tour. godalming told the shippers that he fancied that the box sent aboard might contain something stolen from a friend of his, and got a half consent that he might open it at his own risk. the owner gave him a paper telling the captain to give him every facility in doing whatever he chose on board the ship, and also a similar authorisation to his agent at varna. we have seen the agent, who was much impressed with godalming's kindly manner to him, and we are all satisfied that whatever he can do to aid our wishes will be done. we have already arranged what to do in case we get the box open. if the count is there, van helsing and seward will cut off his head at once and drive a stake through his heart. morris and godalming and i shall prevent interference, even if we have to use the arms which we shall have ready. the professor says that if we can so treat the count's body, it will soon after fall into dust. in such case there would be no evidence against us, in case any suspicion of murder were aroused. but even if it were not, we should stand or fall by our act, and perhaps some day this very script may be evidence to come between some of us and a rope. for myself, i should take the chance only too thankfully if it were to come. we mean to leave no stone unturned to carry out our intent. we have arranged with certain officials that the instant the _czarina catherine_ is seen, we are to be informed by a special messenger. * * * * * _24 october._--a whole week of waiting. daily telegrams to godalming, but only the same story: "not yet reported." mina's morning and evening hypnotic answer is unvaried: lapping waves, rushing water, and creaking masts. _telegram, october 24th._ _rufus smith, lloyd's, london, to lord godalming, care of h. b. m. vice-consul, varna._ "_czarina catherine_ reported this morning from dardanelles." _dr. seward's diary._ _25 october._--how i miss my phonograph! to write diary with a pen is irksome to me; but van helsing says i must. we were all wild with excitement yesterday when godalming got his telegram from lloyd's. i know now what men feel in battle when the call to action is heard. mrs. harker, alone of our party, did not show any signs of emotion. after all, it is not strange that she did not; for we took special care not to let her know anything about it, and we all tried not to show any excitement when we were in her presence. in old days she would, i am sure, have noticed, no matter how we might have tried to conceal it; but in this way she is greatly changed during the past three weeks. the lethargy grows upon her, and though she seems strong and well, and is getting back some of her colour, van helsing and i are not satisfied. we talk of her often; we have not, however, said a word to the others. it would break poor harker's heart--certainly his nerve--if he knew that we had even a suspicion on the subject. van helsing examines, he tells me, her teeth very carefully, whilst she is in the hypnotic condition, for he says that so long as they do not begin to sharpen there is no active danger of a change in her. if this change should come, it would be necessary to take steps!... we both know what those steps would have to be, though we do not mention our thoughts to each other. we should neither of us shrink from the task--awful though it be to contemplate. "euthanasia" is an excellent and a comforting word! i am grateful to whoever invented it. it is only about 24 hours' sail from the dardanelles to here, at the rate the _czarina catherine_ has come from london. she should therefore arrive some time in the morning; but as she cannot possibly get in before then, we are all about to retire early. we shall get up at one o'clock, so as to be ready. * * * * * _25 october, noon_.--no news yet of the ship's arrival. mrs. harker's hypnotic report this morning was the same as usual, so it is possible that we may get news at any moment. we men are all in a fever of excitement, except harker, who is calm; his hands are cold as ice, and an hour ago i found him whetting the edge of the great ghoorka knife which he now always carries with him. it will be a bad lookout for the count if the edge of that "kukri" ever touches his throat, driven by that stern, ice-cold hand! van helsing and i were a little alarmed about mrs. harker to-day. about noon she got into a sort of lethargy which we did not like; although we kept silence to the others, we were neither of us happy about it. she had been restless all the morning, so that we were at first glad to know that she was sleeping. when, however, her husband mentioned casually that she was sleeping so soundly that he could not wake her, we went to her room to see for ourselves. she was breathing naturally and looked so well and peaceful that we agreed that the sleep was better for her than anything else. poor girl, she has so much to forget that it is no wonder that sleep, if it brings oblivion to her, does her good. * * * * * _later._--our opinion was justified, for when after a refreshing sleep of some hours she woke up, she seemed brighter and better than she had been for days. at sunset she made the usual hypnotic report. wherever he may be in the black sea, the count is hurrying to his destination. to his doom, i trust! * * * * * _26 october._--another day and no tidings of the _czarina catherine_. she ought to be here by now. that she is still journeying _somewhere_ is apparent, for mrs. harker's hypnotic report at sunrise was still the same. it is possible that the vessel may be lying by, at times, for fog; some of the steamers which came in last evening reported patches of fog both to north and south of the port. we must continue our watching, as the ship may now be signalled any moment. * * * * * _27 october, noon._--most strange; no news yet of the ship we wait for. mrs. harker reported last night and this morning as usual: "lapping waves and rushing water," though she added that "the waves were very faint." the telegrams from london have been the same: "no further report." van helsing is terribly anxious, and told me just now that he fears the count is escaping us. he added significantly:-"i did not like that lethargy of madam mina's. souls and memories can do strange things during trance." i was about to ask him more, but harker just then came in, and he held up a warning hand. we must try to-night at sunset to make her speak more fully when in her hypnotic state. * * * * * _28 october._--telegram. _rufus smith, london, to lord godalming, care h. b. m. vice consul, varna._ "_czarina catherine_ reported entering galatz at one o'clock to-day." _dr. seward's diary._ _28 october._--when the telegram came announcing the arrival in galatz i do not think it was such a shock to any of us as might have been expected. true, we did not know whence, or how, or when, the bolt would come; but i think we all expected that something strange would happen. the delay of arrival at varna made us individually satisfied that things would not be just as we had expected; we only waited to learn where the change would occur. none the less, however, was it a surprise. i suppose that nature works on such a hopeful basis that we believe against ourselves that things will be as they ought to be, not as we should know that they will be. transcendentalism is a beacon to the angels, even if it be a will-o'-the-wisp to man. it was an odd experience and we all took it differently. van helsing raised his hand over his head for a moment, as though in remonstrance with the almighty; but he said not a word, and in a few seconds stood up with his face sternly set. lord godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily. i was myself half stunned and looked in wonder at one after another. quincey morris tightened his belt with that quick movement which i knew so well; in our old wandering days it meant "action." mrs. harker grew ghastly white, so that the scar on her forehead seemed to burn, but she folded her hands meekly and looked up in prayer. harker smiled--actually smiled--the dark, bitter smile of one who is without hope; but at the same time his action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt of the great kukri knife and rested there. "when does the next train start for galatz?" said van helsing to us generally. "at 6:30 to-morrow morning!" we all started, for the answer came from mrs. harker. "how on earth do you know?" said art. "you forget--or perhaps you do not know, though jonathan does and so does dr. van helsing--that i am the train fiend. at home in exeter i always used to make up the time-tables, so as to be helpful to my husband. i found it so useful sometimes, that i always make a study of the time-tables now. i knew that if anything were to take us to castle dracula we should go by galatz, or at any rate through bucharest, so i learned the times very carefully. unhappily there are not many to learn, as the only train to-morrow leaves as i say." "wonderful woman!" murmured the professor. "can't we get a special?" asked lord godalming. van helsing shook his head: "i fear not. this land is very different from yours or mine; even if we did have a special, it would probably not arrive as soon as our regular train. moreover, we have something to prepare. we must think. now let us organize. you, friend arthur, go to the train and get the tickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in the morning. do you, friend jonathan, go to the agent of the ship and get from him letters to the agent in galatz, with authority to make search the ship just as it was here. morris quincey, you see the vice-consul, and get his aid with his fellow in galatz and all he can do to make our way smooth, so that no times be lost when over the danube. john will stay with madam mina and me, and we shall consult. for so if time be long you may be delayed; and it will not matter when the sun set, since i am here with madam to make report." "and i," said mrs. harker brightly, and more like her old self than she had been for many a long day, "shall try to be of use in all ways, and shall think and write for you as i used to do. something is shifting from me in some strange way, and i feel freer than i have been of late!" the three younger men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to realise the significance of her words; but van helsing and i, turning to each other, met each a grave and troubled glance. we said nothing at the time, however. when the three men had gone out to their tasks van helsing asked mrs. harker to look up the copy of the diaries and find him the part of harker's journal at the castle. she went away to get it; when the door was shut upon her he said to me:-"we mean the same! speak out!" "there is some change. it is a hope that makes me sick, for it may deceive us." "quite so. do you know why i asked her to get the manuscript?" "no!" said i, "unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me alone." "you are in part right, friend john, but only in part. i want to tell you something. and oh, my friend, i am taking a great--a terrible--risk; but i believe it is right. in the moment when madam mina said those words that arrest both our understanding, an inspiration came to me. in the trance of three days ago the count sent her his spirit to read her mind; or more like he took her to see him in his earth-box in the ship with water rushing, just as it go free at rise and set of sun. he learn then that we are here; for she have more to tell in her open life with eyes to see and ears to hear than he, shut, as he is, in his coffin-box. now he make his most effort to escape us. at present he want her not. "he is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his call; but he cut her off--take her, as he can do, out of his own power, that so she come not to him. ah! there i have hope that our man-brains that have been of man so long and that have not lost the grace of god, will come higher than his child-brain that lie in his tomb for centuries, that grow not yet to our stature, and that do only work selfish and therefore small. here comes madam mina; not a word to her of her trance! she know it not; and it would overwhelm her and make despair just when we want all her hope, all her courage; when most we want all her great brain which is trained like man's brain, but is of sweet woman and have a special power which the count give her, and which he may not take away altogether--though he think not so. hush! let me speak, and you shall learn. oh, john, my friend, we are in awful straits. i fear, as i never feared before. we can only trust the good god. silence! here she comes!" i thought that the professor was going to break down and have hysterics, just as he had when lucy died, but with a great effort he controlled himself and was at perfect nervous poise when mrs. harker tripped into the room, bright and happy-looking and, in the doing of work, seemingly forgetful of her misery. as she came in, she handed a number of sheets of typewriting to van helsing. he looked over them gravely, his face brightening up as he read. then holding the pages between his finger and thumb he said:-"friend john, to you with so much of experience already--and you, too, dear madam mina, that are young--here is a lesson: do not fear ever to think. a half-thought has been buzzing often in my brain, but i fear to let him loose his wings. here now, with more knowledge, i go back to where that half-thought come from and i find that he be no half-thought at all; that be a whole thought, though so young that he is not yet strong to use his little wings. nay, like the "ugly duck" of my friend hans andersen, he be no duck-thought at all, but a big swan-thought that sail nobly on big wings, when the time come for him to try them. see i read here what jonathan have written:-"that other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought his forces over the great river into turkey land; who, when he was beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered, since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph." "what does this tell us? not much? no! the count's child-thought see nothing; therefore he speak so free. your man-thought see nothing; my man-thought see nothing, till just now. no! but there comes another word from some one who speak without thought because she, too, know not what it mean--what it _might_ mean. just as there are elements which rest, yet when in nature's course they move on their way and they touch--then pouf! and there comes a flash of light, heaven wide, that blind and kill and destroy some; but that show up all earth below for leagues and leagues. is it not so? well, i shall explain. to begin, have you ever study the philosophy of crime? 'yes' and 'no.' you, john, yes; for it is a study of insanity. you, no, madam mina; for crime touch you not--not but once. still, your mind works true, and argues not _a particulari ad universale_. there is this peculiarity in criminals. it is so constant, in all countries and at all times, that even police, who know not much from philosophy, come to know it empirically, that _it is_. that is to be empiric. the criminal always work at one crime--that is the true criminal who seems predestinate to crime, and who will of none other. this criminal has not full man-brain. he is clever and cunning and resourceful; but he be not of man-stature as to brain. he be of child-brain in much. now this criminal of ours is predestinate to crime also; he, too, have child-brain, and it is of the child to do what he have done. the little bird, the little fish, the little animal learn not by principle, but empirically; and when he learn to do, then there is to him the ground to start from to do more. '_dos pou sto_,' said archimedes. 'give me a fulcrum, and i shall move the world!' to do once, is the fulcrum whereby child-brain become man-brain; and until he have the purpose to do more, he continue to do the same again every time, just as he have done before! oh, my dear, i see that your eyes are opened, and that to you the lightning flash show all the leagues," for mrs. harker began to clap her hands and her eyes sparkled. he went on:-"now you shall speak. tell us two dry men of science what you see with those so bright eyes." he took her hand and held it whilst she spoke. his finger and thumb closed on her pulse, as i thought instinctively and unconsciously, as she spoke:-"the count is a criminal and of criminal type. nordau and lombroso would so classify him, and _quã¢_ criminal he is of imperfectly formed mind. thus, in a difficulty he has to seek resource in habit. his past is a clue, and the one page of it that we know--and that from his own lips--tells that once before, when in what mr. morris would call a 'tight place,' he went back to his own country from the land he had tried to invade, and thence, without losing purpose, prepared himself for a new effort. he came again better equipped for his work; and won. so he came to london to invade a new land. he was beaten, and when all hope of success was lost, and his existence in danger, he fled back over the sea to his home; just as formerly he had fled back over the danube from turkey land." "good, good! oh, you so clever lady!" said van helsing, enthusiastically, as he stooped and kissed her hand. a moment later he said to me, as calmly as though we had been having a sick-room consultation:-"seventy-two only; and in all this excitement. i have hope." turning to her again, he said with keen expectation:-"but go on. go on! there is more to tell if you will. be not afraid; john and i know. i do in any case, and shall tell you if you are right. speak, without fear!" "i will try to; but you will forgive me if i seem egotistical." "nay! fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we think." "then, as he is criminal he is selfish; and as his intellect is small and his action is based on selfishness, he confines himself to one purpose. that purpose is remorseless. as he fled back over the danube, leaving his forces to be cut to pieces, so now he is intent on being safe, careless of all. so his own selfishness frees my soul somewhat from the terrible power which he acquired over me on that dreadful night. i felt it! oh, i felt it! thank god, for his great mercy! my soul is freer than it has been since that awful hour; and all that haunts me is a fear lest in some trance or dream he may have used my knowledge for his ends." the professor stood up:-"he has so used your mind; and by it he has left us here in varna, whilst the ship that carried him rushed through enveloping fog up to galatz, where, doubtless, he had made preparation for escaping from us. but his child-mind only saw so far; and it may be that, as ever is in god's providence, the very thing that the evil-doer most reckoned on for his selfish good, turns out to be his chiefest harm. the hunter is taken in his own snare, as the great psalmist says. for now that he think he is free from every trace of us all, and that he has escaped us with so many hours to him, then his selfish child-brain will whisper him to sleep. he think, too, that as he cut himself off from knowing your mind, there can be no knowledge of him to you; there is where he fail! that terrible baptism of blood which he give you makes you free to go to him in spirit, as you have as yet done in your times of freedom, when the sun rise and set. at such times you go by my volition and not by his; and this power to good of you and others, as you have won from your suffering at his hands. this is now all the more precious that he know it not, and to guard himself have even cut himself off from his knowledge of our where. we, however, are not selfish, and we believe that god is with us through all this blackness, and these many dark hours. we shall follow him; and we shall not flinch; even if we peril ourselves that we become like him. friend john, this has been a great hour; and it have done much to advance us on our way. you must be scribe and write him all down, so that when the others return from their work you can give it to them; then they shall know as we do." and so i have written it whilst we wait their return, and mrs. harker has written with her typewriter all since she brought the ms. to us. chapter xxvi dr. seward's diary _29 october._--this is written in the train from varna to galatz. last night we all assembled a little before the time of sunset. each of us had done his work as well as he could; so far as thought, and endeavour, and opportunity go, we are prepared for the whole of our journey, and for our work when we get to galatz. when the usual time came round mrs. harker prepared herself for her hypnotic effort; and after a longer and more serious effort on the part of van helsing than has been usually necessary, she sank into the trance. usually she speaks on a hint; but this time the professor had to ask her questions, and to ask them pretty resolutely, before we could learn anything; at last her answer came:-"i can see nothing; we are still; there are no waves lapping, but only a steady swirl of water softly running against the hawser. i can hear men's voices calling, near and far, and the roll and creak of oars in the rowlocks. a gun is fired somewhere; the echo of it seems far away. there is tramping of feet overhead, and ropes and chains are dragged along. what is this? there is a gleam of light; i can feel the air blowing upon me." here she stopped. she had risen, as if impulsively, from where she lay on the sofa, and raised both her hands, palms upwards, as if lifting a weight. van helsing and i looked at each other with understanding. quincey raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at her intently, whilst harker's hand instinctively closed round the hilt of his kukri. there was a long pause. we all knew that the time when she could speak was passing; but we felt that it was useless to say anything. suddenly she sat up, and, as she opened her eyes, said sweetly:-"would none of you like a cup of tea? you must all be so tired!" we could only make her happy, and so acquiesced. she bustled off to get tea; when she had gone van helsing said:-"you see, my friends. _he_ is close to land: he has left his earth-chest. but he has yet to get on shore. in the night he may lie hidden somewhere; but if he be not carried on shore, or if the ship do not touch it, he cannot achieve the land. in such case he can, if it be in the night, change his form and can jump or fly on shore, as he did at whitby. but if the day come before he get on shore, then, unless he be carried he cannot escape. and if he be carried, then the customs men may discover what the box contain. thus, in fine, if he escape not on shore to-night, or before dawn, there will be the whole day lost to him. we may then arrive in time; for if he escape not at night we shall come on him in daytime, boxed up and at our mercy; for he dare not be his true self, awake and visible, lest he be discovered." there was no more to be said, so we waited in patience until the dawn; at which time we might learn more from mrs. harker. early this morning we listened, with breathless anxiety, for her response in her trance. the hypnotic stage was even longer in coming than before; and when it came the time remaining until full sunrise was so short that we began to despair. van helsing seemed to throw his whole soul into the effort; at last, in obedience to his will she made reply:-"all is dark. i hear lapping water, level with me, and some creaking as of wood on wood." she paused, and the red sun shot up. we must wait till to-night. and so it is that we are travelling towards galatz in an agony of expectation. we are due to arrive between two and three in the morning; but already, at bucharest, we are three hours late, so we cannot possibly get in till well after sun-up. thus we shall have two more hypnotic messages from mrs. harker; either or both may possibly throw more light on what is happening. * * * * * _later._--sunset has come and gone. fortunately it came at a time when there was no distraction; for had it occurred whilst we were at a station, we might not have secured the necessary calm and isolation. mrs. harker yielded to the hypnotic influence even less readily than this morning. i am in fear that her power of reading the count's sensations may die away, just when we want it most. it seems to me that her imagination is beginning to work. whilst she has been in the trance hitherto she has confined herself to the simplest of facts. if this goes on it may ultimately mislead us. if i thought that the count's power over her would die away equally with her power of knowledge it would be a happy thought; but i am afraid that it may not be so. when she did speak, her words were enigmatical:-"something is going out; i can feel it pass me like a cold wind. i can hear, far off, confused sounds--as of men talking in strange tongues, fierce-falling water, and the howling of wolves." she stopped and a shudder ran through her, increasing in intensity for a few seconds, till, at the end, she shook as though in a palsy. she said no more, even in answer to the professor's imperative questioning. when she woke from the trance, she was cold, and exhausted, and languid; but her mind was all alert. she could not remember anything, but asked what she had said; when she was told, she pondered over it deeply for a long time and in silence. * * * * * _30 october, 7 a. m._--we are near galatz now, and i may not have time to write later. sunrise this morning was anxiously looked for by us all. knowing of the increasing difficulty of procuring the hypnotic trance, van helsing began his passes earlier than usual. they produced no effect, however, until the regular time, when she yielded with a still greater difficulty, only a minute before the sun rose. the professor lost no time in his questioning; her answer came with equal quickness:-"all is dark. i hear water swirling by, level with my ears, and the creaking of wood on wood. cattle low far off. there is another sound, a queer one like----" she stopped and grew white, and whiter still. "go on; go on! speak, i command you!" said van helsing in an agonised voice. at the same time there was despair in his eyes, for the risen sun was reddening even mrs. harker's pale face. she opened her eyes, and we all started as she said, sweetly and seemingly with the utmost unconcern:-"oh, professor, why ask me to do what you know i can't? i don't remember anything." then, seeing the look of amazement on our faces, she said, turning from one to the other with a troubled look:-"what have i said? what have i done? i know nothing, only that i was lying here, half asleep, and heard you say go on! speak, i command you!' it seemed so funny to hear you order me about, as if i were a bad child!" "oh, madam mina," he said, sadly, "it is proof, if proof be needed, of how i love and honour you, when a word for your good, spoken more earnest than ever, can seem so strange because it is to order her whom i am proud to obey!" the whistles are sounding; we are nearing galatz. we are on fire with anxiety and eagerness. _mina harker's journal._ _30 october._--mr. morris took me to the hotel where our rooms had been ordered by telegraph, he being the one who could best be spared, since he does not speak any foreign language. the forces were distributed much as they had been at varna, except that lord godalming went to the vice-consul, as his rank might serve as an immediate guarantee of some sort to the official, we being in extreme hurry. jonathan and the two doctors went to the shipping agent to learn particulars of the arrival of the _czarina catherine_. * * * * * _later._--lord godalming has returned. the consul is away, and the vice-consul sick; so the routine work has been attended to by a clerk. he was very obliging, and offered to do anything in his power. _jonathan harker's journal._ _30 october._--at nine o'clock dr. van helsing, dr. seward, and i called on messrs. mackenzie & steinkoff, the agents of the london firm of hapgood. they had received a wire from london, in answer to lord godalming's telegraphed request, asking us to show them any civility in their power. they were more than kind and courteous, and took us at once on board the _czarina catherine_, which lay at anchor out in the river harbour. there we saw the captain, donelson by name, who told us of his voyage. he said that in all his life he had never had so favourable a run. "man!" he said, "but it made us afeard, for we expeckit that we should have to pay for it wi' some rare piece o' ill luck, so as to keep up the average. it's no canny to run frae london to the black sea wi' a wind ahint ye, as though the deil himself were blawin' on yer sail for his ain purpose. an' a' the time we could no speer a thing. gin we were nigh a ship, or a port, or a headland, a fog fell on us and travelled wi' us, till when after it had lifted and we looked out, the deil a thing could we see. we ran by gibraltar wi'oot bein' able to signal; an' till we came to the dardanelles and had to wait to get our permit to pass, we never were within hail o' aught. at first i inclined to slack off sail and beat about till the fog was lifted; but whiles, i thocht that if the deil was minded to get us into the black sea quick, he was like to do it whether we would or no. if we had a quick voyage it would be no to our miscredit wi' the owners, or no hurt to our traffic; an' the old mon who had served his ain purpose wad be decently grateful to us for no hinderin' him." this mixture of simplicity and cunning, of superstition and commercial reasoning, aroused van helsing, who said:-"mine friend, that devil is more clever than he is thought by some; and he know when he meet his match!" the skipper was not displeased with the compliment, and went on:-"when we got past the bosphorus the men began to grumble; some o' them, the roumanians, came and asked me to heave overboard a big box which had been put on board by a queer lookin' old man just before we had started frae london. i had seen them speer at the fellow, and put out their twa fingers when they saw him, to guard against the evil eye. man! but the supersteetion of foreigners is pairfectly rideeculous! i sent them aboot their business pretty quick; but as just after a fog closed in on us i felt a wee bit as they did anent something, though i wouldn't say it was agin the big box. well, on we went, and as the fog didn't let up for five days i joost let the wind carry us; for if the deil wanted to get somewheres--well, he would fetch it up a'reet. an' if he didn't, well, we'd keep a sharp lookout anyhow. sure eneuch, we had a fair way and deep water all the time; and two days ago, when the mornin' sun came through the fog, we found ourselves just in the river opposite galatz. the roumanians were wild, and wanted me right or wrong to take out the box and fling it in the river. i had to argy wi' them aboot it wi' a handspike; an' when the last o' them rose off the deck wi' his head in his hand, i had convinced them that, evil eye or no evil eye, the property and the trust of my owners were better in my hands than in the river danube. they had, mind ye, taken the box on the deck ready to fling in, and as it was marked galatz _via_ varna, i thocht i'd let it lie till we discharged in the port an' get rid o't althegither. we didn't do much clearin' that day, an' had to remain the nicht at anchor; but in the mornin', braw an' airly, an hour before sun-up, a man came aboard wi' an order, written to him from england, to receive a box marked for one count dracula. sure eneuch the matter was one ready to his hand. he had his papers a' reet, an' glad i was to be rid o' the dam' thing, for i was beginnin' masel' to feel uneasy at it. if the deil did have any luggage aboord the ship, i'm thinkin' it was nane ither than that same!" "what was the name of the man who took it?" asked dr. van helsing with restrained eagerness. "i'll be tellin' ye quick!" he answered, and, stepping down to his cabin, produced a receipt signed "immanuel hildesheim." burgen-strasse 16 was the address. we found out that this was all the captain knew; so with thanks we came away. we found hildesheim in his office, a hebrew of rather the adelphi theatre type, with a nose like a sheep, and a fez. his arguments were pointed with specie--we doing the punctuation--and with a little bargaining he told us what he knew. this turned out to be simple but important. he had received a letter from mr. de ville of london, telling him to receive, if possible before sunrise so as to avoid customs, a box which would arrive at galatz in the _czarina catherine_. this he was to give in charge to a certain petrof skinsky, who dealt with the slovaks who traded down the river to the port. he had been paid for his work by an english bank note, which had been duly cashed for gold at the danube international bank. when skinsky had come to him, he had taken him to the ship and handed over the box, so as to save porterage. that was all he knew. we then sought for skinsky, but were unable to find him. one of his neighbours, who did not seem to bear him any affection, said that he had gone away two days before, no one knew whither. this was corroborated by his landlord, who had received by messenger the key of the house together with the rent due, in english money. this had been between ten and eleven o'clock last night. we were at a standstill again. whilst we were talking one came running and breathlessly gasped out that the body of skinsky had been found inside the wall of the churchyard of st. peter, and that the throat had been torn open as if by some wild animal. those we had been speaking with ran off to see the horror, the women crying out "this is the work of a slovak!" we hurried away lest we should have been in some way drawn into the affair, and so detained. as we came home we could arrive at no definite conclusion. we were all convinced that the box was on its way, by water, to somewhere; but where that might be we would have to discover. with heavy hearts we came home to the hotel to mina. when we met together, the first thing was to consult as to taking mina again into our confidence. things are getting desperate, and it is at least a chance, though a hazardous one. as a preliminary step, i was released from my promise to her. _mina harker's journal._ _30 october, evening._--they were so tired and worn out and dispirited that there was nothing to be done till they had some rest; so i asked them all to lie down for half an hour whilst i should enter everything up to the moment. i feel so grateful to the man who invented the "traveller's" typewriter, and to mr. morris for getting this one for me. i should have felt quite; astray doing the work if i had to write with a pen.... it is all done; poor dear, dear jonathan, what he must have suffered, what must he be suffering now. he lies on the sofa hardly seeming to breathe, and his whole body appears in collapse. his brows are knit; his face is drawn with pain. poor fellow, maybe he is thinking, and i can see his face all wrinkled up with the concentration of his thoughts. oh! if i could only help at all.... i shall do what i can. i have asked dr. van helsing, and he has got me all the papers that i have not yet seen.... whilst they are resting, i shall go over all carefully, and perhaps i may arrive at some conclusion. i shall try to follow the professor's example, and think without prejudice on the facts before me.... * * * * * i do believe that under god's providence i have made a discovery. i shall get the maps and look over them.... * * * * * i am more than ever sure that i am right. my new conclusion is ready, so i shall get our party together and read it. they can judge it; it is well to be accurate, and every minute is precious. _mina harker's memorandum._ (entered in her journal.) _ground of inquiry._--count dracula's problem is to get back to his own place. (_a_) he must be _brought back_ by some one. this is evident; for had he power to move himself as he wished he could go either as man, or wolf, or bat, or in some other way. he evidently fears discovery or interference, in the state of helplessness in which he must be--confined as he is between dawn and sunset in his wooden box. (_b_) _how is he to be taken?_--here a process of exclusions may help us. by road, by rail, by water? 1. _by road._--there are endless difficulties, especially in leaving the city. (_x_) there are people; and people are curious, and investigate. a hint, a surmise, a doubt as to what might be in the box, would destroy him. (_y_) there are, or there may be, customs and octroi officers to pass. (_z_) his pursuers might follow. this is his highest fear; and in order to prevent his being betrayed he has repelled, so far as he can, even his victim--me! 2. _by rail._--there is no one in charge of the box. it would have to take its chance of being delayed; and delay would be fatal, with enemies on the track. true, he might escape at night; but what would he be, if left in a strange place with no refuge that he could fly to? this is not what he intends; and he does not mean to risk it. 3. _by water._--here is the safest way, in one respect, but with most danger in another. on the water he is powerless except at night; even then he can only summon fog and storm and snow and his wolves. but were he wrecked, the living water would engulf him, helpless; and he would indeed be lost. he could have the vessel drive to land; but if it were unfriendly land, wherein he was not free to move, his position would still be desperate. we know from the record that he was on the water; so what we have to do is to ascertain _what_ water. the first thing is to realise exactly what he has done as yet; we may, then, get a light on what his later task is to be. _firstly._--we must differentiate between what he did in london as part of his general plan of action, when he was pressed for moments and had to arrange as best he could. _secondly_ we must see, as well as we can surmise it from the facts we know of, what he has done here. as to the first, he evidently intended to arrive at galatz, and sent invoice to varna to deceive us lest we should ascertain his means of exit from england; his immediate and sole purpose then was to escape. the proof of this, is the letter of instructions sent to immanuel hildesheim to clear and take away the box _before sunrise_. there is also the instruction to petrof skinsky. these we must only guess at; but there must have been some letter or message, since skinsky came to hildesheim. that, so far, his plans were successful we know. the _czarina catherine_ made a phenomenally quick journey--so much so that captain donelson's suspicions were aroused; but his superstition united with his canniness played the count's game for him, and he ran with his favouring wind through fogs and all till he brought up blindfold at galatz. that the count's arrangements were well made, has been proved. hildesheim cleared the box, took it off, and gave it to skinsky. skinsky took it--and here we lose the trail. we only know that the box is somewhere on the water, moving along. the customs and the octroi, if there be any, have been avoided. now we come to what the count must have done after his arrival--_on land_, at galatz. the box was given to skinsky before sunrise. at sunrise the count could appear in his own form. here, we ask why skinsky was chosen at all to aid in the work? in my husband's diary, skinsky is mentioned as dealing with the slovaks who trade down the river to the port; and the man's remark, that the murder was the work of a slovak, showed the general feeling against his class. the count wanted isolation. my surmise is, this: that in london the count decided to get back to his castle by water, as the most safe and secret way. he was brought from the castle by szgany, and probably they delivered their cargo to slovaks who took the boxes to varna, for there they were shipped for london. thus the count had knowledge of the persons who could arrange this service. when the box was on land, before sunrise or after sunset, he came out from his box, met skinsky and instructed him what to do as to arranging the carriage of the box up some river. when this was done, and he knew that all was in train, he blotted out his traces, as he thought, by murdering his agent. i have examined the map and find that the river most suitable for the slovaks to have ascended is either the pruth or the sereth. i read in the typescript that in my trance i heard cows low and water swirling level with my ears and the creaking of wood. the count in his box, then, was on a river in an open boat--propelled probably either by oars or poles, for the banks are near and it is working against stream. there would be no such sound if floating down stream. of course it may not be either the sereth or the pruth, but we may possibly investigate further. now of these two, the pruth is the more easily navigated, but the sereth is, at fundu, joined by the bistritza which runs up round the borgo pass. the loop it makes is manifestly as close to dracula's castle as can be got by water. _mina harker's journal--continued._ when i had done reading, jonathan took me in his arms and kissed me. the others kept shaking me by both hands, and dr. van helsing said:-"our dear madam mina is once more our teacher. her eyes have been where we were blinded. now we are on the track once again, and this time we may succeed. our enemy is at his most helpless; and if we can come on him by day, on the water, our task will be over. he has a start, but he is powerless to hasten, as he may not leave his box lest those who carry him may suspect; for them to suspect would be to prompt them to throw him in the stream where he perish. this he knows, and will not. now men, to our council of war; for, here and now, we must plan what each and all shall do." "i shall get a steam launch and follow him," said lord godalming. "and i, horses to follow on the bank lest by chance he land," said mr. morris. "good!" said the professor, "both good. but neither must go alone. there must be force to overcome force if need be; the slovak is strong and rough, and he carries rude arms." all the men smiled, for amongst them they carried a small arsenal. said mr. morris:-"i have brought some winchesters; they are pretty handy in a crowd, and there may be wolves. the count, if you remember, took some other precautions; he made some requisitions on others that mrs. harker could not quite hear or understand. we must be ready at all points." dr. seward said:-"i think i had better go with quincey. we have been accustomed to hunt together, and we two, well armed, will be a match for whatever may come along. you must not be alone, art. it may be necessary to fight the slovaks, and a chance thrust--for i don't suppose these fellows carry guns--would undo all our plans. there must be no chances, this time; we shall, not rest until the count's head and body have been separated, and we are sure that he cannot re-incarnate." he looked at jonathan as he spoke, and jonathan looked at me. i could see that the poor dear was torn about in his mind. of course he wanted to be with me; but then the boat service would, most likely, be the one which would destroy the ... the ... the ... vampire. (why did i hesitate to write the word?) he was silent awhile, and during his silence dr. van helsing spoke:-"friend jonathan, this is to you for twice reasons. first, because you are young and brave and can fight, and all energies may be needed at the last; and again that it is your right to destroy him--that--which has wrought such woe to you and yours. be not afraid for madam mina; she will be my care, if i may. i am old. my legs are not so quick to run as once; and i am not used to ride so long or to pursue as need be, or to fight with lethal weapons. but i can be of other service; i can fight in other way. and i can die, if need be, as well as younger men. now let me say that what i would is this: while you, my lord godalming and friend jonathan go in your so swift little steamboat up the river, and whilst john and quincey guard the bank where perchance he might be landed, i will take madam mina right into the heart of the enemy's country. whilst the old fox is tied in his box, floating on the running stream whence he cannot escape to land--where he dares not raise the lid of his coffin-box lest his slovak carriers should in fear leave him to perish--we shall go in the track where jonathan went,--from bistritz over the borgo, and find our way to the castle of dracula. here, madam mina's hypnotic power will surely help, and we shall find our way--all dark and unknown otherwise--after the first sunrise when we are near that fateful place. there is much to be done, and other places to be made sanctify, so that that nest of vipers be obliterated." here jonathan interrupted him hotly:-"do you mean to say, professor van helsing, that you would bring mina, in her sad case and tainted as she is with that devil's illness, right into the jaws of his death-trap? not for the world! not for heaven or hell!" he became almost speechless for a minute, and then went on:-"do you know what the place is? have you seen that awful den of hellish infamy--with the very moonlight alive with grisly shapes, and every speck of dust that whirls in the wind a devouring monster in embryo? have you felt the vampire's lips upon your throat?" here he turned to me, and as his eyes lit on my forehead he threw up his arms with a cry: "oh, my god, what have we done to have this terror upon us!" and he sank down on the sofa in a collapse of misery. the professor's voice, as he spoke in clear, sweet tones, which seemed to vibrate in the air, calmed us all:-"oh, my friend, it is because i would save madam mina from that awful place that i would go. god forbid that i should take her into that place. there is work--wild work--to be done there, that her eyes may not see. we men here, all save jonathan, have seen with their own eyes what is to be done before that place can be purify. remember that we are in terrible straits. if the count escape us this time--and he is strong and subtle and cunning--he may choose to sleep him for a century, and then in time our dear one"--he took my hand--"would come to him to keep him company, and would be as those others that you, jonathan, saw. you have told us of their gloating lips; you heard their ribald laugh as they clutched the moving bag that the count threw to them. you shudder; and well may it be. forgive me that i make you so much pain, but it is necessary. my friend, is it not a dire need for the which i am giving, possibly my life? if it were that any one went into that place to stay, it is i who would have to go to keep them company." "do as you will," said jonathan, with a sob that shook him all over, "we are in the hands of god!" * * * * * _later._--oh, it did me good to see the way that these brave men worked. how can women help loving men when they are so earnest, and so true, and so brave! and, too, it made me think of the wonderful power of money! what can it not do when it is properly applied; and what might it do when basely used. i felt so thankful that lord godalming is rich, and that both he and mr. morris, who also has plenty of money, are willing to spend it so freely. for if they did not, our little expedition could not start, either so promptly or so well equipped, as it will within another hour. it is not three hours since it was arranged what part each of us was to do; and now lord godalming and jonathan have a lovely steam launch, with steam up ready to start at a moment's notice. dr. seward and mr. morris have half a dozen good horses, well appointed. we have all the maps and appliances of various kinds that can be had. professor van helsing and i are to leave by the 11:40 train to-night for veresti, where we are to get a carriage to drive to the borgo pass. we are bringing a good deal of ready money, as we are to buy a carriage and horses. we shall drive ourselves, for we have no one whom we can trust in the matter. the professor knows something of a great many languages, so we shall get on all right. we have all got arms, even for me a large-bore revolver; jonathan would not be happy unless i was armed like the rest. alas! i cannot carry one arm that the rest do; the scar on my forehead forbids that. dear dr. van helsing comforts me by telling me that i am fully armed as there may be wolves; the weather is getting colder every hour, and there are snow-flurries which come and go as warnings. * * * * * _later._--it took all my courage to say good-bye to my darling. we may never meet again. courage, mina! the professor is looking at you keenly; his look is a warning. there must be no tears now--unless it may be that god will let them fall in gladness. _jonathan harker's journal._ _october 30. night._--i am writing this in the light from the furnace door of the steam launch: lord godalming is firing up. he is an experienced hand at the work, as he has had for years a launch of his own on the thames, and another on the norfolk broads. regarding our plans, we finally decided that mina's guess was correct, and that if any waterway was chosen for the count's escape back to his castle, the sereth and then the bistritza at its junction, would be the one. we took it, that somewhere about the 47th degree, north latitude, would be the place chosen for the crossing the country between the river and the carpathians. we have no fear in running at good speed up the river at night; there is plenty of water, and the banks are wide enough apart to make steaming, even in the dark, easy enough. lord godalming tells me to sleep for a while, as it is enough for the present for one to be on watch. but i cannot sleep--how can i with the terrible danger hanging over my darling, and her going out into that awful place.... my only comfort is that we are in the hands of god. only for that faith it would be easier to die than to live, and so be quit of all the trouble. mr. morris and dr. seward were off on their long ride before we started; they are to keep up the right bank, far enough off to get on higher lands where they can see a good stretch of river and avoid the following of its curves. they have, for the first stages, two men to ride and lead their spare horses--four in all, so as not to excite curiosity. when they dismiss the men, which shall be shortly, they shall themselves look after the horses. it may be necessary for us to join forces; if so they can mount our whole party. one of the saddles has a movable horn, and can be easily adapted for mina, if required. it is a wild adventure we are on. here, as we are rushing along through the darkness, with the cold from the river seeming to rise up and strike us; with all the mysterious voices of the night around us, it all comes home. we seem to be drifting into unknown places and unknown ways; into a whole world of dark and dreadful things. godalming is shutting the furnace door.... * * * * * _31 october._--still hurrying along. the day has come, and godalming is sleeping. i am on watch. the morning is bitterly cold; the furnace heat is grateful, though we have heavy fur coats. as yet we have passed only a few open boats, but none of them had on board any box or package of anything like the size of the one we seek. the men were scared every time we turned our electric lamp on them, and fell on their knees and prayed. * * * * * _1 november, evening._--no news all day; we have found nothing of the kind we seek. we have now passed into the bistritza; and if we are wrong in our surmise our chance is gone. we have over-hauled every boat, big and little. early this morning, one crew took us for a government boat, and treated us accordingly. we saw in this a way of smoothing matters, so at fundu, where the bistritza runs into the sereth, we got a roumanian flag which we now fly conspicuously. with every boat which we have over-hauled since then this trick has succeeded; we have had every deference shown to us, and not once any objection to whatever we chose to ask or do. some of the slovaks tell us that a big boat passed them, going at more than usual speed as she had a double crew on board. this was before they came to fundu, so they could not tell us whether the boat turned into the bistritza or continued on up the sereth. at fundu we could not hear of any such boat, so she must have passed there in the night. i am feeling very sleepy; the cold is perhaps beginning to tell upon me, and nature must have rest some time. godalming insists that he shall keep the first watch. god bless him for all his goodness to poor dear mina and me. * * * * * _2 november, morning._--it is broad daylight. that good fellow would not wake me. he says it would have been a sin to, for i slept peacefully and was forgetting my trouble. it seems brutally selfish to me to have slept so long, and let him watch all night; but he was quite right. i am a new man this morning; and, as i sit here and watch him sleeping, i can do all that is necessary both as to minding the engine, steering, and keeping watch. i can feel that my strength and energy are coming back to me. i wonder where mina is now, and van helsing. they should have got to veresti about noon on wednesday. it would take them some time to get the carriage and horses; so if they had started and travelled hard, they would be about now at the borgo pass. god guide and help them! i am afraid to think what may happen. if we could only go faster! but we cannot; the engines are throbbing and doing their utmost. i wonder how dr. seward and mr. morris are getting on. there seem to be endless streams running down the mountains into this river, but as none of them are very large--at present, at all events, though they are terrible doubtless in winter and when the snow melts--the horsemen may not have met much obstruction. i hope that before we get to strasba we may see them; for if by that time we have not overtaken the count, it may be necessary to take counsel together what to do next. _dr. seward's diary._ _2 november._--three days on the road. no news, and no time to write it if there had been, for every moment is precious. we have had only the rest needful for the horses; but we are both bearing it wonderfully. those adventurous days of ours are turning up useful. we must push on; we shall never feel happy till we get the launch in sight again. * * * * * _3 november._--we heard at fundu that the launch had gone up the bistritza. i wish it wasn't so cold. there are signs of snow coming; and if it falls heavy it will stop us. in such case we must get a sledge and go on, russian fashion. * * * * * _4 november._--to-day we heard of the launch having been detained by an accident when trying to force a way up the rapids. the slovak boats get up all right, by aid of a rope and steering with knowledge. some went up only a few hours before. godalming is an amateur fitter himself, and evidently it was he who put the launch in trim again. finally, they got up the rapids all right, with local help, and are off on the chase afresh. i fear that the boat is not any better for the accident; the peasantry tell us that after she got upon smooth water again, she kept stopping every now and again so long as she was in sight. we must push on harder than ever; our help may be wanted soon. _mina harker's journal._ _31 october._--arrived at veresti at noon. the professor tells me that this morning at dawn he could hardly hypnotise me at all, and that all i could say was: "dark and quiet." he is off now buying a carriage and horses. he says that he will later on try to buy additional horses, so that we may be able to change them on the way. we have something more than 70 miles before us. the country is lovely, and most interesting; if only we were under different conditions, how delightful it would be to see it all. if jonathan and i were driving through it alone what a pleasure it would be. to stop and see people, and learn something of their life, and to fill our minds and memories with all the colour and picturesqueness of the whole wild, beautiful country and the quaint people! but, alas!- * * * * * _later._--dr. van helsing has returned. he has got the carriage and horses; we are to have some dinner, and to start in an hour. the landlady is putting us up a huge basket of provisions; it seems enough for a company of soldiers. the professor encourages her, and whispers to me that it may be a week before we can get any good food again. he has been shopping too, and has sent home such a wonderful lot of fur coats and wraps, and all sorts of warm things. there will not be any chance of our being cold. * * * * * we shall soon be off. i am afraid to think what may happen to us. we are truly in the hands of god. he alone knows what may be, and i pray him, with all the strength of my sad and humble soul, that he will watch over my beloved husband; that whatever may happen, jonathan may know that i loved him and honoured him more than i can say, and that my latest and truest thought will be always for him. chapter xxvii mina harker's journal _1 november._--all day long we have travelled, and at a good speed. the horses seem to know that they are being kindly treated, for they go willingly their full stage at best speed. we have now had so many changes and find the same thing so constantly that we are encouraged to think that the journey will be an easy one. dr. van helsing is laconic; he tells the farmers that he is hurrying to bistritz, and pays them well to make the exchange of horses. we get hot soup, or coffee, or tea; and off we go. it is a lovely country; full of beauties of all imaginable kinds, and the people are brave, and strong, and simple, and seem full of nice qualities. they are _very, very_ superstitious. in the first house where we stopped, when the woman who served us saw the scar on my forehead, she crossed herself and put out two fingers towards me, to keep off the evil eye. i believe they went to the trouble of putting an extra amount of garlic into our food; and i can't abide garlic. ever since then i have taken care not to take off my hat or veil, and so have escaped their suspicions. we are travelling fast, and as we have no driver with us to carry tales, we go ahead of scandal; but i daresay that fear of the evil eye will follow hard behind us all the way. the professor seems tireless; all day he would not take any rest, though he made me sleep for a long spell. at sunset time he hypnotised me, and he says that i answered as usual "darkness, lapping water and creaking wood"; so our enemy is still on the river. i am afraid to think of jonathan, but somehow i have now no fear for him, or for myself. i write this whilst we wait in a farmhouse for the horses to be got ready. dr. van helsing is sleeping, poor dear, he looks very tired and old and grey, but his mouth is set as firmly as a conqueror's; even in his sleep he is instinct with resolution. when we have well started i must make him rest whilst i drive. i shall tell him that we have days before us, and we must not break down when most of all his strength will be needed.... all is ready; we are off shortly. * * * * * _2 november, morning._--i was successful, and we took turns driving all night; now the day is on us, bright though cold. there is a strange heaviness in the air--i say heaviness for want of a better word; i mean that it oppresses us both. it is very cold, and only our warm furs keep us comfortable. at dawn van helsing hypnotised me; he says i answered "darkness, creaking wood and roaring water," so the river is changing as they ascend. i do hope that my darling will not run any chance of danger--more than need be; but we are in god's hands. * * * * * _2 november, night._--all day long driving. the country gets wilder as we go, and the great spurs of the carpathians, which at veresti seemed so far from us and so low on the horizon, now seem to gather round us and tower in front. we both seem in good spirits; i think we make an effort each to cheer the other; in the doing so we cheer ourselves. dr. van helsing says that by morning we shall reach the borgo pass. the houses are very few here now, and the professor says that the last horse we got will have to go on with us, as we may not be able to change. he got two in addition to the two we changed, so that now we have a rude four-in-hand. the dear horses are patient and good, and they give us no trouble. we are not worried with other travellers, and so even i can drive. we shall get to the pass in daylight; we do not want to arrive before. so we take it easy, and have each a long rest in turn. oh, what will to-morrow bring to us? we go to seek the place where my poor darling suffered so much. god grant that we may be guided aright, and that he will deign to watch over my husband and those dear to us both, and who are in such deadly peril. as for me, i am not worthy in his sight. alas! i am unclean to his eyes, and shall be until he may deign to let me stand forth in his sight as one of those who have not incurred his wrath. _memorandum by abraham van helsing._ _4 november._--this to my old and true friend john seward, m.d., of purfleet, london, in case i may not see him. it may explain. it is morning, and i write by a fire which all the night i have kept alive--madam mina aiding me. it is cold, cold; so cold that the grey heavy sky is full of snow, which when it falls will settle for all winter as the ground is hardening to receive it. it seems to have affected madam mina; she has been so heavy of head all day that she was not like herself. she sleeps, and sleeps, and sleeps! she who is usual so alert, have done literally nothing all the day; she even have lost her appetite. she make no entry into her little diary, she who write so faithful at every pause. something whisper to me that all is not well. however, to-night she is more _vif_. her long sleep all day have refresh and restore her, for now she is all sweet and bright as ever. at sunset i try to hypnotise her, but alas! with no effect; the power has grown less and less with each day, and to-night it fail me altogether. well, god's will be done--whatever it may be, and whithersoever it may lead! now to the historical, for as madam mina write not in her stenography, i must, in my cumbrous old fashion, that so each day of us may not go unrecorded. we got to the borgo pass just after sunrise yesterday morning. when i saw the signs of the dawn i got ready for the hypnotism. we stopped our carriage, and got down so that there might be no disturbance. i made a couch with furs, and madam mina, lying down, yield herself as usual, but more slow and more short time than ever, to the hypnotic sleep. as before, came the answer: "darkness and the swirling of water." then she woke, bright and radiant and we go on our way and soon reach the pass. at this time and place, she become all on fire with zeal; some new guiding power be in her manifested, for she point to a road and say:-"this is the way." "how know you it?" i ask. "of course i know it," she answer, and with a pause, add: "have not my jonathan travelled it and wrote of his travel?" at first i think somewhat strange, but soon i see that there be only one such by-road. it is used but little, and very different from the coach road from the bukovina to bistritz, which is more wide and hard, and more of use. so we came down this road; when we meet other ways--not always were we sure that they were roads at all, for they be neglect and light snow have fallen--the horses know and they only. i give rein to them, and they go on so patient. by-and-by we find all the things which jonathan have note in that wonderful diary of him. then we go on for long, long hours and hours. at the first, i tell madam mina to sleep; she try, and she succeed. she sleep all the time; till at the last, i feel myself to suspicious grow, and attempt to wake her. but she sleep on, and i may not wake her though i try. i do not wish to try too hard lest i harm her; for i know that she have suffer much, and sleep at times be all-in-all to her. i think i drowse myself, for all of sudden i feel guilt, as though i have done something; i find myself bolt up, with the reins in my hand, and the good horses go along jog, jog, just as ever. i look down and find madam mina still sleep. it is now not far off sunset time, and over the snow the light of the sun flow in big yellow flood, so that we throw great long shadow on where the mountain rise so steep. for we are going up, and up; and all is oh! so wild and rocky, as though it were the end of the world. then i arouse madam mina. this time she wake with not much trouble, and then i try to put her to hypnotic sleep. but she sleep not, being as though i were not. still i try and try, till all at once i find her and myself in dark; so i look round, and find that the sun have gone down. madam mina laugh, and i turn and look at her. she is now quite awake, and look so well as i never saw her since that night at carfax when we first enter the count's house. i am amaze, and not at ease then; but she is so bright and tender and thoughtful for me that i forget all fear. i light a fire, for we have brought supply of wood with us, and she prepare food while i undo the horses and set them, tethered in shelter, to feed. then when i return to the fire she have my supper ready. i go to help her; but she smile, and tell me that she have eat already--that she was so hungry that she would not wait. i like it not, and i have grave doubts; but i fear to affright her, and so i am silent of it. she help me and i eat alone; and then we wrap in fur and lie beside the fire, and i tell her to sleep while i watch. but presently i forget all of watching; and when i sudden remember that i watch, i find her lying quiet, but awake, and looking at me with so bright eyes. once, twice more the same occur, and i get much sleep till before morning. when i wake i try to hypnotise her; but alas! though she shut her eyes obedient, she may not sleep. the sun rise up, and up, and up; and then sleep come to her too late, but so heavy that she will not wake. i have to lift her up, and place her sleeping in the carriage when i have harnessed the horses and made all ready. madam still sleep, and she look in her sleep more healthy and more redder than before. and i like it not. and i am afraid, afraid, afraid!--i am afraid of all things--even to think but i must go on my way. the stake we play for is life and death, or more than these, and we must not flinch. * * * * * _5 november, morning._--let me be accurate in everything, for though you and i have seen some strange things together, you may at the first think that i, van helsing, am mad--that the many horrors and the so long strain on nerves has at the last turn my brain. all yesterday we travel, ever getting closer to the mountains, and moving into a more and more wild and desert land. there are great, frowning precipices and much falling water, and nature seem to have held sometime her carnival. madam mina still sleep and sleep; and though i did have hunger and appeased it, i could not waken her--even for food. i began to fear that the fatal spell of the place was upon her, tainted as she is with that vampire baptism. "well," said i to myself, "if it be that she sleep all the day, it shall also be that i do not sleep at night." as we travel on the rough road, for a road of an ancient and imperfect kind there was, i held down my head and slept. again i waked with a sense of guilt and of time passed, and found madam mina still sleeping, and the sun low down. but all was indeed changed; the frowning mountains seemed further away, and we were near the top of a steep-rising hill, on summit of which was such a castle as jonathan tell of in his diary. at once i exulted and feared; for now, for good or ill, the end was near. i woke madam mina, and again tried to hypnotise her; but alas! unavailing till too late. then, ere the great dark came upon us--for even after down-sun the heavens reflected the gone sun on the snow, and all was for a time in a great twilight--i took out the horses and fed them in what shelter i could. then i make a fire; and near it i make madam mina, now awake and more charming than ever, sit comfortable amid her rugs. i got ready food: but she would not eat, simply saying that she had not hunger. i did not press her, knowing her unavailingness. but i myself eat, for i must needs now be strong for all. then, with the fear on me of what might be, i drew a ring so big for her comfort, round where madam mina sat; and over the ring i passed some of the wafer, and i broke it fine so that all was well guarded. she sat still all the time--so still as one dead; and she grew whiter and ever whiter till the snow was not more pale; and no word she said. but when i drew near, she clung to me, and i could know that the poor soul shook her from head to feet with a tremor that was pain to feel. i said to her presently, when she had grown more quiet:-"will you not come over to the fire?" for i wished to make a test of what she could. she rose obedient, but when she have made a step she stopped, and stood as one stricken. "why not go on?" i asked. she shook her head, and, coming back, sat down in her place. then, looking at me with open eyes, as of one waked from sleep, she said simply:-"i cannot!" and remained silent. i rejoiced, for i knew that what she could not, none of those that we dreaded could. though there might be danger to her body, yet her soul was safe! presently the horses began to scream, and tore at their tethers till i came to them and quieted them. when they did feel my hands on them, they whinnied low as in joy, and licked at my hands and were quiet for a time. many times through the night did i come to them, till it arrive to the cold hour when all nature is at lowest; and every time my coming was with quiet of them. in the cold hour the fire began to die, and i was about stepping forth to replenish it, for now the snow came in flying sweeps and with it a chill mist. even in the dark there was a light of some kind, as there ever is over snow; and it seemed as though the snow-flurries and the wreaths of mist took shape as of women with trailing garments. all was in dead, grim silence only that the horses whinnied and cowered, as if in terror of the worst. i began to fear--horrible fears; but then came to me the sense of safety in that ring wherein i stood. i began, too, to think that my imaginings were of the night, and the gloom, and the unrest that i have gone through, and all the terrible anxiety. it was as though my memories of all jonathan's horrid experience were befooling me; for the snow flakes and the mist began to wheel and circle round, till i could get as though a shadowy glimpse of those women that would have kissed him. and then the horses cowered lower and lower, and moaned in terror as men do in pain. even the madness of fright was not to them, so that they could break away. i feared for my dear madam mina when these weird figures drew near and circled round. i looked at her, but she sat calm, and smiled at me; when i would have stepped to the fire to replenish it, she caught me and held me back, and whispered, like a voice that one hears in a dream, so low it was:-"no! no! do not go without. here you are safe!" i turned to her, and looking in her eyes, said:-"but you? it is for you that i fear!" whereat she laughed--a laugh, low and unreal, and said:-"fear for _me_! why fear for me? none safer in all the world from them than i am," and as i wondered at the meaning of her words, a puff of wind made the flame leap up, and i see the red scar on her forehead. then, alas! i knew. did i not, i would soon have learned, for the wheeling figures of mist and snow came closer, but keeping ever without the holy circle. then they began to materialise till--if god have not take away my reason, for i saw it through my eyes--there were before me in actual flesh the same three women that jonathan saw in the room, when they would have kissed his throat. i knew the swaying round forms, the bright hard eyes, the white teeth, the ruddy colour, the voluptuous lips. they smiled ever at poor dear madam mina; and as their laugh came through the silence of the night, they twined their arms and pointed to her, and said in those so sweet tingling tones that jonathan said were of the intolerable sweetness of the water-glasses:-"come, sister. come to us. come! come!" in fear i turned to my poor madam mina, and my heart with gladness leapt like flame; for oh! the terror in her sweet eyes, the repulsion, the horror, told a story to my heart that was all of hope. god be thanked she was not, yet, of them. i seized some of the firewood which was by me, and holding out some of the wafer, advanced on them towards the fire. they drew back before me, and laughed their low horrid laugh. i fed the fire, and feared them not; for i knew that we were safe within our protections. they could not approach, me, whilst so armed, nor madam mina whilst she remained within the ring, which she could not leave no more than they could enter. the horses had ceased to moan, and lay still on the ground; the snow fell on them softly, and they grew whiter. i knew that there was for the poor beasts no more of terror. and so we remained till the red of the dawn to fall through the snow-gloom. i was desolate and afraid, and full of woe and terror; but when that beautiful sun began to climb the horizon life was to me again. at the first coming of the dawn the horrid figures melted in the whirling mist and snow; the wreaths of transparent gloom moved away towards the castle, and were lost. instinctively, with the dawn coming, i turned to madam mina, intending to hypnotise her; but she lay in a deep and sudden sleep, from which i could not wake her. i tried to hypnotise through her sleep, but she made no response, none at all; and the day broke. i fear yet to stir. i have made my fire and have seen the horses, they are all dead. to-day i have much to do here, and i keep waiting till the sun is up high; for there may be places where i must go, where that sunlight, though snow and mist obscure it, will be to me a safety. i will strengthen me with breakfast, and then i will to my terrible work. madam mina still sleeps; and, god be thanked! she is calm in her sleep.... _jonathan harker's journal._ _4 november, evening._--the accident to the launch has been a terrible thing for us. only for it we should have overtaken the boat long ago; and by now my dear mina would have been free. i fear to think of her, off on the wolds near that horrid place. we have got horses, and we follow on the track. i note this whilst godalming is getting ready. we have our arms. the szgany must look out if they mean fight. oh, if only morris and seward were with us. we must only hope! if i write no more good-bye, mina! god bless and keep you. _dr. seward's diary._ _5 november._--with the dawn we saw the body of szgany before us dashing away from the river with their leiter-wagon. they surrounded it in a cluster, and hurried along as though beset. the snow is falling lightly and there is a strange excitement in the air. it may be our own feelings, but the depression is strange. far off i hear the howling of wolves; the snow brings them down from the mountains, and there are dangers to all of us, and from all sides. the horses are nearly ready, and we are soon off. we ride to death of some one. god alone knows who, or where, or what, or when, or how it may be.... _dr. van helsing's memorandum._ _5 november, afternoon._--i am at least sane. thank god for that mercy at all events, though the proving it has been dreadful. when i left madam mina sleeping within the holy circle, i took my way to the castle. the blacksmith hammer which i took in the carriage from veresti was useful; though the doors were all open i broke them off the rusty hinges, lest some ill-intent or ill-chance should close them, so that being entered i might not get out. jonathan's bitter experience served me here. by memory of his diary i found my way to the old chapel, for i knew that here my work lay. the air was oppressive; it seemed as if there was some sulphurous fume, which at times made me dizzy. either there was a roaring in my ears or i heard afar off the howl of wolves. then i bethought me of my dear madam mina, and i was in terrible plight. the dilemma had me between his horns. her, i had not dare to take into this place, but left safe from the vampire in that holy circle; and yet even there would be the wolf! i resolve me that my work lay here, and that as to the wolves we must submit, if it were god's will. at any rate it was only death and freedom beyond. so did i choose for her. had it but been for myself the choice had been easy, the maw of the wolf were better to rest in than the grave of the vampire! so i make my choice to go on with my work. i knew that there were at least three graves to find--graves that are inhabit; so i search, and search, and i find one of them. she lay in her vampire sleep, so full of life and voluptuous beauty that i shudder as though i have come to do murder. ah, i doubt not that in old time, when such things were, many a man who set forth to do such a task as mine, found at the last his heart fail him, and then his nerve. so he delay, and delay, and delay, till the mere beauty and the fascination of the wanton un-dead have hypnotise him; and he remain on and on, till sunset come, and the vampire sleep be over. then the beautiful eyes of the fair woman open and look love, and the voluptuous mouth present to a kiss--and man is weak. and there remain one more victim in the vampire fold; one more to swell the grim and grisly ranks of the un-dead!... there is some fascination, surely, when i am moved by the mere presence of such an one, even lying as she lay in a tomb fretted with age and heavy with the dust of centuries, though there be that horrid odour such as the lairs of the count have had. yes, i was moved--i, van helsing, with all my purpose and with my motive for hate--i was moved to a yearning for delay which seemed to paralyse my faculties and to clog my very soul. it may have been that the need of natural sleep, and the strange oppression of the air were beginning to overcome me. certain it was that i was lapsing into sleep, the open-eyed sleep of one who yields to a sweet fascination, when there came through the snow-stilled air a long, low wail, so full of woe and pity that it woke me like the sound of a clarion. for it was the voice of my dear madam mina that i heard. then i braced myself again to my horrid task, and found by wrenching away tomb-tops one other of the sisters, the other dark one. i dared not pause to look on her as i had on her sister, lest once more i should begin to be enthrall; but i go on searching until, presently, i find in a high great tomb as if made to one much beloved that other fair sister which, like jonathan i had seen to gather herself out of the atoms of the mist. she was so fair to look on, so radiantly beautiful, so exquisitely voluptuous, that the very instinct of man in me, which calls some of my sex to love and to protect one of hers, made my head whirl with new emotion. but god be thanked, that soul-wail of my dear madam mina had not died out of my ears; and, before the spell could be wrought further upon me, i had nerved myself to my wild work. by this time i had searched all the tombs in the chapel, so far as i could tell; and as there had been only three of these un-dead phantoms around us in the night, i took it that there were no more of active un-dead existent. there was one great tomb more lordly than all the rest; huge it was, and nobly proportioned. on it was but one word dracula. this then was the un-dead home of the king-vampire, to whom so many more were due. its emptiness spoke eloquent to make certain what i knew. before i began to restore these women to their dead selves through my awful work, i laid in dracula's tomb some of the wafer, and so banished him from it, un-dead, for ever. then began my terrible task, and i dreaded it. had it been but one, it had been easy, comparative. but three! to begin twice more after i had been through a deed of horror; for if it was terrible with the sweet miss lucy, what would it not be with these strange ones who had survived through centuries, and who had been strengthened by the passing of the years; who would, if they could, have fought for their foul lives.... oh, my friend john, but it was butcher work; had i not been nerved by thoughts of other dead, and of the living over whom hung such a pall of fear, i could not have gone on. i tremble and tremble even yet, though till all was over, god be thanked, my nerve did stand. had i not seen the repose in the first place, and the gladness that stole over it just ere the final dissolution came, as realisation that the soul had been won, i could not have gone further with my butchery. i could not have endured the horrid screeching as the stake drove home; the plunging of writhing form, and lips of bloody foam. i should have fled in terror and left my work undone. but it is over! and the poor souls, i can pity them now and weep, as i think of them placid each in her full sleep of death for a short moment ere fading. for, friend john, hardly had my knife severed the head of each, before the whole body began to melt away and crumble in to its native dust, as though the death that should have come centuries agone had at last assert himself and say at once and loud "i am here!" before i left the castle i so fixed its entrances that never more can the count enter there un-dead. when i stepped into the circle where madam mina slept, she woke from her sleep, and, seeing, me, cried out in pain that i had endured too much. "come!" she said, "come away from this awful place! let us go to meet my husband who is, i know, coming towards us." she was looking thin and pale and weak; but her eyes were pure and glowed with fervour. i was glad to see her paleness and her illness, for my mind was full of the fresh horror of that ruddy vampire sleep. and so with trust and hope, and yet full of fear, we go eastward to meet our friends--and _him_--whom madam mina tell me that she _know_ are coming to meet us. _mina harker's journal._ _6 november._--it was late in the afternoon when the professor and i took our way towards the east whence i knew jonathan was coming. we did not go fast, though the way was steeply downhill, for we had to take heavy rugs and wraps with us; we dared not face the possibility of being left without warmth in the cold and the snow. we had to take some of our provisions, too, for we were in a perfect desolation, and, so far as we could see through the snowfall, there was not even the sign of habitation. when we had gone about a mile, i was tired with the heavy walking and sat down to rest. then we looked back and saw where the clear line of dracula's castle cut the sky; for we were so deep under the hill whereon it was set that the angle of perspective of the carpathian mountains was far below it. we saw it in all its grandeur, perched a thousand feet on the summit of a sheer precipice, and with seemingly a great gap between it and the steep of the adjacent mountain on any side. there was something wild and uncanny about the place. we could hear the distant howling of wolves. they were far off, but the sound, even though coming muffled through the deadening snowfall, was full of terror. i knew from the way dr. van helsing was searching about that he was trying to seek some strategic point, where we would be less exposed in case of attack. the rough roadway still led downwards; we could trace it through the drifted snow. in a little while the professor signalled to me, so i got up and joined him. he had found a wonderful spot, a sort of natural hollow in a rock, with an entrance like a doorway between two boulders. he took me by the hand and drew me in: "see!" he said, "here you will be in shelter; and if the wolves do come i can meet them one by one." he brought in our furs, and made a snug nest for me, and got out some provisions and forced them upon me. but i could not eat; to even try to do so was repulsive to me, and, much as i would have liked to please him, i could not bring myself to the attempt. he looked very sad, but did not reproach me. taking his field-glasses from the case, he stood on the top of the rock, and began to search the horizon. suddenly he called out:-"look! madam mina, look! look!" i sprang up and stood beside him on the rock; he handed me his glasses and pointed. the snow was now falling more heavily, and swirled about fiercely, for a high wind was beginning to blow. however, there were times when there were pauses between the snow flurries and i could see a long way round. from the height where we were it was possible to see a great distance; and far off, beyond the white waste of snow, i could see the river lying like a black ribbon in kinks and curls as it wound its way. straight in front of us and not far off--in fact, so near that i wondered we had not noticed before--came a group of mounted men hurrying along. in the midst of them was a cart, a long leiter-wagon which swept from side to side, like a dog's tail wagging, with each stern inequality of the road. outlined against the snow as they were, i could see from the men's clothes that they were peasants or gypsies of some kind. on the cart was a great square chest. my heart leaped as i saw it, for i felt that the end was coming. the evening was now drawing close, and well i knew that at sunset the thing, which was till then imprisoned there, would take new freedom and could in any of many forms elude all pursuit. in fear i turned to the professor; to my consternation, however, he was not there. an instant later, i saw him below me. round the rock he had drawn a circle, such as we had found shelter in last night. when he had completed it he stood beside me again, saying:-"at least you shall be safe here from _him_!" he took the glasses from me, and at the next lull of the snow swept the whole space below us. "see," he said, "they come quickly; they are flogging the horses, and galloping as hard as they can." he paused and went on in a hollow voice:-"they are racing for the sunset. we may be too late. god's will be done!" down came another blinding rush of driving snow, and the whole landscape was blotted out. it soon passed, however, and once more his glasses were fixed on the plain. then came a sudden cry:-"look! look! look! see, two horsemen follow fast, coming up from the south. it must be quincey and john. take the glass. look before the snow blots it all out!" i took it and looked. the two men might be dr. seward and mr. morris. i knew at all events that neither of them was jonathan. at the same time i _knew_ that jonathan was not far off; looking around i saw on the north side of the coming party two other men, riding at break-neck speed. one of them i knew was jonathan, and the other i took, of course, to be lord godalming. they, too, were pursuing the party with the cart. when i told the professor he shouted in glee like a schoolboy, and, after looking intently till a snow fall made sight impossible, he laid his winchester rifle ready for use against the boulder at the opening of our shelter. "they are all converging," he said. "when the time comes we shall have gypsies on all sides." i got out my revolver ready to hand, for whilst we were speaking the howling of wolves came louder and closer. when the snow storm abated a moment we looked again. it was strange to see the snow falling in such heavy flakes close to us, and beyond, the sun shining more and more brightly as it sank down towards the far mountain tops. sweeping the glass all around us i could see here and there dots moving singly and in twos and threes and larger numbers--the wolves were gathering for their prey. every instant seemed an age whilst we waited. the wind came now in fierce bursts, and the snow was driven with fury as it swept upon us in circling eddies. at times we could not see an arm's length before us; but at others, as the hollow-sounding wind swept by us, it seemed to clear the air-space around us so that we could see afar off. we had of late been so accustomed to watch for sunrise and sunset, that we knew with fair accuracy when it would be; and we knew that before long the sun would set. it was hard to believe that by our watches it was less than an hour that we waited in that rocky shelter before the various bodies began to converge close upon us. the wind came now with fiercer and more bitter sweeps, and more steadily from the north. it seemingly had driven the snow clouds from us, for, with only occasional bursts, the snow fell. we could distinguish clearly the individuals of each party, the pursued and the pursuers. strangely enough those pursued did not seem to realise, or at least to care, that they were pursued; they seemed, however, to hasten with redoubled speed as the sun dropped lower and lower on the mountain tops. closer and closer they drew. the professor and i crouched down behind our rock, and held our weapons ready; i could see that he was determined that they should not pass. one and all were quite unaware of our presence. all at once two voices shouted out to: "halt!" one was my jonathan's, raised in a high key of passion; the other mr. morris' strong resolute tone of quiet command. the gypsies may not have known the language, but there was no mistaking the tone, in whatever tongue the words were spoken. instinctively they reined in, and at the instant lord godalming and jonathan dashed up at one side and dr. seward and mr. morris on the other. the leader of the gypsies, a splendid-looking fellow who sat his horse like a centaur, waved them back, and in a fierce voice gave to his companions some word to proceed. they lashed the horses which sprang forward; but the four men raised their winchester rifles, and in an unmistakable way commanded them to stop. at the same moment dr. van helsing and i rose behind the rock and pointed our weapons at them. seeing that they were surrounded the men tightened their reins and drew up. the leader turned to them and gave a word at which every man of the gypsy party drew what weapon he carried, knife or pistol, and held himself in readiness to attack. issue was joined in an instant. the leader, with a quick movement of his rein, threw his horse out in front, and pointing first to the sun--now close down on the hill tops--and then to the castle, said something which i did not understand. for answer, all four men of our party threw themselves from their horses and dashed towards the cart. i should have felt terrible fear at seeing jonathan in such danger, but that the ardour of battle must have been upon me as well as the rest of them; i felt no fear, but only a wild, surging desire to do something. seeing the quick movement of our parties, the leader of the gypsies gave a command; his men instantly formed round the cart in a sort of undisciplined endeavour, each one shouldering and pushing the other in his eagerness to carry out the order. in the midst of this i could see that jonathan on one side of the ring of men, and quincey on the other, were forcing a way to the cart; it was evident that they were bent on finishing their task before the sun should set. nothing seemed to stop or even to hinder them. neither the levelled weapons nor the flashing knives of the gypsies in front, nor the howling of the wolves behind, appeared to even attract their attention. jonathan's impetuosity, and the manifest singleness of his purpose, seemed to overawe those in front of him; instinctively they cowered, aside and let him pass. in an instant he had jumped upon the cart, and, with a strength which seemed incredible, raised the great box, and flung it over the wheel to the ground. in the meantime, mr. morris had had to use force to pass through his side of the ring of szgany. all the time i had been breathlessly watching jonathan i had, with the tail of my eye, seen him pressing desperately forward, and had seen the knives of the gypsies flash as he won a way through them, and they cut at him. he had parried with his great bowie knife, and at first i thought that he too had come through in safety; but as he sprang beside jonathan, who had by now jumped from the cart, i could see that with his left hand he was clutching at his side, and that the blood was spurting through his fingers. he did not delay notwithstanding this, for as jonathan, with desperate energy, attacked one end of the chest, attempting to prize off the lid with his great kukri knife, he attacked the other frantically with his bowie. under the efforts of both men the lid began to yield; the nails drew with a quick screeching sound, and the top of the box was thrown back. by this time the gypsies, seeing themselves covered by the winchesters, and at the mercy of lord godalming and dr. seward, had given in and made no resistance. the sun was almost down on the mountain tops, and the shadows of the whole group fell long upon the snow. i saw the count lying within the box upon the earth, some of which the rude falling from the cart had scattered over him. he was deathly pale, just like a waxen image, and the red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which i knew too well. as i looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them turned to triumph. but, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of jonathan's great knife. i shrieked as i saw it shear through the throat; whilst at the same moment mr. morris's bowie knife plunged into the heart. it was like a miracle; but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumble into dust and passed from our sight. i shall be glad as long as i live that even in that moment of final dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as i never could have imagined might have rested there. the castle of dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone of its broken battlements was articulated against the light of the setting sun. the gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the extraordinary disappearance of the dead man, turned, without a word, and rode away as if for their lives. those who were unmounted jumped upon the leiter-wagon and shouted to the horsemen not to desert them. the wolves, which had withdrawn to a safe distance, followed in their wake, leaving us alone. mr. morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his elbow, holding his hand pressed to his side; the blood still gushed through his fingers. i flew to him, for the holy circle did not now keep me back; so did the two doctors. jonathan knelt behind him and the wounded man laid back his head on his shoulder. with a sigh he took, with a feeble effort, my hand in that of his own which was unstained. he must have seen the anguish of my heart in my face, for he smiled at me and said:-"i am only too happy to have been of any service! oh, god!" he cried suddenly, struggling up to a sitting posture and pointing to me, "it was worth for this to die! look! look!" the sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams fell upon my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light. with one impulse the men sank on their knees and a deep and earnest "amen" broke from all as their eyes followed the pointing of his finger. the dying man spoke:-"now god be thanked that all has not been in vain! see! the snow is not more stainless than her forehead! the curse has passed away!" and, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a gallant gentleman. note seven years ago we all went through the flames; and the happiness of some of us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured. it is an added joy to mina and to me that our boy's birthday is the same day as that on which quincey morris died. his mother holds, i know, the secret belief that some of our brave friend's spirit has passed into him. his bundle of names links all our little band of men together; but we call him quincey. in the summer of this year we made a journey to transylvania, and went over the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and terrible memories. it was almost impossible to believe that the things which we had seen with our own eyes and heard with our own ears were living truths. every trace of all that had been was blotted out. the castle stood as before, reared high above a waste of desolation. when we got home we were talking of the old time--which we could all look back on without despair, for godalming and seward are both happily married. i took the papers from the safe where they had been ever since our return so long ago. we were struck with the fact, that in all the mass of material of which the record is composed, there is hardly one authentic document; nothing but a mass of typewriting, except the later note-books of mina and seward and myself, and van helsing's memorandum. we could hardly ask any one, even did we wish to, to accept these as proofs of so wild a story. van helsing summed it all up as he said, with our boy on his knee:-"we want no proofs; we ask none to believe us! this boy will some day know what a brave and gallant woman his mother is. already he knows her sweetness and loving care; later on he will understand how some men so loved her, that they did dare much for her sake." jonathan harker. the end * * * * * _there's more to follow!_ more stories of the sort you like; more, probably, by the author of this one; more than 500 titles all told by writers of world-wide reputation, in the authors' alphabetical list which you will find on the _reverse side_ of the wrapper of this book. look it over before you lay it aside. there are books here you are sure to want--some, possibly, that you have _always_ wanted. it is a _selected_ list; every book in it has achieved a certain measure of _success_. the grosset & dunlap list is not only the greatest index of good fiction available, it represents in addition a generally accepted standard of value. it will pay you to _look on the other side of the wrapper!_ _in case the wrapper is lost write to the publishers for a complete catalog_ * * * * * detective stories by j. s. fletcher may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list the secret of the barbican the annexation society the wolves and the lamb green ink the king versus wargrave the lost mr. linthwaite the mill of many windows the heaven-kissed hill the middle temple murder ravensdene court the rayner-slade amalgamation the safety pin the secret way the valley of headstrong men _ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction_ grosset & dunlap, _publishers_, new york * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: in a very simply way=> in a very simple way {pg 68} "the westminister gazette," 25 september.=> "the westminster gazette," 25 september. {pg 165} it have told him=> she must have told him {pg 169} from md sight=> from my sight {pg}184 goldaming=> godalming {pg 226} i i did not want to hinder him=> i did not want to hinder him {pg 267} they lay in a sort of or-orderly=> they lay in a sort of orderly {pg 279} translyvania=> transylvania {pg 294} this mrrning from dardanelles=> this morning from dardanelles {pg 313} [transcriber's note: this book was originally published in "penny dreadful" form. this edition does not include the entire 109 episodes, which were published in three volumes. authorship has also been ascribed to james malcolm rymer. the table of contents was added by the transcriber.] [illustration: no. 1.) nos. 2, 3 and 4 are presented, gratis, with this no. |price 1d. varney the vampire or the feast of blood a romance of exciting interest by the author of "grace rivers, or, the merchant's daughter." london e. lloyd, salisbury square, and all booksellers] varney, the vampyre: or, the feast of blood. a romance. "art thou a spirit of health or goblin damned?" london: printed and published by e. lloyd, 12, salisbury-square, fleet-street. contents chapter i.--midnight.--the hail-storm.--the dreadful visitor.--the vampyre. chapter ii.--the alarm.--the pistol shot.--the pursuit and its consequences. chapter iii.--the disappearance of the body.--flora's recovery and madness.--the offer of assistance from sir francis varney. chapter iv.--the morning.--the consultation.--the fearful suggestion. chapter v.--the night watch.--the proposal.--the moonlight.--the fearful adventure. chapter vi.--a glance at the bannerworth family.--the probable consequences of the mysterious apparition's appearance. chapter vii.--the visit to the vault of the bannerworths, and its unpleasant result.--the mystery. chapter viii.--the coffin.--the absence of the dead.--the mysterious circumstance, and the consternation of george. chapter ix.--the occurrences of the night at the hall.--the second appearance of the vampyre, and the pistol-shot. chapter x.--the return from the vault.--the alarm, and the search around the hall. chapter xi.--the communications to the lover.--the heart's despair. chapter xii.--charles holland's sad feelings.--the portrait.--the occurrence of the night at the hall. chapter xiii.--the offer for the hall.--the visit to sir francis varney.--the strange resemblance.--a dreadful suggestion. chapter xiv.--henry's agreement with sir francis varney.--the sudden arrival at the hall.--flora's alarm. chapter xv.--the old admiral and his servant.--the communication from the landlord of the nelson's arms. chapter xvi.--the meeting of the lovers in the garden.--an affecting scene.--the sudden appearance of sir francis varney. chapter xvii.--the explanation.--the arrival of the admiral at the house.--a scene of confusion, and some of its results. chapter xviii.--the admiral's advice.--the challenge to the vampyre.--the new servant at the hall. chapter xix.--flora in her chamber.--her fears.--the manuscript.--an adventure. chapter xx.--the dreadful mistake.--the terrific interview in the chamber.--the attack of the vampyre. chapter xxi.--the conference between the uncle and nephew, and the alarm. chapter xxii.--the consultation.--the determination to leave the hall. chapter xxiii.--the admiral's advice to charles holland.--the challenge to the vampyre. chapter xxiv.--the letter to charles.--the quarrel.--the admiral's narrative.--the midnight meeting. chapter xxv.--the admiral's opinion.--the request of charles. chapter xxvi.--the meeting by moonlight in the park.--the turret window in the hall.--the letters. chapter xxvii.--the noble confidence of flora bannerworth in her lover.--her opinion of the three letters.--the admiral's admiration. chapter xxviii.--mr. marchdale's exculpation of himself.--the search through the gardens.--the spot of the deadly struggle.--the mysterious paper. chapter xxix.--a peep through an iron grating.--the lonely prisoner in his dungeon.--the mystery. chapter xxx.--the visit of flora to the vampyre.--the offer.--the solemn asseveration. chapter xxxi.--sir francis varney and his mysterious visitor.--the strange conference. chapter xxxii.--the thousand pounds.--the stranger's precautions. chapter xxxiii.--the strange interview.--the chase through the hall. chapter xxxiv.--the threat.--its consequences.--the rescue, and sir francis varney's danger. chapter xxxv.--the explanation.--marchdale's advice.--the projected removal, and the admiral's anger. chapter xxxvi.--the consultation.--the duel and its results. chapter xxxvii.--sir francis varney's separate opponents.--the interposition of flora. chapter xxxviii.--marchdale's offer.--the consultation at bannerworth hall.--the morning of the duel. chapter xxxix.--the storm and the fight.-the admiral's repudiation of his principal. chapter xl.--the popular riot.--sir francis varney's danger.--the suggestion and its results. chapter xliv.--varney's danger, and his rescue.--the prisoner again, and the subterranean vault. chapter xlv.--the open graves.--the dead bodies.--a scene of terror. chapter xlvi.--the preparations for leaving bannerworth hall, and the mysterious conduct of the admiral and mr. chillingworth. chapter xlvii.--the removal from the hall.--the night watch, and the alarm. chapter xlviii--the stake and the dead body. chapter xlix--the mob's arrival at sir francis varney's.--the attempt to gain admission. chapter l.--the mob's arrival at sir francis varney's.--the attempt to gain admission. chapter li.--the attack upon the vampyre's house.--the story of the attack.--the forcing of the doors, and the struggle. chapter lii.--the interview between the mob and sir francis varney.--the mysterious disappearance.--the wine cellars. chapter liii.--the destruction of sir francis varney's house by fire.--the arrival of the military, and a second mob. chapter liv.--the burning of varney's house.--a night scene.--popular superstition. chapter lv.--the return of the mob and military to the town.--the madness of the mob.--the grocer's revenge. chapter lvi.--the departure of the bannerworths from the hall.--the new abode.--jack pringle, pilot. chapter lvii.--the lonely watch, and the adventure in the deserted house. chapter lviii.--the arrival of jack pringle.--midnight and the vampyre.--the mysterious hat. chapter lix.--the warning.--the new plan of operation.--the insulting message from varney. chapter lx.--the interrupted breakfast at sir francis varney's. chapter lxi.--the mysterious stranger.--the particulars of the suicide at bannerworth hall. chapter lxii.--the mysterious meeting in the ruin again.--the vampyre's attack upon the constable. chapter lxiii.--the guests at the inn, and the story of the dead uncle. chapter lxiv.--the vampire in the moonlight.--the false friend. chapter lxv.--varney's visit to the dungeon of the lonely prisoner in the ruins. chapter lxvi.--flora bannerworth's apparent inconsistency.--the admiral's circumstances and advice.--mr. chillingworth's mysterious absence. chapter lxvii.--the admiral's story of the beautiful belinda. chapter lxviii.--marchdale's attempted villany, and the result. chapter lxix.--flora bannerworth and her mother.--the episode of chivalry. chapter lxx.--the funeral of the stranger of the inn.--the popular commotion, and mrs. chillingworth's appeal to the mob.--the new riot.--the hall in danger. chapter lxxi.--the strange meeting at the hall between mr. chillingworth and the mysterious friend of varney. chapter lxxii.--the strange story.--the arrival of the mob at the hall, and their dispersion. chapter lxxiii.--the visit of the vampire.--the general meeting. chapter lxxiv.--the meeting of charles and flora. chapter lxxv.--mutual explanations, and the visit to the ruins. chapter lxxvi.--the second night-watch of mr. chillingworth at the hall. chapter lxxvii.--varney in the garden.--the communication of dr. chillingworth to the admiral and henry. chapter lxxviii.--the altercation between varney and the executioner in the hall.--the mutual agreement. chapter lxxix.--the vampyre's danger.--the last refuge.--the ruse of henry bannerworth. chapter lxxx.--the discovery of the body of marchdale in the ruins by the mob.--the burning of the corpse.--the murder of the hangman. chapter lxxxi.--the vampyre's flight.--his danger, and the last place of refuge. chapter lxxxii.--charles holland's pursuit of the vampyre.--the dangerous interview. chapter lxxxiii.--the mysterious arrival at the inn.--the hungarian nobleman.--the letter to varney. chapter lxxxiv.--the excited populace.--varney hunted.--the place of refuge. chapter lxxxv.--the hungarian nobleman gets into danger.--he is fired at, and shows some of his quality. chapter lxxxvi.--the discovery of the pocket book of marmaduke bannerworth.--its mysterious contents. chapter lxxxvii.--the hunt for varney.--the house-tops.--the miraculous escape.--the last place of refuge.--the cottage. chapter lxxxviii.--the reception of the vampyre by flora.--varney subdued. chapter lxxxix.--tells what became of the second vampyre who sought varney. chapter xc.--dr. chillingworth at the hall.--the encounter of mystery.--the conflict.--the rescue, and the picture. chapter xci.--the grand consultation broken up by mrs. chillingworth, and the disappearance of varney. chapter xcii.--the misadventure of the doctor with the picture. chapter xciii.--the alarm at anderbury.--the suspicions of the bannerworth family, and the mysterious communication. chapter xciv.--the visitor, and the death in the subterranean passage. chapter xcv.--the marriage in the bannerworth family arranged. chapter xcvi.--the baron takes anderbury house, and decides upon giving a grand entertainment. preface the unprecedented success of the romance of "varney the vampyre," leaves the author but little to say further, than that he accepts that success and its results as gratefully as it is possible for any one to do popular favours. a belief in the existence of vampyres first took its rise in norway and sweden, from whence it rapidly spread to more southern regions, taking a firm hold of the imaginations of the more credulous portion of mankind. the following romance is collected from seemingly the most authentic sources, and the author must leave the question of credibility entirely to his readers, not even thinking that he is peculiarly called upon to express his own opinion upon the subject. nothing has been omitted in the life of the unhappy varney, which could tend to throw a light upon his most extraordinary career, and the fact of his death just as it is here related, made a great noise at the time through europe and is to be found in the public prints for the year 1713. with these few observations, the author and publisher, are well content to leave the work in the hands of a public, which has stamped it with an approbation far exceeding their most sanguine expectations, and which is calculated to act as the strongest possible incentive to the production of other works, which in a like, or perchance a still further degree may be deserving of public patronage and support. to the whole of the metropolitan press for their laudatory notices, the author is peculiarly obliged. _london sep. 1847_ varney, the vampyre; or the feast of blood a romance chapter i. ----"how graves give up their dead. and how the night air hideous grows with shrieks!" midnight.--the hail-storm.--the dreadful visitor.--the vampyre. [illustration] the solemn tones of an old cathedral clock have announced midnight--the air is thick and heavy--a strange, death like stillness pervades all nature. like the ominous calm which precedes some more than usually terrific outbreak of the elements, they seem to have paused even in their ordinary fluctuations, to gather a terrific strength for the great effort. a faint peal of thunder now comes from far off. like a signal gun for the battle of the winds to begin, it appeared to awaken them from their lethargy, and one awful, warring hurricane swept over a whole city, producing more devastation in the four or five minutes it lasted, than would a half century of ordinary phenomena. it was as if some giant had blown upon some toy town, and scattered many of the buildings before the hot blast of his terrific breath; for as suddenly as that blast of wind had come did it cease, and all was as still and calm as before. sleepers awakened, and thought that what they had heard must be the confused chimera of a dream. they trembled and turned to sleep again. all is still--still as the very grave. not a sound breaks the magic of repose. what is that--a strange, pattering noise, as of a million of fairy feet? it is hail--yes, a hail-storm has burst over the city. leaves are dashed from the trees, mingled with small boughs; windows that lie most opposed to the direct fury of the pelting particles of ice are broken, and the rapt repose that before was so remarkable in its intensity, is exchanged for a noise which, in its accumulation, drowns every cry of surprise or consternation which here and there arose from persons who found their houses invaded by the storm. now and then, too, there would come a sudden gust of wind that in its strength, as it blew laterally, would, for a moment, hold millions of the hailstones suspended in mid air, but it was only to dash them with redoubled force in some new direction, where more mischief was to be done. oh, how the storm raged! hail--rain--wind. it was, in very truth, an awful night. * * * * * there is an antique chamber in an ancient house. curious and quaint carvings adorn the walls, and the large chimney-piece is a curiosity of itself. the ceiling is low, and a large bay window, from roof to floor, looks to the west. the window is latticed, and filled with curiously painted glass and rich stained pieces, which send in a strange, yet beautiful light, when sun or moon shines into the apartment. there is but one portrait in that room, although the walls seem panelled for the express purpose of containing a series of pictures. that portrait is of a young man, with a pale face, a stately brow, and a strange expression about the eyes, which no one cared to look on twice. there is a stately bed in that chamber, of carved walnut-wood is it made, rich in design and elaborate in execution; one of those works of art which owe their existence to the elizabethan era. it is hung with heavy silken and damask furnishing; nodding feathers are at its corners--covered with dust are they, and they lend a funereal aspect to the room. the floor is of polished oak. god! how the hail dashes on the old bay window! like an occasional discharge of mimic musketry, it comes clashing, beating, and cracking upon the small panes; but they resist it--their small size saves them; the wind, the hail, the rain, expend their fury in vain. the bed in that old chamber is occupied. a creature formed in all fashions of loveliness lies in a half sleep upon that ancient couch--a girl young and beautiful as a spring morning. her long hair has escaped from its confinement and streams over the blackened coverings of the bedstead; she has been restless in her sleep, for the clothing of the bed is in much confusion. one arm is over her head, the other hangs nearly off the side of the bed near to which she lies. a neck and bosom that would have formed a study for the rarest sculptor that ever providence gave genius to, were half disclosed. she moaned slightly in her sleep, and once or twice the lips moved as if in prayer--at least one might judge so, for the name of him who suffered for all came once faintly from them. she has endured much fatigue, and the storm does not awaken her; but it can disturb the slumbers it does not possess the power to destroy entirely. the turmoil of the elements wakes the senses, although it cannot entirely break the repose they have lapsed into. oh, what a world of witchery was in that mouth, slightly parted, and exhibiting within the pearly teeth that glistened even in the faint light that came from that bay window. how sweetly the long silken eyelashes lay upon the cheek. now she moves, and one shoulder is entirely visible--whiter, fairer than the spotless clothing of the bed on which she lies, is the smooth skin of that fair creature, just budding into womanhood, and in that transition state which presents to us all the charms of the girl--almost of the child, with the more matured beauty and gentleness of advancing years. was that lightning? yes--an awful, vivid, terrifying flash--then a roaring peal of thunder, as if a thousand mountains were rolling one over the other in the blue vault of heaven! who sleeps now in that ancient city? not one living soul. the dread trumpet of eternity could not more effectually have awakened any one. the hail continues. the wind continues. the uproar of the elements seems at its height. now she awakens--that beautiful girl on the antique bed; she opens those eyes of celestial blue, and a faint cry of alarm bursts from her lips. at least it is a cry which, amid the noise and turmoil without, sounds but faint and weak. she sits upon the bed and presses her hands upon her eyes. heavens! what a wild torrent of wind, and rain, and hail! the thunder likewise seems intent upon awakening sufficient echoes to last until the next flash of forked lightning should again produce the wild concussion of the air. she murmurs a prayer--a prayer for those she loves best; the names of those dear to her gentle heart come from her lips; she weeps and prays; she thinks then of what devastation the storm must surely produce, and to the great god of heaven she prays for all living things. another flash--a wild, blue, bewildering flash of lightning streams across that bay window, for an instant bringing out every colour in it with terrible distinctness. a shriek bursts from the lips of the young girl, and then, with eyes fixed upon that window, which, in another moment, is all darkness, and with such an expression of terror upon her face as it had never before known, she trembled, and the perspiration of intense fear stood upon her brow. "what--what was it?" she gasped; "real, or a delusion? oh, god, what was it? a figure tall and gaunt, endeavouring from the outside to unclasp the window. i saw it. that flash of lightning revealed it to me. it stood the whole length of the window." there was a lull of the wind. the hail was not falling so thickly--moreover, it now fell, what there was of it, straight, and yet a strange clattering sound came upon the glass of that long window. it could not be a delusion--she is awake, and she hears it. what can produce it? another flash of lightning--another shriek--there could be now no delusion. a tall figure is standing on the ledge immediately outside the long window. it is its finger-nails upon the glass that produces the sound so like the hail, now that the hail has ceased. intense fear paralysed the limbs of that beautiful girl. that one shriek is all she can utter--with hands clasped, a face of marble, a heart beating so wildly in her bosom, that each moment it seems as if it would break its confines, eyes distended and fixed upon the window, she waits, froze with horror. the pattering and clattering of the nails continue. no word is spoken, and now she fancies she can trace the darker form of that figure against the window, and she can see the long arms moving to and fro, feeling for some mode of entrance. what strange light is that which now gradually creeps up into the air? red and terrible--brighter and brighter it grows. the lightning has set fire to a mill, and the reflection of the rapidly consuming building falls upon that long window. there can be no mistake. the figure is there, still feeling for an entrance, and clattering against the glass with its long nails, that appear as if the growth of many years had been untouched. she tries to scream again but a choking sensation comes over her, and she cannot. it is too dreadful--she tries to move--each limb seems weighed down by tons of lead--she can but in a hoarse faint whisper cry,-"help--help--help--help!" and that one word she repeats like a person in a dream. the red glare of the fire continues. it throws up the tall gaunt figure in hideous relief against the long window. it shows, too, upon the one portrait that is in the chamber, and that portrait appears to fix its eyes upon the attempting intruder, while the flickering light from the fire makes it look fearfully life-like. a small pane of glass is broken, and the form from without introduces a long gaunt hand, which seems utterly destitute of flesh. the fastening is removed, and one-half of the window, which opens like folding doors, is swung wide open upon its hinges. and yet now she could not scream--she could not move. "help!--help!--help!" was all she could say. but, oh, that look of terror that sat upon her face, it was dreadful--a look to haunt the memory for a lifetime--a look to obtrude itself upon the happiest moments, and turn them to bitterness. the figure turns half round, and the light falls upon the face. it is perfectly white--perfectly bloodless. the eyes look like polished tin; the lips are drawn back, and the principal feature next to those dreadful eyes is the teeth--the fearful looking teeth--projecting like those of some wild animal, hideously, glaringly white, and fang-like. it approaches the bed with a strange, gliding movement. it clashes together the long nails that literally appear to hang from the finger ends. no sound comes from its lips. is she going mad--that young and beautiful girl exposed to so much terror? she has drawn up all her limbs; she cannot even now say help. the power of articulation is gone, but the power of movement has returned to her; she can draw herself slowly along to the other side of the bed from that towards which the hideous appearance is coming. but her eyes are fascinated. the glance of a serpent could not have produced a greater effect upon her than did the fixed gaze of those awful, metallic-looking eyes that were bent on her face. crouching down so that the gigantic height was lost, and the horrible, protruding, white face was the most prominent object, came on the figure. what was it?--what did it want there?--what made it look so hideous--so unlike an inhabitant of the earth, and yet to be on it? now she has got to the verge of the bed, and the figure pauses. it seemed as if when it paused she lost the power to proceed. the clothing of the bed was now clutched in her hands with unconscious power. she drew her breath short and thick. her bosom heaves, and her limbs tremble, yet she cannot withdraw her eyes from that marble-looking face. he holds her with his glittering eye. the storm has ceased--all is still. the winds are hushed; the church clock proclaims the hour of one: a hissing sound comes from the throat of the hideous being, and he raises his long, gaunt arms--the lips move. he advances. the girl places one small foot from the bed on to the floor. she is unconsciously dragging the clothing with her. the door of the room is in that direction--can she reach it? has she power to walk?--can she withdraw her eyes from the face of the intruder, and so break the hideous charm? god of heaven! is it real, or some dream so like reality as to nearly overturn the judgment for ever? the figure has paused again, and half on the bed and half out of it that young girl lies trembling. her long hair streams across the entire width of the bed. as she has slowly moved along she has left it streaming across the pillows. the pause lasted about a minute--oh, what an age of agony. that minute was, indeed, enough for madness to do its full work in. with a sudden rush that could not be foreseen--with a strange howling cry that was enough to awaken terror in every breast, the figure seized the long tresses of her hair, and twining them round his bony hands he held her to the bed. then she screamed--heaven granted her then power to scream. shriek followed shriek in rapid succession. the bed-clothes fell in a heap by the side of the bed--she was dragged by her long silken hair completely on to it again. her beautifully rounded limbs quivered with the agony of her soul. the glassy, horrible eyes of the figure ran over that angelic form with a hideous satisfaction--horrible profanation. he drags her head to the bed's edge. he forces it back by the long hair still entwined in his grasp. with a plunge he seizes her neck in his fang-like teeth--a gush of blood, and a hideous sucking noise follows. _the girl has swooned, and the vampyre is at his hideous repast!_ chapter ii. the alarm.--the pistol shot.--the pursuit and its consequences. [illustration] lights flashed about the building, and various room doors opened; voices called one to the other. there was an universal stir and commotion among the inhabitants. "did you hear a scream, harry?" asked a young man, half-dressed, as he walked into the chamber of another about his own age. "i did--where was it?" "god knows. i dressed myself directly." "all is still now." "yes; but unless i was dreaming there was a scream." "we could not both dream there was. where did you think it came from?" "it burst so suddenly upon my ears that i cannot say." there was a tap now at the door of the room where these young men were, and a female voice said,-"for god's sake, get up!" "we are up," said both the young men, appearing. "did you hear anything?" "yes, a scream." "oh, search the house--search the house; where did it come from--can you tell?" "indeed we cannot, mother." another person now joined the party. he was a man of middle age, and, as he came up to them, he said,-"good god! what is the matter?" scarcely had the words passed his lips, than such a rapid succession of shrieks came upon their ears, that they felt absolutely stunned by them. the elderly lady, whom one of the young men had called mother, fainted, and would have fallen to the floor of the corridor in which they all stood, had she not been promptly supported by the last comer, who himself staggered, as those piercing cries came upon the night air. he, however, was the first to recover, for the young men seemed paralysed. "henry," he cried, "for god's sake support your mother. can you doubt that these cries come from flora's room?" the young man mechanically supported his mother, and then the man who had just spoken darted back to his own bed-room, from whence he returned in a moment with a pair of pistols, and shouting,-"follow me, who can!" he bounded across the corridor in the direction of the antique apartment, from whence the cries proceeded, but which were now hushed. that house was built for strength, and the doors were all of oak, and of considerable thickness. unhappily, they had fastenings within, so that when the man reached the chamber of her who so much required help, he was helpless, for the door was fast. "flora! flora!" he cried; "flora, speak!" all was still. "good god!" he added; "we must force the door." "i hear a strange noise within," said the young man, who trembled violently. "and so do i. what does it sound like?" "i scarcely know; but it nearest resembles some animal eating, or sucking some liquid." "what on earth can it be? have you no weapon that will force the door? i shall go mad if i am kept here." "i have," said the young man. "wait here a moment." he ran down the staircase, and presently returned with a small, but powerful, iron crow-bar. "this will do," he said. "it will, it will.--give it to me." "has she not spoken?" "not a word. my mind misgives me that something very dreadful must have happened to her." "and that odd noise!" "still goes on. somehow, it curdles the very blood in my veins to hear it." the man took the crow-bar, and with some difficulty succeeded in introducing it between the door and the side of the wall--still it required great strength to move it, but it did move, with a harsh, crackling sound. "push it!" cried he who was using the bar, "push the door at the same time." the younger man did so. for a few moments the massive door resisted. then, suddenly, something gave way with a loud snap--it was a part of the lock,--and the door at once swung wide open. how true it is that we measure time by the events which happen within a given space of it, rather than by its actual duration. to those who were engaged in forcing open the door of the antique chamber, where slept the young girl whom they named flora, each moment was swelled into an hour of agony; but, in reality, from the first moment of the alarm to that when the loud cracking noise heralded the destruction of the fastenings of the door, there had elapsed but very few minutes indeed. "it opens--it opens," cried the young man. "another moment," said the stranger, as he still plied the crowbar--"another moment, and we shall have free ingress to the chamber. be patient." this stranger's name was marchdale; and even as he spoke, he succeeded in throwing the massive door wide open, and clearing the passage to the chamber. to rush in with a light in his hand was the work of a moment to the young man named henry; but the very rapid progress he made into the apartment prevented him from observing accurately what it contained, for the wind that came in from the open window caught the flame of the candle, and although it did not actually extinguish it, it blew it so much on one side, that it was comparatively useless as a light. "flora--flora!" he cried. then with a sudden bound something dashed from off the bed. the concussion against him was so sudden and so utterly unexpected, as well as so tremendously violent, that he was thrown down, and, in his fall, the light was fairly extinguished. all was darkness, save a dull, reddish kind of light that now and then, from the nearly consumed mill in the immediate vicinity, came into the room. but by that light, dim, uncertain, and flickering as it was, some one was seen to make for the window. henry, although nearly stunned by his fall, saw a figure, gigantic in height, which nearly reached from the floor to the ceiling. the other young man, george, saw it, and mr. marchdale likewise saw it, as did the lady who had spoken to the two young men in the corridor when first the screams of the young girl awakened alarm in the breasts of all the inhabitants of that house. the figure was about to pass out at the window which led to a kind of balcony, from whence there was an easy descent to a garden. before it passed out they each and all caught a glance of the side-face, and they saw that the lower part of it and the lips were dabbled in blood. they saw, too, one of those fearful-looking, shining, metallic eyes which presented so terrible an appearance of unearthly ferocity. no wonder that for a moment a panic seized them all, which paralysed any exertions they might otherwise have made to detain that hideous form. but mr. marchdale was a man of mature years; he had seen much of life, both in this and in foreign lands; and he, although astonished to the extent of being frightened, was much more likely to recover sooner than his younger companions, which, indeed, he did, and acted promptly enough. "don't rise, henry," he cried. "lie still." almost at the moment he uttered these words, he fired at the figure, which then occupied the window, as if it were a gigantic figure set in a frame. the report was tremendous in that chamber, for the pistol was no toy weapon, but one made for actual service, and of sufficient length and bore of barrel to carry destruction along with the bullets that came from it. "if that has missed its aim," said mr. marchdale, "i'll never pull a trigger again." as he spoke he dashed forward, and made a clutch at the figure he felt convinced he had shot. the tall form turned upon him, and when he got a full view of the face, which he did at that moment, from the opportune circumstance of the lady returning at the instant with a light she had been to her own chamber to procure, even he, marchdale, with all his courage, and that was great, and all his nervous energy, recoiled a step or two, and uttered the exclamation of, "great god!" that face was one never to be forgotten. it was hideously flushed with colour--the colour of fresh blood; the eyes had a savage and remarkable lustre; whereas, before, they had looked like polished tin--they now wore a ten times brighter aspect, and flashes of light seemed to dart from them. the mouth was open, as if, from the natural formation of the countenance, the lips receded much from the large canine looking teeth. a strange howling noise came from the throat of this monstrous figure, and it seemed upon the point of rushing upon mr. marchdale. suddenly, then, as if some impulse had seized upon it, it uttered a wild and terrible shrieking kind of laugh; and then turning, dashed through the window, and in one instant disappeared from before the eyes of those who felt nearly annihilated by its fearful presence. "god help us!" ejaculated henry. mr. marchdale drew a long breath, and then, giving a stamp on the floor, as if to recover himself from the state of agitation into which even he was thrown, he cried,-"be it what or who it may, i'll follow it" "no--no--do not," cried the lady. "i must, i will. let who will come with me--i follow that dreadful form." as he spoke, he took the road it took, and dashed through the window into the balcony. "and we, too, george," exclaimed henry; "we will follow mr. marchdale. this dreadful affair concerns us more nearly than it does him." the lady who was the mother of these young men, and of the beautiful girl who had been so awfully visited, screamed aloud, and implored of them to stay. but the voice of mr. marchdale was heard exclaiming aloud,-"i see it--i see it; it makes for the wall." they hesitated no longer, but at once rushed into the balcony, and from thence dropped into the garden. the mother approached the bed-side of the insensible, perhaps the murdered girl; she saw her, to all appearance, weltering in blood, and, overcome by her emotions, she fainted on the floor of the room. when the two young men reached the garden, they found it much lighter than might have been fairly expected; for not only was the morning rapidly approaching, but the mill was still burning, and those mingled lights made almost every object plainly visible, except when deep shadows were thrown from some gigantic trees that had stood for centuries in that sweetly wooded spot. they heard the voice of mr. marchdale, as he cried,-"there--there--towards the wall. there--there--god! how it bounds along." the young men hastily dashed through a thicket in the direction from whence his voice sounded, and then they found him looking wild and terrified, and with something in his hand which looked like a portion of clothing. "which way, which way?" they both cried in a breath. he leant heavily on the arm of george, as he pointed along a vista of trees, and said in a low voice,-"god help us all. it is not human. look there--look there--do you not see it?" they looked in the direction he indicated. at the end of this vista was the wall of the garden. at that point it was full twelve feet in height, and as they looked, they saw the hideous, monstrous form they had traced from the chamber of their sister, making frantic efforts to clear the obstacle. then they saw it bound from the ground to the top of the wall, which it very nearly reached, and then each time it fell back again into the garden with such a dull, heavy sound, that the earth seemed to shake again with the concussion. they trembled--well indeed they might, and for some minutes they watched the figure making its fruitless efforts to leave the place. "what--what is it?" whispered henry, in hoarse accents. "god, what can it possibly be?" "i know not," replied mr. marchdale. "i did seize it. it was cold and clammy like a corpse. it cannot be human." "not human?" "look at it now. it will surely escape now." "no, no--we will not be terrified thus--there is heaven above us. come on, and, for dear flora's sake, let us make an effort yet to seize this bold intruder." "take this pistol," said marchdale. "it is the fellow of the one i fired. try its efficacy." "he will be gone," exclaimed henry, as at this moment, after many repeated attempts and fearful falls, the figure reached the top of the wall, and then hung by its long arms a moment or two, previous to dragging itself completely up. the idea of the appearance, be it what it might, entirely escaping, seemed to nerve again mr. marchdale, and he, as well as the two young men, ran forward towards the wall. they got so close to the figure before it sprang down on the outer side of the wall, that to miss killing it with the bullet from the pistol was a matter of utter impossibility, unless wilfully. henry had the weapon, and he pointed it full at the tall form with a steady aim. he pulled the trigger--the explosion followed, and that the bullet did its office there could be no manner of doubt, for the figure gave a howling shriek, and fell headlong from the wall on the outside. "i have shot him," cried henry, "i have shot him." chapter iii. the disappearance of the body.--flora's recovery and madness.--the offer of assistance from sir francis varney. [illustration] "he is human!" cried henry; "i have surely killed him." "it would seem so," said mr. marchdale. "let us now hurry round to the outside of the wall, and see where he lies." this was at once agreed to, and the whole three of them made what expedition they could towards a gate which led into a paddock, across which they hurried, and soon found themselves clear of the garden wall, so that they could make way towards where they fully expected to find the body of him who had worn so unearthly an aspect, but who it would be an excessive relief to find was human. so hurried was the progress they made, that it was scarcely possible to exchange many words as they went; a kind of breathless anxiety was upon them, and in the speed they disregarded every obstacle, which would, at any other time, have probably prevented them from taking the direct road they sought. it was difficult on the outside of the wall to say exactly which was the precise spot which it might be supposed the body had fallen on; but, by following the wall in its entire length, surely they would come upon it. they did so; but, to their surprise, they got from its commencement to its further extremity without finding any dead body, or even any symptoms of one having lain there. at some parts close to the wall there grew a kind of heath, and, consequently, the traces of blood would be lost among it, if it so happened that at the precise spot at which the strange being had seemed to topple over, such vegetation had existed. this was to be ascertained; but now, after traversing the whole length of the wall twice, they came to a halt, and looked wonderingly in each other's faces. "there is nothing here," said harry. "nothing," added his brother. "it could not have been a delusion," at length said mr. marchdale, with a shudder. "a delusion?" exclaimed the brother! "that is not possible; we all saw it." "then what terrible explanation can we give?" "by heavens! i know not," exclaimed henry. "this adventure surpasses all belief, and but for the great interest we have in it, i should regard it with a world of curiosity." "it is too dreadful," said george; "for god's sake, henry, let us return to ascertain if poor flora is killed." "my senses," said henry, "were all so much absorbed in gazing at that horrible form, that i never once looked towards her further than to see that she was, to appearance, dead. god help her! poor--poor, beautiful flora. this is, indeed, a sad, sad fate for you to come to. flora--flora--" "do not weep, henry," said george. "rather let us now hasten home, where we may find that tears are premature. she may yet be living and restored to us." "and," said mr. marchdale, "she may be able to give us some account of this dreadful visitation." "true--true," exclaimed henry; "we will hasten home." they now turned their steps homeward, and as they went they much blamed themselves for all leaving home together, and with terror pictured what might occur in their absence to those who were now totally unprotected. "it was a rash impulse of us all to come in pursuit of this dreadful figure," remarked mr. marchdale; "but do not torment yourself, henry. there may be no reason for your fears." at the pace they went, they very soon reached the ancient house, and when they came in sight of it, they saw lights flashing from the windows, and the shadows of faces moving to and fro, indicating that the whole household was up, and in a state of alarm. henry, after some trouble, got the hall door opened by a terrified servant, who was trembling so much that she could scarcely hold the light she had with her. "speak at once, martha," said henry. "is flora living?" "yes; but--" "enough--enough! thank god she lives; where is she now?" "in her own room, master henry. oh, dear--oh, dear, what will become of us all?" henry rushed up the staircase, followed by george and mr. marchdale, nor paused he once until he reached the room of his sister. "mother," he said, before he crossed the threshold, "are you here?" "i am, my dear--i am. come in, pray come in, and speak to poor flora." "come in, mr. marchdale," said henry--"come in; we make no stranger of you." they all then entered the room. several lights had been now brought into that antique chamber, and, in addition to the mother of the beautiful girl who had been so fearfully visited, there were two female domestics, who appeared to be in the greatest possible fright, for they could render no assistance whatever to anybody. the tears were streaming down the mother's face, and the moment she saw mr. marchdale, she clung to his arm, evidently unconscious of what she was about, and exclaimed,-"oh, what is this that has happened--what is this? tell me, marchdale! robert marchdale, you whom i have known even from my childhood, you will not deceive me. tell me the meaning of all this?" "i cannot," he said, in a tone of much emotion. "as god is my judge, i am as much puzzled and amazed at the scene that has taken place here to-night as you can be." the mother wrung her hands and wept. "it was the storm that first awakened me," added marchdale; "and then i heard a scream." the brothers tremblingly approached the bed. flora was placed in a sitting, half-reclining posture, propped up by pillows. she was quite insensible, and her face was fearfully pale; while that she breathed at all could be but very faintly seen. on some of her clothing, about the neck, were spots of blood, and she looked more like one who had suffered some long and grievous illness, than a young girl in the prime of life and in the most robust health, as she had been on the day previous to the strange scene we have recorded. "does she sleep?" said henry, as a tear fell from his eyes upon her pallid cheek. "no," replied mr. marchdale. "this is a swoon, from which we must recover her." active measures were now adopted to restore the languid circulation, and, after persevering in them for some time, they had the satisfaction of seeing her open her eyes. her first act upon consciousness returning, however, was to utter a loud shriek, and it was not until henry implored her to look around her, and see that she was surrounded by none but friendly faces, that she would venture again to open her eyes, and look timidly from one to the other. then she shuddered, and burst into tears as she said,-"oh, heaven, have mercy upon me--heaven, have mercy upon me, and save me from that dreadful form." "there is no one here, flora," said mr. marchdale, "but those who love you, and who, in defence of you, if needs were would lay down their lives." "oh, god! oh, god!" "you have been terrified. but tell us distinctly what has happened? you are quite safe now." [illustration] she trembled so violently that mr. marchdale recommended that some stimulant should be given to her, and she was persuaded, although not without considerable difficulty, to swallow a small portion of some wine from a cup. there could be no doubt but that the stimulating effect of the wine was beneficial, for a slight accession of colour visited her cheeks, and she spoke in a firmer tone as she said,-"do not leave me. oh, do not leave me, any of you. i shall die if left alone now. oh, save me--save me. that horrible form! that fearful face!" "tell us how it happened, dear flora?" said henry. "or would you rather endeavour to get some sleep first?" suggested mr. marchdale. "no--no--no," she said, "i do not think i shall ever sleep again." "say not so; you will be more composed in a few hours, and then you can tell us what has occurred." "i will tell you now. i will tell you now." she placed her hands over her face for a moment, as if to collect her scattered, thoughts, and then she added,-"i was awakened by the storm, and i saw that terrible apparition at the window. i think i screamed, but i could not fly. oh, god! i could not fly. it came--it seized me by the hair. i know no more. i know no more." she passed her hand across her neck several times, and mr. marchdale said, in an anxious voice,-"you seem, flora, to have hurt your neck--there is a wound." "a wound!" said the mother, and she brought a light close to the bed, where all saw on the side of flora's neck a small punctured wound; or, rather two, for there was one a little distance from the other. it was from these wounds the blood had come which was observable upon her night clothing. "how came these wounds?" said henry. "i do not know," she replied. "i feel very faint and weak, as if i had almost bled to death." "you cannot have done so, dear flora, for there are not above half-a-dozen spots of blood to be seen at all." mr. marchdale leaned against the carved head of the bed for support, and he uttered a deep groan. all eyes were turned upon him, and henry said, in a voice of the most anxious inquiry,-"you have something to say, mr. marchdale, which will throw some light upon this affair." "no, no, no, nothing!" cried mr. marchdale, rousing himself at once from the appearance of depression that had come over him. "i have nothing to say, but that i think flora had better get some sleep if she can." "no sleep-no sleep for me," again screamed flora. "dare i be alone to sleep?" "but you shall not be alone, dear flora," said henry. "i will sit by your bedside and watch you." she took his hand in both hers, and while the tears chased each other down her cheeks, she said,-"promise me, henry, by all your hopes of heaven, you will not leave me." "i promise!" she gently laid herself down, with a deep sigh, and closed her eyes. "she is weak, and will sleep long," said mr. marchdale. "you sigh," said henry. "some fearful thoughts, i feel certain, oppress your heart." "hush-hush!" said mr. marchdale, as he pointed to flora. "hush! not here--not here." "i understand," said henry. "let her sleep." there was a silence of some few minutes duration. flora had dropped into a deep slumber. that silence was first broken by george, who said,-"mr. marchdale, look at that portrait." he pointed to the portrait in the frame to which we have alluded, and the moment marchdale looked at it he sunk into a chair as he exclaimed,-"gracious heaven, how like!" "it is--it is," said henry. "those eyes--" "and see the contour of the countenance, and the strange shape of the mouth." "exact--exact." "that picture shall be moved from here. the sight of it is at once sufficient to awaken all her former terrors in poor flora's brain if she should chance to awaken and cast her eyes suddenly upon it." "and is it so like him who came here?" said the mother. "it is the very man himself," said mr. marchdale. "i have not been in this house long enough to ask any of you whose portrait that may be?" "it is," said henry, "the portrait of sir runnagate bannerworth, an ancestor of ours, who first, by his vices, gave the great blow to the family prosperity." "indeed. how long ago?" "about ninety years." "ninety years. 'tis a long while--ninety years." "you muse upon it." "no, no. i do wish, and yet i dread--" "what?" "to say something to you all. but not here--not here. we will hold a consultation on this matter to-morrow. not now--not now." "the daylight is coming quickly on," said henry; "i shall keep my sacred promise of not moving from this room until flora awakens; but there can be no occasion for the detention of any of you. one is sufficient here. go all of you, and endeavour to procure what rest you can." "i will fetch you my powder-flask and bullets," said mr. marchdale; "and you can, if you please, reload the pistols. in about two hours more it will be broad daylight." this arrangement was adopted. henry did reload the pistols, and placed them on a table by the side of the bed, ready for immediate action, and then, as flora was sleeping soundly, all left the room but himself. mrs. bannerworth was the last to do so. she would have remained, but for the earnest solicitation of henry, that she would endeavour to get some sleep to make up for her broken night's repose, and she was indeed so broken down by her alarm on flora's account, that she had not power to resist, but with tears flowing from her eyes, she sought her own chamber. and now the calmness of the night resumed its sway in that evil-fated mansion; and although no one really slept but flora, all were still. busy thought kept every one else wakeful. it was a mockery to lie down at all, and henry, full of strange and painful feelings as he was, preferred his present position to the anxiety and apprehension on flora's account which he knew he should feel if she were not within the sphere of his own observation, and she slept as soundly as some gentle infant tired of its playmates and its sports. chapter iv. the morning.--the consultation.--the fearful suggestion. [illustration] what wonderfully different impressions and feelings, with regard to the same circumstances, come across the mind in the broad, clear, and beautiful light of day to what haunt the imagination, and often render the judgment almost incapable of action, when the heavy shadow of night is upon all things. there must be a downright physical reason for this effect--it is so remarkable and so universal. it seems that the sun's rays so completely alter and modify the constitution of the atmosphere, that it produces, as we inhale it, a wonderfully different effect upon the nerves of the human subject. we can account for this phenomenon in no other way. perhaps never in his life had he, henry bannerworth, felt so strongly this transition of feeling as he now felt it, when the beautiful daylight gradually dawned upon him, as he kept his lonely watch by the bedside of his slumbering sister. that watch had been a perfectly undisturbed one. not the least sight or sound of any intrusion had reached his senses. all had been as still as the very grave. and yet while the night lasted, and he was more indebted to the rays of the candle, which he had placed upon a shelf, for the power to distinguish objects than to the light of the morning, a thousand uneasy and strange sensations had found a home in his agitated bosom. he looked so many times at the portrait which was in the panel that at length he felt an undefined sensation of terror creep over him whenever he took his eyes off it. he tried to keep himself from looking at it, but he found it vain, so he adopted what, perhaps, was certainly the wisest, best plan, namely, to look at it continually. he shifted his chair so that he could gaze upon it without any effort, and he placed the candle so that a faint light was thrown upon it, and there he sat, a prey to many conflicting and uncomfortable feelings, until the daylight began to make the candle flame look dull and sickly. solution for the events of the night he could find none. he racked his imagination in vain to find some means, however vague, of endeavouring to account for what occurred, and still he was at fault. all was to him wrapped in the gloom of the most profound mystery. and how strangely, too, the eyes of that portrait appeared to look upon him--as if instinct with life, and as if the head to which they belonged was busy in endeavouring to find out the secret communings of his soul. it was wonderfully well executed that portrait; so life-like, that the very features seemed to move as you gazed upon them. "it shall be removed," said henry. "i would remove it now, but that it seems absolutely painted on the panel, and i should awake flora in any attempt to do so." he arose and ascertained that such was the case, and that it would require a workman, with proper tools adapted to the job, to remove the portrait. "true," he said, "i might now destroy it, but it is a pity to obscure a work of such rare art as this is; i should blame myself if i were. it shall be removed to some other room of the house, however." then, all of a sudden, it struck henry how foolish it would be to remove the portrait from the wall of a room which, in all likelihood, after that night, would be uninhabited; for it was not probable that flora would choose again to inhabit a chamber in which she had gone through so much terror. "it can be left where it is," he said, "and we can fasten up, if we please, even the very door of this room, so that no one need trouble themselves any further about it." the morning was now coming fast, and just as henry thought he would partially draw a blind across the window, in order to shield from the direct rays of the sun the eyes of flora, she awoke. "help--help!" she cried, and henry was by her side in a moment. "you are safe, flora--you are safe," he said. "where is it now?" she said. "what--what, dear flora?" "the dreadful apparition. oh, what have i done to be made thus perpetually miserable?" "think no more of it, flora." "i must think. my brain is on fire! a million of strange eyes seem gazing on me." "great heaven! she raves," said henry. "hark--hark--hark! he comes on the wings of the storm. oh, it is most horrible--horrible!" henry rang the bell, but not sufficiently loudly to create any alarm. the sound reached the waking ear of the mother, who in a few moments was in the room. "she has awakened," said henry, "and has spoken, but she seems to me to wander in her discourse. for god's sake, soothe her, and try to bring her mind round to its usual state." "i will, henry--i will." "and i think, mother, if you were to get her out of this room, and into some other chamber as far removed from this one as possible, it would tend to withdraw her mind from what has occurred." "yes; it shall be done. oh, henry, what was it--what do you think it was?" "i am lost in a sea of wild conjecture. i can form no conclusion; where is mr. marchdale?" "i believe in his chamber." "then i will go and consult with him." henry proceeded at once to the chamber, which was, as he knew, occupied by mr. marchdale; and as he crossed the corridor, he could not but pause a moment to glance from a window at the face of nature. as is often the case, the terrific storm of the preceding evening had cleared the air, and rendered it deliciously invigorating and life-like. the weather had been dull, and there had been for some days a certain heaviness in the atmosphere, which was now entirely removed. the morning sun was shining with uncommon brilliancy, birds were singing in every tree and on every bush; so pleasant, so spirit-stirring, health-giving a morning, seldom had he seen. and the effect upon his spirits was great, although not altogether what it might have been, had all gone on as it usually was in the habit of doing at that house. the ordinary little casualties of evil fortune had certainly from time to time, in the shape of illness, and one thing or another, attacked the family of the bannerworths in common with every other family, but here suddenly had arisen a something at once terrible and inexplicable. he found mr. marchdale up and dressed, and apparently in deep and anxious thought. the moment he saw henry, he said,-"flora is awake, i presume." "yes, but her mind appears to be much disturbed." "from bodily weakness, i dare say." "but why should she be bodily weak? she was strong and well, ay, as well as she could ever be in all her life. the glow of youth and health was on her cheeks. is it possible that, in the course of one night, she should become bodily weak to such an extent?" "henry," said mr. marchdale, sadly, "sit down. i am not, as you know, a superstitious man." "you certainly are not." "and yet, i never in all my life was so absolutely staggered as i have been by the occurrences of to-night." "say on." "there is a frightful, a hideous solution of them; one which every consideration will tend to add strength to, one which i tremble to name now, although, yesterday, at this hour, i should have laughed it to scorn." "indeed!" "yes, it is so. tell no one that which i am about to say to you. let the dreadful suggestion remain with ourselves alone, henry bannerworth." "i--i am lost in wonder." "you promise me?" "what--what?" "that you will not repeat my opinion to any one." "i do." "on your honour." "on my honour, i promise." mr. marchdale rose, and proceeding to the door, he looked out to see that there were no listeners near. having ascertained then that they were quite alone, he returned, and drawing a chair close to that on which henry sat, he said,-"henry, have you never heard of a strange and dreadful superstition which, in some countries, is extremely rife, by which it is supposed that there are beings who never die." "never die!" "never. in a word, henry, have you never heard of--of--i dread to pronounce the word." "speak it. god of heaven! let me hear it." "a _vampyre_!" henry sprung to his feet. his whole frame quivered with emotion; the drops of perspiration stood upon his brow, as, in, a strange, hoarse voice, he repeated the words,-"a vampyre!" "even so; one who has to renew a dreadful existence by human blood--one who lives on for ever, and must keep up such a fearful existence upon human gore--one who eats not and drinks not as other men--a vampyre." henry dropped into his seat, and uttered a deep groan of the most exquisite anguish. "i could echo that groan," said marchdale, "but that i am so thoroughly bewildered i know not what to think." "good god--good god!" "do not too readily yield belief in so dreadful a supposition, i pray you." "yield belief!" exclaimed henry, as he rose, and lifted up one of his hands above his head. "no; by heaven, and the great god of all, who there rules, i will not easily believe aught so awful and so monstrous." "i applaud your sentiment, henry; not willingly would i deliver up myself to so frightful a belief--it is too horrible. i merely have told you of that which you saw was on my mind. you have surely before heard of such things." "i have--i have." "i much marvel, then, that the supposition did not occur to you, henry." "it did not--it did not, marchdale. it--it was too dreadful, i suppose, to find a home in my heart. oh! flora, flora, if this horrible idea should once occur to you, reason cannot, i am quite sure, uphold you against it." "let no one presume to insinuate it to her, henry. i would not have it mentioned to her for worlds." "nor i--nor i. good god! i shudder at the very thought--the mere possibility; but there is no possibility, there can be none. i will not believe it." "nor i." "no; by heaven's justice, goodness, grace, and mercy, i will not believe it." "tis well sworn, henry; and now, discarding the supposition that flora has been visited by a vampyre, let us seriously set about endeavouring, if we can, to account for what has happened in this house." "i--i cannot now." "nay, let us examine the matter; if we can find any natural explanation, let us cling to it, henry, as the sheet-anchor of our very souls." "do you think. you are fertile in expedients. do you think, marchdale; and, for heaven's sake, and for the sake of our own peace, find out some other way of accounting for what has happened, than the hideous one you have suggested." "and yet my pistol bullets hurt him not; he has left the tokens of his presence on the neck of flora." "peace, oh! peace. do not, i pray you, accumulate reasons why i should receive such a dismal, awful superstition. oh, do not, marchdale, as you love me!" "you know that my attachment to you," said marchdale, "is sincere; and yet, heaven help us!" his voice was broken by grief as he spoke, and he turned aside his head to hide the bursting tears that would, despite all his efforts, show themselves in his eyes. "marchdale," added henry, after a pause of some moments' duration, "i will sit up to-night with my sister." "do--do!" "think you there is a chance it may come again?" "i cannot--i dare not speculate upon the coming of so dreadful a visitor, henry; but i will hold watch with you most willingly." "you will, marchdale?" "my hand upon it. come what dangers may, i will share them with you, henry." "a thousand thanks. say nothing, then, to george of what we have been talking about. he is of a highly susceptible nature, and the very idea of such a thing would kill him." "i will; be mute. remove your sister to some other chamber, let me beg of you, henry; the one she now inhabits will always be suggestive of horrible thoughts." "i will; and that dreadful-looking portrait, with its perfect likeness to him who came last night." "perfect indeed. do you intend to remove it?" "i do not. i thought of doing so; but it is actually on the panel in the wall, and i would not willingly destroy it, and it may as well remain where it is in that chamber, which i can readily now believe will become henceforward a deserted one in this house." "it may well become such." "who comes here? i hear a step." there was a tip at the door at this moment, and george made his appearance in answer to the summons to come in. he looked pale and ill; his face betrayed how much he had mentally suffered during that night, and almost directly he got into the bed-chamber he said,-"i shall, i am sure, be censured by you both for what i am going to say; but i cannot help saying it, nevertheless, for to keep it to myself would destroy me." "good god, george! what is it?" said mr. marchdale. "speak it out!" said henry. "i have been thinking of what has occurred here, and the result of that thought has been one of the wildest suppositions that ever i thought i should have to entertain. have you never heard of a vampyre?" henry sighed deeply, and marchdale was silent. "i say a vampyre," added george, with much excitement in his manner. "it is a fearful, a horrible supposition; but our poor, dear flora has been visited by a vampyre, and i shall go completely mad!" he sat down, and covering his face with his hands, he wept bitterly and abundantly. "george," said henry, when he saw that the frantic grief had in some measure abated--"be calm, george, and endeavour to listen to me." "i hear, henry." "well, then, do not suppose that you are the only one in this house to whom so dreadful a superstition has occurred." "not the only one?" "no; it has occurred to mr. marchdale also." "gracious heaven!" "he mentioned it to me; but we have both agreed to repudiate it with horror." "to--repudiate--it?" "yes, george." "and yet--and yet--" "hush, hush! i know what you would say. you would tell us that our repudiation of it cannot affect the fact. of that we are aware; but yet will we disbelieve that which a belief in would be enough to drive us mad." "what do you intend to do?" "to keep this supposition to ourselves, in the first place; to guard it most zealously from the ears of flora." "do you think she has ever heard of vampyres?" "i never heard her mention that in all her reading she had gathered even a hint of such a fearful superstition. if she has, we must be guided by circumstances, and do the best we can." "pray heaven she may not!" "amen to that prayer, george," said henry. "mr. marchdale and i intend to keep watch over flora to-night." "may not i join you?" "your health, dear george, will not permit you to engage in such matters. do you seek your natural repose, and leave it to us to do the best we can in this most fearful and terrible emergency." "as you please, brother, and as you please, mr. marchdale. i know i am a frail reed, and my belief is that this affair will kill me quite. the truth is, i am horrified--utterly and frightfully horrified. like my poor, dear sister, i do not believe i shall ever sleep again." "do not fancy that, george," said marchdale. "you very much add to the uneasiness which must be your poor mother's portion, by allowing this circumstance to so much affect you. you well know her affection for you all, and let me therefore, as a very old friend of hers, entreat you to wear as cheerful an aspect as you can in her presence." "for once in my life," said george, sadly, "i will; to my dear mother, endeavour to play the hypocrite." "do so," said henry. "the motive will sanction any such deceit as that, george, be assured." the day wore on, and poor flora remained in a very precarious situation. it was not until mid-day that henry made up his mind he would call in a medical gentleman to her, and then he rode to the neighbouring market-town, where he knew an extremely intelligent practitioner resided. this gentleman henry resolved upon, under a promise of secrecy, makings confidant of; but, long before he reached him, he found he might well dispense with the promise of secrecy. he had never thought, so engaged had he been with other matters, that the servants were cognizant of the whole affair, and that from them he had no expectation of being able to keep the whole story in all its details. of course such an opportunity for tale-bearing and gossiping was not likely to be lost; and while henry was thinking over how he had better act in the matter, the news that flora bannerworth had been visited in the night by a vampyre--for the servants named the visitation such at once--was spreading all over the county. as he rode along, henry met a gentleman on horseback who belonged to the county, and who, reining in his steed, said to him, "good morning, mr. bannerworth." "good morning," responded henry, and he would have ridden on, but the gentleman added,-"excuse me for interrupting you, sir; but what is the strange story that is in everybody's mouth about a vampyre?" henry nearly fell off his horse, he was so much astonished, and, wheeling the animal around, he said,-"in everybody's mouth!" "yes; i have heard it from at least a dozen persons." "you surprise me." "it is untrue? of course i am not so absurd as really to believe about the vampyre; but is there no foundation at all for it? we generally find that at the bottom of these common reports there is a something around which, as a nucleus, the whole has formed." "my sister is unwell." "ah, and that's all. it really is too bad, now." "we had a visitor last night." "a thief, i suppose?" "yes, yes--i believe a thief. i do believe it was a thief, and she was terrified." "of course, and upon such a thing is grafted a story of a vampyre, and the marks of his teeth being in her neck, and all the circumstantial particulars." "yes, yes." "good morning, mr. bannerworth." henry bade the gentleman good morning, and much vexed at the publicity which the affair had already obtained, he set spurs to his horse, determined that he would speak to no one else upon so uncomfortable a theme. several attempts were made to stop him, but he only waved his hand and trotted on, nor did he pause in his speed till he reached the door of mr. chillingworth, the medical man whom he intended to consult. henry knew that at such a time he would be at home, which was the case, and he was soon closeted with the man of drugs. henry begged his patient hearing, which being accorded, he related to him at full length what had happened, not omitting, to the best of his remembrance, any one particular. when he had concluded his narration, the doctor shifted his position several times, and then said,-"that's all?" "yes--and enough too." "more than enough, i should say, my young friend. you astonish me." "can you form any supposition, sir, on the subject?" "not just now. what is your own idea?" "i cannot be said to have one about it. it is too absurd to tell you that my brother george is impressed with a belief a vampyre has visited the house." "i never in all my life heard a more circumstantial narrative in favour of so hideous a superstition." "well, but you cannot believe--" "believe what?" "that the dead can come to life again, and by such a process keep up vitality." "do you take me for a fool?" "certainly not." "then why do you ask me such questions?" "but the glaring facts of the case." "i don't care if they were ten times more glaring, i won't believe it. i would rather believe you were all mad, the whole family of you--that at the full of the moon you all were a little cracked." "and so would i." "you go home now, and i will call and see your sister in the course of two hours. something may turn up yet, to throw some new light upon this strange subject." with this understanding henry went home, and he took care to ride as fast as before, in order to avoid questions, so that he got back to his old ancestral home without going through the disagreeable ordeal of having to explain to any one what had disturbed the peace of it. when henry reached his home, he found that the evening was rapidly coming on, and before he could permit himself to think upon any other subject, he inquired how his terrified sister had passed the hours during his absence. he found that but little improvement had taken place in her, and that she had occasionally slept, but to awaken and speak incoherently, as if the shock she had received had had some serious affect upon her nerves. he repaired at once to her room, and, finding that she was awake, he leaned over her, and spoke tenderly to her. "flora," he said, "dear flora, you are better now?" "harry, is that you?" "yes, dear." "oh, tell me what has happened?" "have you not a recollection, flora?" "yes, yes, henry; but what was it? they none of them will tell me what it was, henry." "be calm, dear. no doubt some attempt to rob the house." "think you so?" "yes; the bay window was peculiarly adapted for such a purpose; but now that you are removed here to this room, you will be able to rest in peace." "i shall die of terror, henry. even now those eyes are glaring on me so hidiously. oh, it is fearful--it is very fearful, henry. do you not pity me, and no one will promise to remain with me at night." "indeed, flora, you are mistaken, for i intend to sit by your bedside armed, and so preserve you from all harm." she clutched his hand eagerly, as she said,-"you will, henry. you will, and not think it too much trouble, dear henry." "it can be no trouble, flora." "then i shall rest in peace, for i know that the dreadful vampyre cannot come to me when you are by-" "the what, flora!" "the vampyre, henry. it was a vampyre." "good god, who told you so?" "no one. i have read of them in the book of travels in norway, which mr. marchdale lent us all." "alas, alas!" groaned henry. "discard, i pray you, such a thought from your mind." "can we discard thoughts. what power have we but from that mind, which is ourselves?" "true, true." "hark, what noise is that? i thought i heard a noise. henry, when you go, ring for some one first. was there not a noise?" "the accidental shutting of some door, dear." "was it that?" "it was." "then i am relieved. henry, i sometimes fancy i am in the tomb, and that some one is feasting on my flesh. they do say, too, that those who in life have been bled by a vampyre, become themselves vampyres, and have the same horrible taste for blood as those before them. is it not horrible?" "you only vex yourself by such thoughts, flora. mr. chillingworth is coming to see you." "can he minister to a mind diseased?" "but yours is not, flora. your mind is healthful, and so, although his power extends not so far, we will thank heaven, dear flora, that you need it not." she sighed deeply, as she said,-"heaven help me! i know not, henry. the dreadful being held on by my hair. i must have it all taken off. i tried to get away, but it dragged me back--a brutal thing it was. oh, then at that moment, henry, i felt as if something strange took place in my brain, and that i was going mad! i saw those glazed eyes close to, mine--i felt a hot, pestiferous breath upon my face--help--help!" "hush! my flora, hush! look at me." "i am calm again. it fixed its teeth in my throat. did i faint away?" "you did, dear; but let me pray you to refer all this to imagination; or at least the greater part of it." "but you saw it." "yes--" "all saw it." "we all saw some man--a housebreaker--it must have been some housebreaker. what more easy, you know, dear flora, than to assume some such disguise?" "was anything stolen?" "not that i know of; but there was an alarm, you know." flora shook her head, as she said, in a low voice,-"that which came here was more than mortal. oh, henry, if it had but killed me, now i had been happy; but i cannot live--i hear it breathing now." "talk of something else, dear flora," said the much distressed henry; "you will make yourself much worse, if you indulge yourself in these strange fancies." "oh, that they were but fancies!" "they are, believe me." "there is a strange confusion in my brain, and sleep comes over me suddenly, when i least expect it. henry, henry, what i was, i shall never, never be again." "say not so. all this will pass away like a dream, and leave so faint a trace upon your memory, that the time will come when you will wonder it ever made so deep an impression on your mind." "you utter these words, henry," she said, "but they do not come from your heart. ah, no, no, no! who comes?" the door was opened by mrs. bannerworth, who said,-"it is only me, my dear. henry, here is dr. chillingworth in the dining-room." henry turned to flora, saying,-"you will see him, dear flora? you know mr. chillingworth well." "yes, henry, yes, i will see him, or whoever you please." "shew mr. chillingworth up," said henry to the servant. in a few moments the medical man was in the room, and he at once approached the bedside to speak to flora, upon whose pale countenance he looked with evident interest, while at the same time it seemed mingled with a painful feeling--at least so his own face indicated. "well, miss bannerworth," he said, "what is all this i hear about an ugly dream you have had?" "a dream?" said flora, as she fixed her beautiful eyes on his face. "yes, as i understand." she shuddered, and was silent. "was it not a dream, then?" added mr. chillingworth. she wrung her hands, and in a voice of extreme anguish and pathos, said,-"would it were a dream--would it were a dream! oh, if any one could but convince me it was a dream!" "well, will you tell me what it was?" "yes, sir, it was a vampyre." mr. chillingworth glanced at henry, as he said, in reply to flora's words,-"i suppose that is, after all, another name, flora, for the nightmare?" "no--no--no!" "do you really, then, persist in believing anything so absurd, miss bannerworth?" "what can i say to the evidence of my own senses?" she replied. "i saw it, henry saw it, george saw, mr. marchdale, my mother--all saw it. we could not all be at the same time the victims of the same delusion." "how faintly you speak." "i am very faint and ill." "indeed. what wound is that on your neck?" a wild expression came over the face of flora; a spasmodic action of the muscles, accompanied with a shuddering, as if a sudden chill had come over the whole mass of blood took place, and she said,-"it is the mark left by the teeth of the vampyre." the smile was a forced one upon the face of mr. chillingworth. "draw up the blind of the window, mr. henry," he said, "and let me examine this puncture to which your sister attaches so extraordinary a meaning." [illustration] the blind was drawn up, and a strong light was thrown into the room. for full two minutes mr. chillingworth attentively examined the two small wounds in the neck of flora. he took a powerful magnifying glass from his pocket, and looked at them through it, and after his examination was concluded, he said,-"they are very trifling wounds, indeed." "but how inflicted?" said henry. "by some insect, i should say, which probably--it being the season for many insects--has flown in at the window." "i know the motive," said flora "which prompts all these suggestions it is a kind one, and i ought to be the last to quarrel with it; but what i have seen, nothing can make me believe i saw not, unless i am, as once or twice i have thought myself, really mad." "how do you now feel in general health?" "far from well; and a strange drowsiness at times creeps over me. even now i feel it." she sunk back on the pillows as she spoke and closed her eyes with a deep sigh. mr. chillingworth beckoned henry to come with him from the room, but the latter had promised that he would remain with flora; and as mrs. bannerworth had left the chamber because she was unable to control her feelings, he rang the bell, and requested that his mother would come. she did so, and then henry went down stairs along with the medical man, whose opinion he was certainly eager to be now made acquainted with. as soon as they were alone in an old-fashioned room which was called the oak closet, henry turned to mr. chillingworth, and said,-"what, now, is your candid opinion, sir? you have seen my sister, and those strange indubitable evidences of something wrong." "i have; and to tell you candidly the truth, mr. henry, i am sorely perplexed." "i thought you would be." "it is not often that a medical man likes to say so much, nor is it, indeed, often prudent that he should do so, but in this case i own i am much puzzled. it is contrary to all my notions upon all such subjects." "those wounds, what do you think of them?" "i know not what to think. i am completely puzzled as regards them." "but, but do they not really bear the appearance of being bites?" "they really do." "and so far, then, they are actually in favour of the dreadful supposition which poor flora entertains." "so far they certainly are. i have no doubt in the world of their being bites; but we not must jump to a conclusion that the teeth which inflicted them were human. it is a strange case, and one which i feel assured must give you all much uneasiness, as, indeed, it gave me; but, as i said before, i will not let my judgment give in to the fearful and degrading superstition which all the circumstances connected with this strange story would seem to justify." "it is a degrading superstition." "to my mind your sister seems to be labouring under the effect of some narcotic." "indeed!" "yes; unless she really has lost a quantity of blood, which loss has decreased the heart's action sufficiently to produce the languor under which she now evidently labours." "oh, that i could believe the former supposition, but i am confident she has taken no narcotic; she could not even do so by mistake, for there is no drug of the sort in the house. besides, she is not heedless by any means. i am quite convinced she has not done so." "then i am fairly puzzled, my young friend, and i can only say that i would freely have given half of what i am worth to see that figure you saw last night." "what would you have done?" "i would not have lost sight of it for the world's wealth." "you would have felt your blood freeze with horror. the face was terrible." "and yet let it lead me where it liked i would have followed it." "i wish you had been here." "i wish to heaven i had. if i though there was the least chance of another visit i would come and wait with patience every night for a month." "i cannot say," replied henry. "i am going to sit up to-night with my sister, and i believe, our friend mr. marchdale will share my watch with me." mr. chillingworth appeared to be for a few moments lost in thought, and then suddenly rousing himself, as if he found it either impossible to come to any rational conclusion upon the subject, or had arrived at one which he chose to keep to himself, he said,-"well, well, we must leave the matter at present as it stands. time may accomplish something towards its development, but at present so palpable a mystery i never came across, or a matter in which human calculation was so completely foiled." "nor i--nor i." "i will send you some medicines, such as i think will be of service to flora, and depend upon seeing me by ten o'clock to-morrow morning." "you have, of course, heard something," said henry to the doctor, as he was pulling on his gloves, "about vampyres." "i certainly have, and i understand that in some countries, particularly norway and sweden, the superstition is a very common one." "and in the levant." "yes. the ghouls of the mahometans are of the same description of beings. all that i have heard of the european vampyre has made it a being which can be killed, but is restored to life again by the rays of a full moon falling on the body." "yes, yes, i have heard as much." "and that the hideous repast of blood has to be taken very frequently, and that if the vampyre gets it not he wastes away, presenting the appearance of one in the last stage of a consumption, and visibly, so to speak, dying." "that is what i have understood." "to-night, do you know, mr. bannerworth, is the full of the moon." henry started. "if now you had succeeded in killing--. pshaw, what am i saying. i believe i am getting foolish, and that the horrible superstition is beginning to fasten itself upon me as well as upon all of you. how strangely the fancy will wage war with the judgment in such a way as this." "the full of the moon," repeated henry, as he glanced towards the window, "and the night is near at hand." "banish these thoughts from your mind," said the doctor, "or else, my young friend, you will make yourself decidedly ill. good evening to you, for it is evening. i shall see you to-morrow morning." mr. chillingworth appeared now to be anxious to go, and henry no longer opposed his departure; but when he was gone a sense of great loneliness came over him. "to-night," he repeated, "is the full of the moon. how strange that this dreadful adventure should have taken place just the night before. 'tis very strange. let me see--let me see." he took from the shelves of a book case the work which flora had mentioned, entitled, "travels in norway," in which work he found some account of the popular belief in vampyres. he opened the work at random, and then some of the leaves turned over of themselves to a particular place, as the leaves of a book will frequently do when it has been kept open a length of time at that part, and the binding stretched there more than anywhere else. there was a note at the bottom of one of the pages at this part of the book, and henry read as follows:-"with regard to these vampyres, it is believed by those who are inclined to give credence to so dreadful a superstition, that they always endeavour to make their feast of blood, for the revival of their bodily powers, on some evening immediately preceding a full moon, because if any accident befal them, such as being shot, or otherwise killed or wounded, they can recover by lying down somewhere where the full moon's rays will fall upon them." henry let the book drop from his hands with a groan and a shudder. chapter v. the night watch.--the proposal.--the moonlight.--the fearful adventure. [illustration] a kind of stupefaction came over henry bannerworth, and he sat for about a quarter of an hour scarcely conscious of where he was, and almost incapable of anything in the shape of rational thought. it was his brother, george, who roused him by saying, as he laid his hand upon his shoulder,-"henry, are you asleep?" henry had not been aware of his presence, and he started up as if he had been shot. "oh, george, is it you?" he said. "yes, henry, are you unwell?" "no, no; i was in a deep reverie." "alas! i need not ask upon what subject," said george, sadly. "i sought you to bring you this letter." "a letter to me?" "yes, you see it is addressed to you, and the seal looks as if it came from someone of consequence." "indeed!" "yes, henry. read it, and see from whence it comes." there was just sufficient light by going to the window to enable henry to read the letter, which he did aloud. it ran thus:- "sir francis varney presents his compliments to mr. beaumont, and is much concerned to hear that some domestic affliction has fallen upon him. sir francis hopes that the genuine and loving sympathy of a neighbour will not be regarded as an intrusion, and begs to proffer any assistance or counsel that may be within the compass of his means. "ratford abbey." "sir francis varney!" said henry, "who is he?" "do you not remember, henry," said george, "we were told a few days ago, that a gentleman of that name had become the purchaser of the estate of ratford abbey." "oh, yes, yes. have you seen him?" "i have not." "i do not wish to make any new acquaintance, george. we are very poor--much poorer indeed than the general appearance of this place, which, i fear, we shall soon have to part with, would warrant any one believing. i must, of course, return a civil answer to this gentleman, but it must be such as one as shall repress familiarity." "that will be difficult to do while we remain here, when we come to consider the very close proximity of the two properties, henry." "oh, no, not at all. he will easily perceive that we do not want to make acquaintance with him, and then, as a gentleman, which doubtless he is, he will give up the attempt." "let it be so, henry. heaven knows i have no desire to form any new acquaintance with any one, and more particularly under our present circumstances of depression. and now, henry, you must permit me, as i have had some repose, to share with you your night watch in flora's room." "i would advise you not, george; your health, you know, is very far from good." "nay, allow me. if not, then the anxiety i shall suffer will do me more harm than the watchfulness i shall keep up in her chamber." this was an argument which henry felt himself the force of too strongly not to admit it in the case of george, and he therefore made no further opposition to his wish to make one in the night watch. "there will be an advantage," said george, "you see, in three of us being engaged in this matter, because, should anything occur, two can act together, and yet flora may not be left alone." "true, true, that is a great advantage." now a soft gentle silvery light began to spread itself over the heavens. the moon was rising, and as the beneficial effects of the storm of the preceding evening were still felt in the clearness of the air, the rays appeared to be more lustrous and full of beauty than they commonly were. each moment the night grew lighter, and by the time the brothers were ready to take their places in the chamber of flora, the moon had risen considerably. although neither henry nor george had any objection to the company of mr. marchdale, yet they gave him the option, and rather in fact urged him not to destroy his night's repose by sitting up with them; but he said,-"allow me to do so; i am older, and have calmer judgment than you can have. should anything again appear, i am quite resolved that it shall not escape me." "what would you do?" "with the name of god upon my lips," said mr. marchdale, solemnly, "i would grapple with it." "you laid hands upon it last night." "i did, and have forgotten to show you what i tore from it. look here,--what should you say this was?" he produced a piece of cloth, on which was an old-fashioned piece of lace, and two buttons. upon a close inspection, this appeared to be a portion of the lapel of a coat of ancient times, and suddenly, henry, with a look of intense anxiety, said,-"this reminds me of the fashion of garments very many years ago, mr. marchdale." "it came away in my grasp as if rotten and incapable of standing any rough usage." "what a strange unearthly smell it has!" "now you mention it yourself," added mr. marchdale, "i must confess it smells to me as if it had really come from the very grave." "it does--it does. say nothing of this relic of last night's work to any one." "be assured i shall not. i am far from wishing to keep up in any one's mind proofs of that which i would fain, very fain refute." mr. marchdale replaced the portion of the coat which the figure had worn in his pocket, and then the whole three proceeded to the chamber of flora. * * * * * it was within a very few minutes of midnight, the moon had climbed high in the heavens, and a night of such brightness and beauty had seldom shown itself for a long period of time. flora slept, and in her chamber sat the two brothers and mr. marchdale, silently, for she had shown symptoms of restlessness, and they much feared to break the light slumber into which she had fallen. occasionally they had conversed in whispers, which could not have the effect of rousing her, for the room, although smaller than the one she had before occupied, was still sufficiently spacious to enable them to get some distance from the bed. until the hour of midnight now actually struck, they were silent, and when the last echo of the sounds had died away, a feeling of uneasiness came over them, which prompted some conversation to get rid of it. "how bright the moon is now," said henry, in a low tone. "i never saw it brighter," replied marchdale. "i feel as if i were assured that we shall not to-night be interrupted." "it was later than this," said henry. "it was--it was." "do not then yet congratulate us upon no visit." "how still the house is!" remarked george; "it seems to me as if i had never found it so intensely quiet before." "it is very still." "hush! she moves." flora moaned in her sleep, and made a slight movement. the curtains were all drawn closely round the bed to shield her eyes from the bright moonlight which streamed into the room so brilliantly. they might have closed the shutters of the window, but this they did not like to do, as it would render their watch there of no avail at all, inasmuch as they would not be able to see if any attempt was made by any one to obtain admittance. a quarter of an hour longer might have thus passed when mr. marchdale said in a whisper,-"a thought has just struck me that the piece of coat i have, which i dragged from the figure last night, wonderfully resembles in colour and appearance the style of dress of the portrait in the room which flora lately slept in." "i thought of that," said henry, "when first i saw it; but, to tell the honest truth, i dreaded to suggest any new proof connected with last night's visitation." "then i ought not to have drawn your attention to it," said mr. marchdale, "and regret i have done so." "nay, do not blame yourself on such an account," said henry. "you are quite right, and it is i who am too foolishly sensitive. now, however, since you have mentioned it, i must own i have a great desire to test the accuracy of the observation by a comparison with the portrait." "that may easily be done." "i will remain here," said george, "in case flora awakens, while you two go if you like. it is but across the corridor." henry immediately rose, saying-"come, mr. marchdale, come. let us satisfy ourselves at all events upon this point at once. as george says it is only across the corridor, and we can return directly." "i am willing," said mr. marchdale, with a tone of sadness. there was no light needed, for the moon stood suspended in a cloudless sky, so that from the house being a detached one, and containing numerous windows, it was as light as day. although the distance from one chamber to the other was only across the corridor, it was a greater space than these words might occupy, for the corridor was wide, neither was it directly across, but considerably slanting. however, it was certainly sufficiently close at hand for any sound of alarm from one chamber to reach another without any difficulty. a few moments sufficed to place henry and mr. marchdale in that antique room, where, from the effect of the moonlight which was streaming over it, the portrait on the panel looked exceedingly life like. and this effect was probably the greater because the rest of the room was not illuminated by the moon's rays, which came through a window in the corridor, and then at the open door of that chamber upon the portrait. mr. marchdale held the piece of cloth he had close to the dress of the portrait, and one glance was sufficient to show the wonderful likeness between the two. "good god!" said henry, "it is the same." mr. marchdale dropped the piece of cloth and trembled. "this fact shakes even your scepticism," said henry. "i know not what to make of it." "i can tell you something which bears upon it. i do not know if you are sufficiently aware of my family history to know that this one of my ancestors, i wish i could say worthy ancestors, committed suicide, and was buried in his clothes." "you--you are sure of that?" "quite sure." "i am more and more bewildered as each moment some strange corroborative fact of that dreadful supposition we so much shrink from seems to come to light and to force itself upon our attention." there was a silence of a few moments duration, and henry had turned towards mr. marchdale to say something, when the cautious tread of a footstep was heard in the garden, immediately beneath that balcony. a sickening sensation came over henry, and he was compelled to lean against the wall for support, as in scarcely articulate accents he said-"the vampyre--the vampyre! god of heaven, it has come once again!" "now, heaven inspire us with more than mortal courage," cried mr. marchdale, and he dashed open the window at once, and sprang into the balcony. henry in a moment recovered himself sufficiently to follow him, and when he reached his side in the balcony, marchdale said, as he pointed below,-"there is some one concealed there." "where--where?" "among the laurels. i will fire a random shot, and we may do some execution." "hold!" said a voice from below; "don't do any such thing, i beg of you." "why, that is mr. chillingworth's voice," cried henry. "yes, and it's mr. chillingworth's person, too," said the doctor, as he emerged from among some laurel bushes. "how is this?" said marchdale. "simply that i made up my mind to keep watch and ward to-night outside here, in the hope of catching the vampyre. i got into here by climbing the gate." "but why did you not let me know?" said henry. "because i did not know myself, my young friend, till an hour and a half ago." "have you seen anything?" "nothing. but i fancied i heard something in the park outside the wall." "indeed!" "what say you, henry," said mr. marchdale, "to descending and taking a hasty examination of the garden and grounds?" "i am willing; but first allow me to speak to george, who otherwise might be surprised at our long absence." henry walked rapidly to the bed chamber of flora, and he said to george,-"have you any objection to being left alone here for about half an hour, george, while we make an examination of the garden?" "let me have some weapon and i care not. remain here while i fetch a sword from my own room." henry did so, and when george returned with a sword, which he always kept in his bed-room, he said,-"now go, henry. i prefer a weapon of this description to pistols much. do not be longer gone than necessary." "i will not, george, be assured." george was then left alone, and henry returned to the balcony, where mr. marchdale was waiting for him. it was a quicker mode of descending to the garden to do so by clambering over the balcony than any other, and the height was not considerable enough to make it very objectionable, so henry and mr. marchdale chose that way of joining mr. chillingworth. "you are, no doubt, much surprised at finding me here," said the doctor; "but the fact is, i half made up my mind to come while i was here; but i had not thoroughly done so, therefore i said nothing to you about it." "we are much indebted to you," said henry, "for making the attempt." "i am prompted to it by a feeling of the strongest curiosity." "are you armed, sir?" said marchdale. "in this stick," said the doctor, "is a sword, the exquisite temper of which i know i can depend upon, and i fully intended to run through any one whom i saw that looked in the least of the vampyre order." "you would have done quite right," replied mr. marchdale. "i have a brace of pistols here, loaded with ball; will you take one, henry, if you please, and then we shall be all armed." thus, then, prepared for any exigency, they made the whole round of the house; but found all the fastenings secure, and everything as quiet as possible. "suppose, now, we take a survey of the park outside the garden wall," said mr. marchdale. this was agreed to; but before they had proceeded far, mr. marchdale said,-"there is a ladder lying on the wall; would it not be a good plan to place it against the very spot the supposed vampyre jumped over last night, and so, from a more elevated position, take a view of the open meadows. we could easily drop down on the outer side, if we saw anything suspicious." "not a bad plan," said the doctor. "shall we do it?" "certainly," said henry; and they accordingly carried the ladder, which had been used for pruning the trees, towards the spot at the end of the long walk, at which the vampyre had made good, after so many fruitless efforts, his escape from the premises. they made haste down the long vista of trees until they reached the exact spot, and then they placed the ladder as near as possible, exactly where henry, in his bewilderment on the evening before, had seen the apparition from the grave spring to. "we can ascend singly," said marchdale; "but there is ample space for us all there to sit on the top of the wall and make our observations." this was seen to be the case, and in about a couple of minutes they had taken up their positions on the wall, and, although the height was but trifling, they found that they had a much more extensive view than they could have obtained by any other means. "to contemplate the beauty of such a night as this," said mr. chillingworth, "is amply sufficient compensation for coming the distance i have." "and who knows," remarked marchdale, "we may yet see something which may throw a light upon our present perplexities god knows that i would give all i can call mine in the world to relieve you and your sister, henry bannerworth, from the fearful effect which last night's proceedings cannot fail to have upon you." "of that i am well assured, mr. marchdale," said henry. "if the happiness of myself and family depended upon you, we should be happy indeed." "you are silent, mr. chillingworth," remarked marchdale, after a slight pause. "hush!" said mr. chillingworth--"hush--hush!" "good god, what do you hear?" cried henry. the doctor laid his hand upon henry's arm as he said,-"there is a young lime tree yonder to the right." "yes--yes." "carry your eye from it in a horizontal line, as near as you can, towards the wood." henry did so, and then he uttered a sudden exclamation of surprise, and pointed to a rising spot of ground, which was yet, in consequence of the number of tall trees in its vicinity, partially enveloped in shadow. "what is that?" he said. "i see something," said marchdale. "by heaven! it is a human form lying stretched there." "it is--as if in death." "what can it be?" said chillingworth. "i dread to say," replied marchdale; "but to my eyes, even at this distance, it seems like the form of him we chased last night." "the vampyre?" "yes--yes. look, the moonbeams touch him. now the shadows of the trees gradually recede. god of heaven! the figure moves." henry's eyes were riveted to that fearful object, and now a scene presented itself which filled them all with wonder and astonishment, mingled with sensations of the greatest awe and alarm. as the moonbeams, in consequence of the luminary rising higher and higher in the heavens, came to touch this figure that lay extended on the rising ground, a perceptible movement took place in it. the limbs appeared to tremble, and although it did not rise up, the whole body gave signs of vitality. "the vampyre--the vampyre!" said mr. marchdale. "i cannot doubt it now. we must have hit him last night with the pistol bullets, and the moonbeams are now restoring him to a new life." henry shuddered, and even mr. chillingworth turned pale. but he was the first to recover himself sufficiently to propose some course of action, and he said,-"let us descend and go up to this figure. it is a duty we owe to ourselves as much as to society." "hold a moment," said mr. marchdale, as he produced a pistol. "i am an unerring shot, as you well know, henry. before we move from this position we now occupy, allow me to try what virtue may be in a bullet to lay that figure low again." "he is rising!" exclaimed henry. mr. marchdale levelled the pistol--he took a sure and deliberate aim, and then, just as the figure seemed to be struggling to its feet, he fired, and, with a sudden bound, it fell again. "you have hit it," said henry. "you have indeed," exclaimed the doctor. "i think we can go now." "hush!" said marchdale--"hush! does it not seem to you that, hit it as often as you will, the moonbeams will recover it?" "yes--yes," said henry, "they will--they will." "i can endure this no longer," said mr. chillingworth, as he sprung from the wall. "follow me or not, as you please, i will seek the spot where this being lies." "oh, be not rash," cried marchdale. "see, it rises again, and its form looks gigantic." "i trust in heaven and a righteous cause," said the doctor, as he drew the sword he had spoken of from the stick, and threw away the scabbard. "come with me if you like, or i go alone." henry at once jumped down from the wall, and then marchdale followed him, saying,-"come on; i will not shrink." they ran towards the piece of rising ground; but before they got to it, the form rose and made rapidly towards a little wood which was in the immediate neighbourhood of the hillock. "it is conscious of being pursued," cried the doctor. "see how it glances back, and then increases its speed." "fire upon it, henry," said marchdale. he did so; but either his shot did not take effect, or it was quite unheeded if it did, by the vampyre, which gained the wood before they could have a hope of getting sufficiently near it to effect, or endeavour to effect, a capture. "i cannot follow it there," said marchdale. "in open country i would have pursued it closely; but i cannot follow it into the intricacies of a wood." "pursuit is useless there," said henry. "it is enveloped in the deepest gloom." "i am not so unreasonable," remarked mr. chillingworth, "as to wish you to follow into such a place as that. i am confounded utterly by this affair." "and i," said marchdale. "what on earth is to be done?" "nothing--nothing!" exclaimed henry, vehemently; "and yet i have, beneath the canopy of heaven, declared that i will, so help me god! spare neither time nor trouble in the unravelling of this most fearful piece of business. did either of you remark the clothing which this spectral appearance wore?" "they were antique clothes," said mr. chillingworth, "such as might have been fashionable a hundred years ago, but not now." "such was my impression," added marchdale. "and such my own," said henry, excitedly. "is it at all within the compass of the wildest belief that what we have seen is a vampyre, and no other than my ancestor who, a hundred years ago, committed suicide?" there was so much intense excitement, and evidence of mental suffering, that mr. chillingworth took him by the arm, saying,-"come home--come home; no more of this at present; you will but make yourself seriously unwell." "no--no--no." "come home now, i pray you; you are by far too much excited about this matter to pursue it with the calmness which should be brought to bear upon it." "take advice, henry," said marchdale, "take advice, and come home at once." "i will yield to you; i feel that i cannot control my own feelings--i will yield to you, who, as you say, are cooler on this subject than i can be. oh, flora, flora, i have no comfort to bring to you now." poor henry bannerworth appeared to be in a complete state of mental prostration, on account of the distressing circumstances that had occurred so rapidly and so suddenly in his family, which had had quite enough to contend with without having superadded to every other evil the horror of believing that some preternatural agency was at work to destroy every hope of future happiness in this world, under any circumstances. he suffered himself to be led home by mr. chillingworth and marchdale; he no longer attempted to dispute the dreadful fact concerning the supposed vampyre; he could not contend now against all the corroborating circumstances that seemed to collect together for the purpose of proving that which, even when proved, was contrary to all his notions of heaven, and at variance with all that was recorded and established is part and parcel of the system of nature. "i cannot deny," he said, when they had reached home, "that such things are possible; but the probability will not bear a moment's investigation." "there are more things," said marchdale, solemnly, "in heaven, and on earth, than are dreamed of in our philosophy." "there are indeed, it appears," said mr. chillingworth. "and are you a convert?" said henry, turning to him. "a convert to what?" "to a belief in--in--these vampyres?" "i? no, indeed; if you were to shut me up in a room full of vampyres, i would tell them all to their teeth that i defied them." "but after what we have seen to-night?" "what have we seen?" "you are yourself a witness." "true; i saw a man lying down, and then i saw a man get up; he seemed then to be shot, but whether he was or not he only knows; and then i saw him walk off in a desperate hurry. beyond that, i saw nothing." "yes; but, taking such circumstances into combination with others, have you not a terrible fear of the truth of the dreadful appearance?" "no--no; on my soul, no. i will die in my disbelief of such an outrage upon heaven as one of these creatures would most assuredly be." "oh! that i could think like you; but the circumstance strikes too nearly to my heart." "be of better cheer, henry--be of better cheer," said marchdale; "there is one circumstance which we ought to consider, it is that, from all we have seen, there seems to be some things which would favour an opinion, henry, that your ancestor, whose portrait hangs in the chamber which was occupied by flora, is the vampyre." "the dress was the same," said henry. "i noted it was." "and i." "do you not, then, think it possible that something might be done to set that part of the question at rest?" "what--what?" "where is your ancestor buried?" "ah! i understand you now." "and i," said mr. chillingworth; "you would propose a visit to his mansion?" "i would," added marchdale; "anything that may in any way tend to assist in making this affair clearer, and divesting it of its mysterious circumstances, will be most desirable." henry appeared to rouse for some moments and then he said,-"he, in common with many other members of the family, no doubt occupies place in the vault under the old church in the village." "would it be possible," asked marchdale, "to get into that vault without exciting general attention?" "it would," said henry; "the entrance to the vault is in the flooring of the pew which belongs to the family in the old church." "then it could be done?" asked mr. chillingworth. "most undoubtedly." "will you under take such an adventure?" said mr. chillingworth. "it may ease your mind." "he was buried in the vault, and in his clothes," said henry, musingly; "i will think of it. about such a proposition i would not decide hastily. give me leave to think of it until to-morrow." "most certainly." [illustration] they now made their way to the chamber of flora, and they heard from george that nothing of an alarming character had occurred to disturb him on his lonely watch. the morning was now again dawning, and henry earnestly entreated mr. marchdale to go to bed, which he did, leaving the two brothers to continue as sentinels by flora's bed side, until the morning light should banish all uneasy thoughts. henry related to george what had taken place outside the house, and the two brothers held a long and interesting conversation for some hours upon that subject, as well as upon others of great importance to their welfare. it was not until the sun's early rays came glaring in at the casement that they both rose, and thought of awakening flora, who had now slept soundly for so many hours. chapter vi. a glance at the bannerworth family.--the probable consequences of the mysterious apparition's appearance. [illustration] having thus far, we hope, interested our readers in the fortunes of a family which had become subject to so dreadful a visitation, we trust that a few words concerning them, and the peculiar circumstances in which they are now placed, will not prove altogether out of place, or unacceptable. the bannerworth family then were well known in the part of the country where they resided. perhaps, if we were to say they were better known by name than they were liked, on account of that name, we should be near the truth, for it had unfortunately happened that for a very considerable time past the head of the family had been the very worst specimen of it that could be procured. while the junior branches were frequently amiable and most intelligent, and such in mind and manner as were calculated to inspire goodwill in all who knew them, he who held the family property, and who resided in the house now occupied by flora and her brothers, was a very so--so sort of character. this state of things, by some strange fatality, had gone on for nearly a hundred years, and the consequence was what might have been fairly expected, namely--that, what with their vices and what with their extravagances, the successive heads of the bannerworth family had succeeded in so far diminishing the family property that, when it came into the hands of henry bannerworth, it was of little value, on account of the numerous encumbrances with which it was saddled. the father of henry had not been a very brilliant exception to the general rule, as regarded the head of the family. if he were not quite so bad as many of his ancestors, that gratifying circumstance was to be accounted for by the supposition that he was not quite so bold, and that the change in habits, manners, and laws, which had taken place in a hundred years, made it not so easy for even a landed proprietor to play the petty tyrant. he had, to get rid of those animal spirits which had prompted many of his predecessors to downright crimes, had recourse to the gaming-table, and, after raising whatever sums he could upon the property which remained, he naturally, and as might have been fully expected, lost them all. he was found lying dead in the garden of the house one day, and by his side was his pocket-book, on one leaf of which, it was the impression of the family, he had endeavoured to write something previous to his decease, for he held a pencil firmly in his grasp. the probability was that he had felt himself getting ill, and, being desirous of making some communication to his family which pressed heavily upon his mind, he had attempted to do so, but was stopped by the too rapid approach of the hand of death. for some days previous to his decease, his conduct had been extremely mysterious. he had announced an intention of leaving england for ever--of selling the house and grounds for whatever they would fetch over and above the sums for which they were mortgaged, and so clearing himself of all encumbrances. he had, but a few hours before he was found lying dead, made the following singular speech to henry,-"do not regret, henry, that the old house which has been in our family so long is about to be parted with. be assured that, if it is but for the first time in my life, i have good and substantial reasons now for what i am about to do. we shall be able to go some other country, and there live like princes of the land." where the means were to come from to live like a prince, unless mr. bannerworth had some of the german princes in his eye, no one knew but himself, and his sudden death buried with him that most important secret. there were some words written on the leaf of his pocket-book, but they were of by far too indistinct and ambiguous a nature to lead to anything. they were these:-"the money is ----------" and then there was a long scrawl of the pencil, which seemed to have been occasioned by his sudden decease. of course nothing could be made of these words, except in the way of a contradiction as the family lawyer said, rather more facetiously than a man of law usually speaks, for if he had written "the money is not," he would have been somewhere remarkably near the truth. however, with all his vices he was regretted by his children, who chose rather to remember him in his best aspect than to dwell upon his faults. for the first time then, within the memory of man, the head of the family of the bannerworths was a gentleman, in every sense of the word. brave, generous, highly educated, and full of many excellent and noble qualities--for such was henry, whom we have introduced to our readers under such distressing circumstances. and now, people said, that the family property having been all dissipated and lost, there would take place a change, and that the bannerworths would have to take to some course of honourable industry for a livelihood, and that then they would be as much respected as they had before been detested and disliked. indeed, the position which henry held was now a most precarious one--for one of the amazingly clever acts of his father had been to encumber the property with overwhelming claims, so that when henry administered to the estate, it was doubted almost by his attorney if it were at all desirable to do so. an attachment, however, to the old house of his family, had induced the young man to hold possession of it as long as he could, despite any adverse circumstance which might eventually be connected with it. some weeks, however, only after the decease of his father, and when he fairly held possession, a sudden and a most unexpected offer came to him from a solicitor in london, of whom he knew nothing, to purchase the house and grounds, for a client of his, who had instructed him so to do, but whom he did not mention. the offer made was a liberal one, and beyond the value of the place. the lawyer who had conducted henry's affairs for him since his father's decease, advised him by all means to take it; but after a consultation with his mother and sister, and george, they all resolved to hold by their own house as long as they could, and, consequently, he refused the offer. he was then asked to let the place, and to name his own price for the occupation of it; but that he would not do: so the negotiation went off altogether, leaving only, in the minds of the family, much surprise at the exceeding eagerness of some one, whom they knew not, to get possession of the place on any terms. there was another circumstance perhaps which materially aided in producing a strong feeling on the minds of the bannerworths, with regard to remaining where they were. that circumstance occurred thus: a relation of the family, who was now dead, and with whom had died all his means, had been in the habit, for the last half dozen years of his life, of sending a hundred pounds to henry, for the express purpose of enabling him and his brother george and his sifter flora to take a little continental or home tour, in the autumn of the year. a more acceptable present, or for a more delightful purpose, to young people, could not be found; and, with the quiet, prudent habits of all three of them, they contrived to go far and to see much for the sum which was thus handsomely placed at their disposal. in one of those excursions, when among the mountains of italy, an adventure occurred which placed the life of flora in imminent hazard. they were riding along a narrow mountain path, and, her horse slipping, she fell over the ledge of a precipice. in an instant, a young man, a stranger to the whole party, who was travelling in the vicinity, rushed to the spot, and by his knowledge and exertions, they felt convinced her preservation was effected. he told her to lie quiet; he encouraged her to hope for immediate succour; and then, with much personal exertion, and at immense risk to himself, he reached the ledge of rock on which she lay, and then he supported her until the brothers had gone to a neighbouring house, which, bye-the-bye, was two good english miles off, and got assistance. there came on, while they were gone, a terrific storm, and flora felt that but for him who was with her she must have been hurled from the rock, and perished in an abyss below, which was almost too deep for observation. suffice it to say that she was rescued; and he who had, by his intrepidity, done so much towards saving her, was loaded with the most sincere and heartfelt acknowledgments by the brothers as well as by herself. he frankly told them that his name was holland; that he was travelling for amusement and instruction, and was by profession an artist. he travelled with them for some time; and it was not at all to be wondered at, under the circumstances, that an attachment of the tenderest nature should spring up between him and the beautiful girl, who felt that she owed to him her life. mutual glances of affection were exchanged between them, and it was arranged that when he returned to england, he should come at once as an honoured guest to the house of the family of the bannerworths. all this was settled satisfactorily with the full knowledge and acquiescence of the two brothers, who had taken a strange attachment to the young charles holland, who was indeed in every way likely to propitiate the good opinion of all who knew him. henry explained to him exactly how they were situated, and told him that when he came he would find a welcome from all, except possibly his father, whose wayward temper he could not answer for. young holland stated that he was compelled to be away for a term of two years, from certain family arrangements he had entered into, and that then he would return and hope to meet flora unchanged as he should be. it happened that this was the last of the continental excursions of the bannerworths, for, before another year rolled round, the generous relative who had supplied them with the means of making such delightful trips was no more; and, likewise, the death of the father had occurred in the manner we have related, so that there was no chance as had been anticipated and hoped for by flora, of meeting charles holland on the continent again, before his two years of absence from england should be expired. such, however, being the state of things, flora felt reluctant to give up the house, where he would be sure to come to look for her, and her happiness was too dear to henry to induce him to make any sacrifice of it to expediency. therefore was it that bannerworth hall, as it was sometimes called, was retained, and fully intended to be retained at all events until after charles holland had made his appearance, and his advice (for he was, by the young people, considered as one of the family) taken, with regard to what was advisable to be done. with one exception this was the state of affairs at the hall, and that exception relates to mr. marchdale. he was a distant relation of mrs. bannerworth, and, in early life, had been sincerely and tenderly attached to her. she, however, with the want of steady reflection of a young girl, as she then was, had, as is generally the case among several admirers, chosen the very worst: that is, the man who treated her with the most indifference, and who paid her the least attention, was of course, thought the most of, and she gave her hand to him. that man was mr. bannerworth. but future experience had made her thoroughly awake to her former error; and, but for the love she bore her children, who were certainly all that a mother's heart could wish, she would often have deeply regretted the infatuation which had induced her to bestow her hand in the quarter she had done so. about a month after the decease of mr. bannerworth, there came one to the hall, who desired to see the widow. that one was mr. marchdale. it might have been some slight tenderness towards him which had never left her, or it might be the pleasure merely of seeing one whom she had known intimately in early life, but, be that as it may, she certainly gave him a kindly welcome; and he, after consenting to remain for some time as a visitor at the hall, won the esteem of the whole family by his frank demeanour and cultivated intellect. he had travelled much and seen much, and he had turned to good account all he had seen, so that not only was mr. marchdale a man of sterling sound sense, but he was a most entertaining companion. his intimate knowledge of many things concerning which they knew little or nothing; his accurate modes of thought, and a quiet, gentlemanly demeanour, such as is rarely to be met with, combined to make him esteemed by the bannerworths. he had a small independence of his own, and being completely alone in the world, for he had neither wife nor child, marchdale owned that he felt a pleasure in residing with the bannerworths. of course he could not, in decent terms, so far offend them as to offer to pay for his subsistence, but he took good care that they should really be no losers by having him as an inmate, a matter which he could easily arrange by little presents of one kind and another, all of which he managed should be such as were not only ornamental, but actually spared his kind entertainers some positive expense which otherwise they must have gone to. whether or not this amiable piece of manoeuvring was seen through by the bannerworths it is not our purpose to inquire. if it was seen through, it could not lower him in their esteem, for it was probably just what they themselves would have felt a pleasure in doing under similar circumstances, and if they did not observe it, mr. marchdale would, probably, be all the better pleased. such then may be considered by our readers as a brief outline of the state of affairs among the bannerworths--a state which was pregnant with changes, and which changes were now likely to be rapid and conclusive. how far the feelings of the family towards the ancient house of their race would be altered by the appearance at it of so fearful a visitor as a vampyre, we will not stop to inquire, inasmuch as such feelings will develop themselves as we proceed. that the visitation had produced a serious effect upon all the household was sufficiently evident, as well among the educated as among the ignorant. on the second morning, henry received notice to quit his service from the three servants he with difficulty had contrived to keep at the hall. the reason why he received such notice he knew well enough, and therefore he did not trouble himself to argue about a superstition to which he felt now himself almost, compelled to give way; for how could he say there was no such thing as a vampyre, when he had, with his own eyes, had the most abundant evidence of the terrible fact? he calmly paid the servants, and allowed them to leave him at once without at all entering into the matter, and, for the time being, some men were procured, who, however, came evidently with fear and trembling, and probably only took the place, on account of not being able, to procure any other. the comfort of the household was likely to be completely put an end to, and reasons now for leaving the hall appeared to be most rapidly accumulating. chapter vii. the visit to the vault of the bannerworths, and its unpleasant result.--the mystery. [illustration] henry and his brother roused flora, and after agreeing together that it would be highly imprudent to say anything to her of the proceedings of the night, they commenced a conversation with her in encouraging and kindly accents. "well, flora," said henry, "you see you have been quite undisturbed to-night." "i have slept long, dear henry." "you have, and pleasantly too, i hope." "i have not had any dreams, and i feel much refreshed, now, and quite well again." "thank heaven!" said george. "if you will tell dear mother that i am awake, i will get up with her assistance." the brothers left the room, and they spoke to each other of it as a favourable sign, that flora did not object to being left alone now, as she had done on the preceding morning. "she is fast recovering, now, george," said henry. "if we could now but persuade ourselves that all this alarm would pass away, and that we should hear no more of it, we might return to our old and comparatively happy condition." "let us believe, henry, that we shall." "and yet, george, i shall not be satisfied in my mind, until i have paid a visit." "a visit? where?" "to the family vault." "indeed, henry! i thought you had abandoned that idea." "i had. i have several times abandoned it; but it comes across my mind again and again." "i much regret it." "look you, george; as yet, everything that has happened has tended to confirm a belief in this most horrible of all superstitions concerning vampyres." "it has." "now, my great object, george, is to endeavour to disturb such a state of things, by getting something, however slight, or of a negative character, for the mind to rest upon on the other side of the question." "i comprehend you, henry." "you know that at present we are not only led to believe, almost irresistibly that we have been visited here by a vampyre but that that vampyre is our ancestor, whose portrait is on the panel of the wall of the chamber into which he contrived to make his way." "true, most true." "then let us, by an examination of the family vault, george, put an end to one of the evidences. if we find, as most surely we shall, the coffin of the ancestor of ours, who seems, in dress and appearance, so horribly mixed up in this affair, we shall be at rest on that head." "but consider how many years have elapsed." "yes, a great number." "what then, do you suppose, could remain of any corpse placed in a vault so long ago?" "decomposition must of course have done its work, but still there must be a something to show that a corpse has so undergone the process common to all nature. double the lapse of time surely could not obliterate all traces of that which had been." "there is reason in that, henry." "besides, the coffins are all of lead, and some of stone, so that they cannot have all gone." "true, most true." "if in the one which, from the inscription and the date, we discover to be that of our ancestor whom we seek, we find the evident remains of a corpse, we shall be satisfied that he has rested in his tomb in peace." "brother, you seem bent on this adventure," said george; "if you go, i will accompany you." "i will not engage rashly in it, george. before i finally decide, i will again consult with mr. marchdale. his opinion will weigh much with me." "and in good time, here he comes across the garden," said george, as he looked from the window of the room in which they sat. it was mr. marchdale, and the brothers warmly welcomed him as he entered the apartment. "you have been early afoot," said henry. "i have," he said. "the fact is, that although at your solicitation i went to bed, i could not sleep, and i went out once more to search about the spot where we had seen the--the i don't know what to call it, for i have a great dislike to naming it a vampyre." "there is not much in a name," said george. "in this instance there is," said marchdale. "it is a name suggestive of horror." "made you any discovery?" said henry. "none whatever." "you saw no trace of any one?" "not the least." "well, mr. marchdale, george and i were talking over this projected visit to the family vault." "yes." "and we agreed to suspend our judgments until we saw you, and learned your opinion." "which i will tell you frankly," said mr. marchdale, "because i know you desire it freely." "do so." "it is, that you make the visit." "indeed." "yes, and for this reason. you have now, as you cannot help having, a disagreeable feeling, that you may find that one coffin is untenanted. now, if you do find it so, you scarcely make matters worse, by an additional confirmation of what already amounts to a strong supposition, and one which is likely to grow stronger by time." "true, most true." "on the contrary, if you find indubitable proofs that your ancestor has slept soundly in the tomb, and gone the way of all flesh, you will find yourselves much calmer, and that an attack is made upon the train of events which at present all run one way." "that is precisely the argument i was using to george," said henry, "a few moments since." "then let us go," said george, "by all means." "it is so decided then," said henry. "let it be done with caution," replied mr. marchdale. "if any one can manage it, of course we can." "why should it not be done secretly and at night? of course we lose nothing by making a night visit to a vault into which daylight, i presume, cannot penetrate." "certainly not." "then let it be at night." "but we shall surely require the concurrence of some of the church authorities." "nay, i do not see that," interposed mr. marchdale. "it is the vault actually vested in and belonging to yourself you wish to visit, and, therefore, you have right to visit it in any manner or at any time that may be most suitable to yourself." "but detection in a clandestine visit might produce unpleasant consequences." "the church is old," said george, "and we could easily find means of getting into it. there is only one objection that i see, just now, and that is, that we leave flora unprotected." "we do, indeed," said henry. "i did not think of that." "it must be put to herself, as a matter for her own consideration," said mr. marchdale, "if she will consider herself sufficiently safe with the company and protection of your mother only." "it would be a pity were we not all three present at the examination of the coffin," remarked henry. "it would, indeed. there is ample evidence," said mr. marchdale, "but we must not give flora a night of sleeplessness and uneasiness on that account, and the more particularly as we cannot well explain to her where we are going, or upon what errand." "certainly not." "let us talk to her, then, about it," said henry. "i confess i am much bent upon the plan, and fain would not forego it; neither should i like other than that we three should go together." "if you determine, then, upon it," said marchdale, "we will go to-night; and, from your acquaintance with the place, doubtless you will be able to decide what tools are necessary." "there is a trap-door at the bottom of the pew," said henry; "it is not only secured down, but it is locked likewise, and i have the key in my possession." "indeed!" "yes; immediately beneath is a short flight of stone steps, which conduct at once into the vault." "is it large?" "no; about the size of a moderate chamber, and with no intricacies about it." "there can be no difficulties, then." "none whatever, unless we meet with actual personal interruption, which i am inclined to think is very far from likely. all we shall require will be a screwdriver, with which to remove the screws, and then something with which to wrench open the coffin." "those we can easily provide, along with lights," remarked mr. marchdale. "i hope to heaven that this visit to the tomb will have the effect of easing your minds, and enabling you to make a successful stand against the streaming torrent of evidence that has poured in upon us regarding this most fearful of apparitions." "i do, indeed, hope so," added henry; "and now i will go at once to flora, and endeavour to convince her she is safe without us to-night." "by-the-bye, i think," said marchdale, "that if we can induce mr. chillingworth to come with us, it will be a great point gained in the investigation." "he would," said henry, "be able to come to an accurate decision with respect to the remains--if any--in the coffin, which we could not." "then have him, by all means," said george. "he did not seem averse last night to go on such an adventure." "i will ask him when he makes his visit this morning upon flora; and should he not feel disposed to join us, i am quite sure he will keep the secret of our visit." all this being arranged, henry proceeded to flora, and told her that he and george, and mr. marchdale wished to go out for about a couple of hours in the evening after dark, if she felt sufficiently well to feel a sense of security without them. flora changed colour, and slightly trembled, and then, as if ashamed of her fears, she said,-"go, go; i will not detain you. surely no harm can come to me in presence of my mother." "we shall not be gone longer than the time i mention to you," said henry. "oh, i shall be quite content. besides, am i to be kept thus in fear all my life? surely, surely not. i ought, too, to learn to defend myself." henry caught at the idea, as he said,-"if fire-arms were left you, do you think you would have courage to use them?" "i do, henry." "then you shall have them; and let me beg of you to shoot any one without the least hesitation who shall come into your chamber." "i will, henry. if ever human being was justified in the use of deadly weapons, i am now. heaven protect me from a repetition of the visit to which i have now been once subjected. rather, oh, much rather would i die a hundred deaths than suffer what i have suffered." "do not allow it, dear flora, to press too heavily upon your mind in dwelling upon it in conversation. i still entertain a sanguine expectation that something may arise to afford a far less dreadful explanation of what has occurred than what you have put upon it. be of good cheer, flora, we shall go one hour after sunset, and return in about two hours from the time at which we leave here, you may be assured." notwithstanding this ready and courageous acquiescence of flora in the arrangement, henry was not without his apprehension that when the night should come again, her fears would return with it; but he spoke to mr. chillingworth upon the subject, and got that gentleman's ready consent to accompany them. he promised to meet them at the church porch exactly at nine o'clock, and matters were all arranged, and henry waited with much eagerness and anxiety now for the coming night, which he hoped would dissipate one of the fearful deductions which his imagination had drawn from recent circumstances. he gave to flora a pair of pistols of his own, upon which he knew he could depend, and he took good care to load them well, so that there could be no likelihood whatever of their missing fire at a critical moment. "now, flora," he said, "i have seen you use fire-arms when you were much younger than you are now, and therefore i need give you no instructions. if any intruder does come, and you do fire, be sure you take a good aim, and shoot low." "i will, henry, i will; and you will be back in two hours?" "most assuredly i will." the day wore on, evening came, and then deepened into night. it turned out to be a cloudy night, and therefore the moon's brilliance was nothing near equal to what it had been on the preceding night still, however, it had sufficient power over the vapours that frequently covered it for many minutes together, to produce a considerable light effect upon the face of nature, and the night was consequently very far, indeed, from what might be called a dark one. george, henry, and marchdale, met in one of the lower rooms of the house, previous to starting upon their expedition; and after satisfying themselves that they had with them all the tools that were necessary, inclusive of the same small, but well-tempered iron crow-bar with which marchdale had, on the night of the visit of the vampyre, forced open the door of flora's chamber, they left the hall, and proceeded at a rapid pace towards the church. "and flora does not seem much alarmed," said marchdale, "at being left alone?" "no," replied henry, "she has made up her mind with a strong natural courage which i knew was in her disposition to resist as much as possible the depressing effects of the awful visitation she has endured." "it would have driven some really mad." "it would, indeed; and her own reason tottered on its throne, but, thank heaven, she has recovered." "and i fervently hope that, through her life," added marchdale, "she may never have such another trial." "we will not for a moment believe that such a thing can occur twice." "she is one among a thousand. most young girls would never at all have recovered the fearful shock to the nerves." "not only has she recovered," said henry, "but a spirit, which i am rejoiced to see, because it is one which will uphold her, of resistance now possesses her." "yes, she actually--i forgot to tell you before--but she actually asked me for arms to resist any second visitation." "you much surprise me." "yes, i was surprised, as well as pleased, myself." "i would have left her one of my pistols had i been aware of her having made such a request. do you know if she can use fire-arms?" "oh, yes; well." "what a pity. i have them both with me." "oh, she is provided." "provided?" "yes; i found some pistols which i used to take with me on the continent, and she has them both well loaded, so that if the vampyre makes his appearance, he is likely to meet with rather a warm reception." "good god! was it not dangerous?" "not at all, i think." "well, you know best, certainly, of course. i hope the vampyre may come, and that we may have the pleasure, when we return, of finding him dead. by-the-bye, i--i--. bless me, i have forgot to get the materials for lights, which i pledged myself to do." "how unfortunate." "walk on slowly, while i run back and get them." "oh, we are too far--" "hilloa!" cried a man at this moment, some distance in front of them. "it is mr. chillingworth," said henry. "hilloa," cried the worthy doctor again. "is that you, my friend, henry bannerworth?" "it is," cried henry. mr. chillingworth now came up to them and said,-"i was before my time, so rather than wait at the church porch, which would have exposed me to observation perhaps, i thought it better to walk on, and chance meeting with you." "you guessed we should come this way?' "yes, and so it turns out, really. it is unquestionably your most direct route to the church." "i think i will go back," said mr marchdale. "back!" exclaimed the doctor; "what for?" "i forgot the means of getting lights. we have candles, but no means of lighting them." "make yourselves easy on that score," said mr. chillingworth. "i am never without some chemical matches of my own manufacture, so that as you have the candles, that can be no bar to our going on a once." "that is fortunate," said henry. "very," added marchdale; "for it seems a mile's hard walking for me, or at least half a mile from the hall. let us now push on." they did push on, all four walking at a brisk pace. the church, although it belonged to the village, was not in it. on the contrary, it was situated at the end of a long lane, which was a mile nearly from the village, in the direction of the hall, therefore, in going to it from the hall, that amount of distance was saved, although it was always called and considered the village church. it stood alone, with the exception of a glebe house and two cottages, that were occupied by persons who held situations about the sacred edifice, and who were supposed, being on the spot, to keep watch and ward over it. it was an ancient building of the early english style of architecture, or rather norman, with one of those antique, square, short towers, built of flint stones firmly embedded in cement, which, from time, had acquired almost the consistency of stone itself. there were numerous arched windows, partaking something of the more florid gothic style, although scarcely ornamental enough to be called such. the edifice stood in the centre of a grave-yard, which extended over a space of about half an acre, and altogether it was one of the prettiest and most rural old churches within many miles of the spot. many a lover of the antique and of the picturesque, for it was both, went out of his way while travelling in the neighbourhood to look at it, and it had an extensive and well-deserved reputation as a fine specimen of its class and style of building. in kent, to the present day, are some fine specimens of the old roman style of church, building; and, although they are as rapidly pulled down as the abuse of modern architects, and the cupidity of speculators, and the vanity of clergymen can possibly encourage, in older to erect flimsy, italianised structures in their stead, yet sufficient of them remain dotted over england to interest the traveller. at walesden there is a church of this description which will well repay a visit. this, then, was the kind of building into which it was the intention of our four friends to penetrate, not on an unholy, or an unjustifiable errand, but on one which, proceeding from good and proper motives, it was highly desirable to conduct in as secret a manner as possible. the moon was more densely covered by clouds than it had yet been that evening, when they reached the little wicket-gate which led into the churchyard, through which was a regularly used thoroughfare. "we have a favourable night," remarked henry, "for we are not so likely to be disturbed." "and now, the question is, how are we to get in?" said mr. chillingworth, as he paused, and glanced up at the ancient building. "the doors," said george, "would effectually resist us." "how can it be done, then?" "the only way i can think of," said henry, "is to get out one of the small diamond-shaped panes of glass from one of the low windows, and then we can one of us put in our hands, and undo the fastening, which is very simple, when the window opens like a door, and it is but a step into the church." "a good way," said marchdale. "we will lose no time." they walked round the church till they came to a very low window indeed, near to an angle of the wall, where a huge abutment struck far out into the burial-ground. "will you do it, henry?" said george. "yes. i have often noticed the fastenings. just give me a slight hoist up, and all will be right." george did so, and henry with his knife easily bent back some of the leadwork which held in one of the panes of glass, and then got it out whole. he handed it down to george, saying,-"take this, george. we can easily replace it when we leave, so that there can be no signs left of any one having been here at all." george took the piece of thick, dim-coloured glass, and in another moment henry had succeeded in opening the window, and the mode of ingress to the old church was fair and easy before them all, had there been ever so many. "i wonder," said marchdale, "that a place so inefficiently protected has never been robbed." "no wonder at all," remarked mr. chillingworth. "there is nothing to take that i am aware of that would repay anybody the trouble of taking." "indeed!" "not an article. the pulpit, to be sure, is covered with faded velvet; but beyond that, and an old box, in which i believe nothing is left but some books, i think there is no temptation." "and that, heaven knows, is little enough, then." "come on," said henry. "be careful; there is nothing beneath the window, and the depth is about two feet." thus guided, they all got fairly into the sacred edifice, and then henry closed the window, and fastened it on the inside as he said,-"we have nothing to do now but to set to work opening a way into the vault, and i trust that heaven will pardon me for thus desecrating the tomb of my ancestors, from a consideration of the object i have in view by so doing." "it does seem wrong thus to tamper with the secrets of the tomb," remarked mr. marchdale. "the secrets of a fiddlestick!" said the doctor. "what secrets has the tomb i wonder?" "well, but, my dear sir--" "nay, my dear sir, it is high time that death, which is, then, the inevitable fate of us all, should be regarded with more philosophic eyes than it is. there are no secrets in the tomb but such as may well be endeavoured to be kept secret." "what do you mean?" "there is one which very probably we shall find unpleasantly revealed." "which is that?" "the not over pleasant odour of decomposed animal remains--beyond that i know of nothing of a secret nature that the tomb can show us." "ah, your profession hardens you to such matters." "and a very good thing that it does, or else, if all men were to look upon a dead body as something almost too dreadful to look upon, and by far too horrible to touch, surgery would lose its value, and crime, in many instances of the most obnoxious character, would go unpunished." "if we have a light here," said henry, "we shall run the greatest chance in the world of being seen, for the church has many windows." "do not have one, then, by any means," said mr. chillingworth. "a match held low down in the pew may enable us to open the vault." "that will be the only plan." henry led them to the pew which belonged to his family, and in the floor of which was the trap door. "when was it last opened?" inquired marchdale. "when my father died," said henry; "some ten months ago now, i should think." "the screws, then, have had ample time to fix themselves with fresh rust." "here is one of my chemical matches," said mr. chillingworth, as he suddenly irradiated the pew with a clear and beautiful flame, that lasted about a minute. the heads of the screws were easily discernible, and the short time that the light lasted had enabled henry to turn the key he had brought with him in the lock. "i think that without a light now," he said, "i can turn the screws well." "can you?" "yes; there are but four." "try it, then." henry did so, and from the screws having very large heads, and being made purposely, for the convenience of removal when required, with deep indentations to receive the screw-driver, he found no difficulty in feeling for the proper places, and extracting the screws without any more light than was afforded to him from the general whitish aspect of the heavens. "now, mr. chillingworth," he said "another of your matches, if you please. i have all the screws so loose that i can pick them up with my fingers." "here," said the doctor. in another moment the pew was as light as day, and henry succeeded in taking out the few screws, which he placed in his pocket for their greater security, since, of course, the intention was to replace everything exactly as it was found, in order that not the least surmise should arise in the mind of any person that the vault had been opened, and visited for any purpose whatever, secretly or otherwise. "let us descend," said henry. "there is no further obstacle, my friends. let us descend." "if any one," remarked george, in a whisper, as they slowly descended the stairs which conducted into the vault--"if any one had told me that i should be descending into a vault for the purpose of ascertaining if a dead body, which had been nearly a century there, was removed or not, and had become a vampyre, i should have denounced the idea as one of the most absurd that ever entered the brain of a human being." "we are the very slaves of circumstances," said marchdale, "and we never know what we may do, or what we may not. what appears to us so improbable as to border even upon the impossible at one time, is at another the only course of action which appears feasibly open to us to attempt to pursue." they had now reached the vault, the floor of which was composed of flat red tiles, laid in tolerable order the one beside the other. as henry had stated, the vault was by no means of large extent. indeed, several of the apartments for the living, at the hall, were much larger than was that one destined for the dead. the atmosphere was dump and noisome, but not by any means so bad as might have been expected, considering the number of months which had elapsed since last the vault was opened to receive one of its ghastly and still visitants. "now for one of your lights. mr. chillingworth. you say you have the candles, i think, marchdale, although you forgot the matches." "i have. they are here." marchdale took from his pocket a parcel which contained several wax candles, and when it was opened, a smaller packet fell to the ground. "why, these are instantaneous matches," said mr. chillingworth, as he lifted the small packet up. "they are; and what a fruitless journey i should have had back to the hall," said mr. marchdale, "if you had not been so well provided as you are with the means of getting a light. these matches, which i thought i had not with me, have been, in the hurry of departure, enclosed, you see, with the candles. truly, i should have hunted for them at home in vain." mr. chillingworth lit the wax candle which was now handed to him by marchdale, and in another moment the vault from one end of it to the other was quite clearly discernible. chapter viii. the coffin.--the absence of the dead.--the mysterious circumstance, and the consternation of george. [illustration] they were all silent for a few moments as they looked around them with natural feelings of curiosity. two of that party had of course never been in that vault at all, and the brothers, although they had descended into it upon the occasion, nearly a year before, of their father being placed in it, still looked upon it with almost as curious eyes as they who now had their first sight of it. if a man be at all of a thoughtful or imaginative cast of mind, some curious sensations are sure to come over him, upon standing in such a place, where he knows around him lie, in the calmness of death, those in whose veins have flowed kindred blood to him--who bore the same name, and who preceded him in the brief drama of his existence, influencing his destiny and his position in life probably largely by their actions compounded of their virtues and their vices. henry bannerworth and his brother george were just the kind of persons to feel strongly such sensations. both were reflective, imaginative, educated young men, and, as the light from the wax candle flashed upon their faces, it was evident how deeply they felt the situation in which they were placed. mr. chillingworth and marchdale were silent. they both knew what was passing in the minds of the brothers, and they had too much delicacy to interrupt a train of thought which, although from having no affinity with the dead who lay around, they could not share in, yet they respected. henry at length, with a sudden start, seemed to recover himself from his reverie. "this is a time for action, george," he said, "and not for romantic thought. let us proceed." "yes, yes," said george, and he advanced a step towards the centre of the vault. "can you find out among all these coffins, for there seem to be nearly twenty," said mr. chillingworth, "which is the one we seek?" "i think we may," replied henry. "some of the earlier coffins of our race, i know, were made of marble, and others of metal, both of which materials, i expect, would withstand the encroaches of time for a hundred years, at least." "let us examine," said george. there were shelves or niches built into the walls all round, on which the coffins were placed, so that there could not be much difficulty in a minute examination of them all, the one after the other. when, however, they came to look, they found that "decay's offensive fingers" had been more busy than they could have imagined, and that whatever they touched of the earlier coffins crumbled into dust before their very fingers. in some cases the inscriptions were quite illegible, and, in others, the plates that had borne them had fallen on to the floor of the vault, so that it was impossible to say to which coffin they belonged. of course, the more recent and fresh-looking coffins they did not examine, because they could not have anything to do with the object of that melancholy visit. "we shall arrive at no conclusion," said george. "all seems to have rotted away among those coffins where we might expect to find the one belonging to marmaduke bannerworth, our ancestor." "here is a coffin plate," said marchdale, taking one from the floor. he handed it to mr. chillingworth, who, upon an inspection of it, close to the light, exclaimed,-"it must have belonged to the coffin you seek." "what says it?" "ye mortale remains of marmaduke bannerworth, yeoman. god reste his soule. a.d. 1540." "it is the plate belonging to his coffin," said henry, "and now our search is fruitless." "it is so, indeed," exclaimed george, "for how can we tell to which of the coffins that have lost the plates this one really belongs?" "i should not be so hopeless," said marchdale. "i have, from time to time, in the pursuit of antiquarian lore, which i was once fond of, entered many vaults, and i have always observed that an inner coffin of metal was sound and good, while the outer one of wood had rotted away, and yielded at once to the touch of the first hand that was laid upon it." "but, admitting that to be the case," said henry, "how does that assist us in the identification of a coffin?" "i have always, in my experience, found the name and rank of the deceased engraved upon the lid of the inner coffin, as well as being set forth in a much more perishable manner on the plate which was secured to the outer one." "he is right," said mr. chillingworth. "i wonder we never thought of that. if your ancestor was buried in a leaden coffin, there will be no difficulty in finding which it is." henry seized the light, and proceeding to one of the coffins, which seemed to be a mass of decay, he pulled away some of the rotted wood work, and then suddenly exclaimed,-"you are quite right. here is a firm strong leaden coffin within, which, although quite black, does not otherwise appear to have suffered." "what is the inscription on that?" said george. with difficulty the name on the lid was deciphered, but it was found not to be the coffin of him whom they sought. "we can make short work of this," said marchdale, "by only examining those leaden coffins which have lost the plates from off their outer cases. there do not appear to be many in such a state." he then, with another light, which he lighted from the one that henry now carried, commenced actively assisting in the search, which was carried on silently for more than ten minutes. suddenly mr. marchdale cried, in a tone of excitement,-"i have found it. it is here." they all immediately surrounded the spot where he was, and then he pointed to the lid of a coffin, which he had been rubbing with his handkerchief, in order to make the inscription more legible, and said,-"see. it is here." by the combined light of the candles they saw the words,-"marmaduke bannerworth, yeoman, 1640." "yes, there can be no mistake here," said henry. "this is the coffin, and it shall be opened." "i have the iron crowbar here," said marchdale. "it is an old friend of mine, and i am accustomed to the use of it. shall i open the coffin?" "do so--do so," said henry. they stood around in silence, while mr. marchdale, with much care, proceeded to open the coffin, which seemed of great thickness, and was of solid lead. it was probably the partial rotting of the metal, in consequence of the damps of that place, that made it easier to open the coffin than it otherwise would have been, but certain it was that the top came away remarkably easily. indeed, so easily did it come off, that another supposition might have been hazarded, namely, that it had never at all been effectually fastened. [illustration] the few moments that elapsed were ones of very great suspense to every one there present; and it would, indeed, be quite sure to assert, that all the world was for the time forgotten in the absorbing interest which appertained to the affair which was in progress. the candles were now both held by mr. chillingworth, and they were so held as to cast a full and clear light upon the coffin. now the lid slid off, and henry eagerly gazed into the interior. there lay something certainly there, and an audible "thank god!" escaped his lips. "the body is there!" exclaimed george. "all right," said marchdale, "here it is. there is something, and what else can it be?" "hold the lights," said mr. chillingworth; "hold the lights, some of you; let us be quite certain." george took the lights, and mr. chillingworth, without any hesitation, dipped his hands at once into the coffin, and took up some fragments of rags which were there. they were so rotten, that they fell to pieces in his grasp, like so many pieces of tinder. there was a death-like pause for some few moments, and then mr. chillingworth said, in a low voice,-"there is not the least vestige of a dead body here." henry gave a deep groan, as he said,-"mr. chillingworth, can you take upon yourself to say that no corpse has undergone the process of decomposition in this coffin?" "to answer your question exactly, as probably in your hurry you have worded it," said mr. chillingworth, "i cannot take upon myself to say any such thing; but this i can say, namely, that in this coffin there are no animal remains, and that it is quite impossible that any corpse enclosed here could, in any lapse of time, have so utterly and entirely disappeared." "i am answered," said henry. "good god!" exclaimed george, "and has this but added another damning proof, to those we have already on our minds, of one of the must dreadful superstitions that ever the mind of man conceived?" "it would seem so," said marchdale, sadly. "oh, that i were dead! this is terrible. god of heaven, why are these things? oh, if i were but dead, and so spared the torture of supposing such things possible." "think again, mr. chillingworth; i pray you think again," cried marchdale. "if i were to think for the remainder of my existence," he replied, "i could come to no other conclusion. it is not a matter of opinion; it is a matter of fact." "you are positive, then," said henry, "that the dead body of marmaduke bannerworth is not rested here?" "i am positive. look for yourselves. the lead is but slightly discoloured; it looks tolerably clean and fresh; there is not a vestige of putrefaction--no bones, no dust even." they did all look for themselves, and the most casual glance was sufficient to satisfy the most sceptical. "all is over," said henry; "let us now leave this place; and all i can now ask of you, my friends, is to lock this dreadful secret deep in your own hearts." "it shall never pass my lips," said marchdale. "nor mine, you may depend," said the doctor. "i was much in hopes that this night's work would have had the effect of dissipating, instead of adding to, the gloomy fancies that now possess you." "good heavens!" cried george, "can you call them fancies, mr. chillingworth?" "i do, indeed." "have you yet a doubt?" "my young friend, i told you from the first, that i would not believe in your vampyre; and i tell you now, that if one was to come and lay hold of me by the throat, as long as i could at all gasp for breath i would tell him he was a d----d impostor." "this is carrying incredulity to the verge of obstinacy." "far beyond it, if you please." "you will not be convinced?" said marchdale. "i most decidedly, on this point, will not." "then you are one who would doubt a miracle, if you saw it with your own eyes." "i would, because i do not believe in miracles. i should endeavour to find some rational and some scientific means of accounting for the phenomenon, and that's the very reason why we have no miracles now-a-days, between you and i, and no prophets and saints, and all that sort of thing." "i would rather avoid such observations in such a place as this," said marchdale. "nay, do not be the moral coward," cried mr. chillingworth, "to make your opinions, or the expression of them, dependent upon any certain locality." "i know not what to think," said henry; "i am bewildered quite. let us now come away." mr. marchdale replaced the lid of the coffin, and then the little party moved towards the staircase. henry turned before he ascended, and glanced back into the vault. "oh," he said, "if i could but think there had been some mistake, some error of judgment, on which the mind could rest for hope." "i deeply regret," said marchdale, "that i so strenuously advised this expedition. i did hope that from it would have resulted much good." "and you had every reason so to hope," said chillingworth. "i advised it likewise, and i tell you that its result perfectly astonishes me, although i will not allow myself to embrace at once all the conclusions to which it would seem to lead me." "i am satisfied," said henry; "i know you both advised me for the best. the curse of heaven seems now to have fallen upon me and my house." "oh, nonsense!" said chillingworth. "what for?" "alas! i know not." "then you may depend that heaven would never act so oddly. in the first place, heaven don't curse anybody; and, in the second, it is too just to inflict pain where pain is not amply deserved." they ascended the gloomy staircase of the vault. the countenances of both george and henry were very much saddened, and it was quite evident that their thoughts were by far too busy to enable them to enter into any conversation. they did not, and particularly george, seem to hear all that was said to them. their intellects seemed almost stunned by the unexpected circumstance of the disappearance of the body of their ancestor. all along they had, although almost unknown to themselves, felt a sort of conviction that they must find some remains of marmaduke bannerworth, which would render the supposition, even in the most superstitious minds, that he was the vampyre, a thing totally and physically impossible. but now the whole question assumed a far more bewildering shape. the body was not in its coffin--it had not there quietly slept the long sleep of death common to humanity. where was it then? what had become of it? where, how, and under what circumstances had it been removed? had it itself burst the bands that held it, and hideously stalked forth into the world again to make one of its seeming inhabitants, and kept up for a hundred years a dreadful existence by such adventures as it had consummated at the hall, where, in the course of ordinary human life, it had once lived? all these were questions which irresistibly pressed themselves upon the consideration of henry and his brother. they were awful questions. and yet, take any sober, sane, thinking, educated man, and show him all that they had seen, subject him to all to which they had been subjected, and say if human reason, and all the arguments that the subtlest brain could back it with, would be able to hold out against such a vast accumulation of horrible evidences, and say--"i don't believe it." mr. chillingworth's was the only plan. he would not argue the question. he said at once,-"i will not believe this thing--upon this point i will yield to no evidence whatever." that was the only way of disposing of such a question; but there are not many who could so dispose of it, and not one so much interested in it as were the brothers bannerworth, who could at all hope to get into such a state of mind. the boards were laid carefully down again, and the screws replaced. henry found himself unequal to the task, so it was done by marchdale, who took pains to replace everything in the same state in which they had found it, even to the laying even the matting at the bottom of the pew. then they extinguished the light, and, with heavy hearts, they all walked towards the window, to leave the sacred edifice by the same means they had entered it. "shall we replace the pane of glass?" said marchdale. "oh, it matters not--it matters not," said henry, listlessly; "nothing matters now. i care not what becomes of me--i am getting weary of a life which now must be one of misery and dread." "you must not allow yourself to fall into such a state of mind as this," said the doctor, "or you will become a patient of mine very quickly." "i cannot help it." "well, but be a man. if there are serious evils affecting you, fight out against them the best way you can." "i cannot." "come, now, listen to me. we need not, i think, trouble ourselves about the pane of glass, so come along." he took the arm of henry and walked on with him a little in advance of the others. "henry," he said, "the best way, you may depend, of meeting evils, be they great or small, is to get up an obstinate feeling of defiance against them. now, when anything occurs which is uncomfortable to me, i endeavour to convince myself, and i have no great difficulty in doing so, that i am a decidedly injured man." "indeed!" "yes; i get very angry, and that gets up a kind of obstinacy, which makes me not feel half so much mental misery as would be my portion, if i were to succumb to the evil, and commence whining over it, as many people do, under the pretence of being resigned." "but this family affliction of mine transcends anything that anybody else ever endured." "i don't know that; but it is a view of the subject which, if i were you, would only make me more obstinate." "what can i do?" "in the first place, i would say to myself, 'there may or there may not be supernatural beings, who, from some physical derangement of the ordinary nature of things, make themselves obnoxious to living people; if there are, d--n them! there may be vampyres; and if there are, i defy them.' let the imagination paint its very worst terrors; let fear do what it will and what it can in peopling the mind with horrors. shrink from nothing, and even then i would defy them all." "is not that like defying heaven?" "most certainly not; for in all we say and in all we do we act from the impulses of that mind which is given to us by heaven itself. if heaven creates an intellect and a mind of a certain order, heaven will not quarrel that it does the work which it was adapted to do." "i know these are your opinions. i have heard you mention them before." "they are the opinions of every rational person. henry bannerworth, because they will stand the test of reason; and what i urge upon you is, not to allow yourself to be mentally prostrated, even if a vampyre has paid a visit to your house. defy him, say i--fight him. self-preservation is a great law of nature, implanted in all our hearts; do you summon it to your aid." "i will endeavour to think as you would have me. i thought more than once of summoning religion to my aid." "well, that is religion." "indeed!" "i consider so, and the most rational religion of all. all that we read about religion that does not seem expressly to agree with it, you may consider as an allegory." "but, mr. chillingworth, i cannot and will not renounce the sublime truths of scripture. they may be incomprehensible; they may be inconsistent; and some of them may look ridiculous; but still they are sacred and sublime, and i will not renounce them although my reason may not accord with them, because they are the laws of heaven." no wonder this powerful argument silenced mr. chillingworth, who was one of those characters in society who hold most dreadful opinions, and who would destroy religious beliefs, and all the different sects in the world, if they could, and endeavour to introduce instead some horrible system of human reason and profound philosophy. but how soon the religious man silences his opponent; and let it not be supposed that, because his opponent says no more upon the subject, he does so because he is disgusted with the stupidity of the other; no, it is because he is completely beaten, and has nothing more to say. the distance now between the church and the hall was nearly traversed, and mr. chillingworth, who was a very good man, notwithstanding his disbelief in certain things of course paved the way for him to hell, took a kind leave of mr. marchdale and the brothers, promising to call on the following morning and see flora. henry and george then, in earnest conversation with marchdale, proceeded homewards. it was evident that the scene in the vault had made a deep and saddening impression upon them, and one which was not likely easily to be eradicated. chapter ix. the occurrences of the night at the hall.--the second appearance of the vampyre, and the pistol-shot. [illustration] despite the full and free consent which flora had given to her brothers to entrust her solely to the care of her mother and her own courage at the hall, she felt greater fear creep over her after they were gone than she chose to acknowledge. a sort of presentiment appeared to come over her that some evil was about to occur, and more than once she caught herself almost in the act of saying,-"i wish they had not gone." mrs. bannerworth, too, could not be supposed to be entirely destitute of uncomfortable feelings, when she came to consider how poor a guard she was over her beautiful child, and how much terror might even deprive of the little power she had, should the dreadful visitor again make his appearance. "but it is but for two hours," thought flora, "and two hours will soon pass away." there was, too, another feeling which gave her some degree of confidence, although it arose from a bad source, inasmuch as it was one which showed powerfully how much her mind was dwelling on the particulars of the horrible belief in the class of supernatural beings, one of whom she believed had visited her. that consideration was this. the two hours of absence from the hall of its male inhabitants, would be from nine o'clock until eleven, and those were not the two hours during which she felt that she would be most timid on account of the vampyre. "it was after midnight before," she thought, "when it came, and perhaps it may not be able to come earlier. it may not have the power, until that time, to make its hideous visits, and, therefore, i will believe myself safe." she had made up her mind not to go to bed until the return of her brothers, and she and her mother sat in a small room that was used as a breakfast-room, and which had a latticed window that opened on to the lawn. this window had in the inside strong oaken shutters, which had been fastened as securely as their construction would admit of some time before the departure of the brothers and mr. marchdale on that melancholy expedition, the object of which, if it had been known to her, would have added so much to the terrors of poor flora. it was not even guessed at, however remotely, so that she had not the additional affliction of thinking, that while she was sitting there, a prey to all sorts of imaginative terrors, they were perhaps gathering fresh evidence, as, indeed, they were, of the dreadful reality of the appearance which, but for the collateral circumstances attendant upon its coming and its going, she would fain have persuaded herself was but the vision of a dream. it was before nine that the brothers started, but in her own mind flora gave them to eleven, and when she heard ten o'clock sound from a clock which stood in the hall, she felt pleased to think that in another hour they would surely be at home. "my dear," said her mother, "you look more like yourself, now." "do, i, mother?" "yes, you are well again." "ah, if i could forget--" "time, my dear flora, will enable you to do so, and all the fear of what made you so unwell will pass away. you will soon forget it all." "i will hope to do so." "be assured that, some day or another, something will occur, as henry says, to explain all that has happened, in some way consistent with reason and the ordinary nature of things, my dear flora." "oh, i will cling to such a belief; i will get henry, upon whose judgment i know i can rely, to tell me so, and each time that i hear such words from his lips, i will contrive to dismiss some portion of the terror which now, i cannot but confess, clings to my heart." flora laid her hand upon her mother's arm, and in a low, anxious tone of voice, said,--"listen, mother." mrs. bannerworth turned pale, as she said,--"listen to what, dear?" "within these last ten minutes," said flora, "i have thought three or four times that i heard a slight noise without. nay, mother, do not tremble--it may be only fancy." [illustration] flora herself trembled, and was of a death-like paleness; once or twice she passed her hand across her brow, and altogether she presented a picture of much mental suffering. they now conversed in anxious whispers, and almost all they said consisted in anxious wishes for the return of the brothers and mr. marchdale. "you will be happier and more assured, my dear, with some company," said mrs. bannerworth. "shall i ring for the servants, and let them remain in the room with us, until they who are our best safeguards next to heaven return?" "hush--hush--hush, mother!" "what do you hear?" "i thought--i heard a faint sound." "i heard nothing, dear." "listen again, mother. surely i could not be deceived so often. i have now, at least, six times heard a sound as if some one was outside by the windows." "no, no, my darling, do not think; your imagination is active and in a state of excitement." "it is, and yet--" "believe me, it deceives you." "i hope to heaven it does!" there was a pause of some minutes' duration, and then mrs. bannerworth again urged slightly the calling of some of the servants, for she thought that their presence might have the effect of giving a different direction to her child's thoughts; but flora saw her place her hand upon the bell, and she said,-"no, mother, no--not yet, not yet. perhaps i am deceived." mrs. bannerworth upon this sat down, but no sooner had she done so than she heartily regretted she had not rung the bell, for, before, another word could be spoken, there came too perceptibly upon their ears for there to be any mistake at all about it, a strange scratching noise upon the window outside. a faint cry came from flora's lips, as she exclaimed, in a voice of great agony,-"oh, god!--oh, god! it has come again!" mrs. bannerworth became faint, and unable to move or speak at all; she could only sit like one paralysed, and unable to do more than listen to and see what was going on. the scratching noise continued for a few seconds, and then altogether ceased. perhaps, under ordinary circumstances, such a sound outside the window would have scarcely afforded food for comment at all, or, if it had, it would have been attributed to some natural effect, or to the exertions of some bird or animal to obtain admittance to the house. but there had occurred now enough in that family to make any little sound of wonderful importance, and these things which before would have passed completely unheeded, at all events without creating much alarm, were now invested with a fearful interest. when the scratching noise ceased, flora spoke in a low, anxious whisper, as she said,-"mother, you heard it then?" mrs. bannerworth tried to speak, but she could not; and then suddenly, with a loud clash, the bar, which on the inside appeared to fasten the shutters strongly, fell as if by some invisible agency, and the shutters now, but for the intervention of the window, could be easily pushed open from without. mrs. bannerworth covered her face with her hands, and, after rocking to and fro for a moment, she fell off her chair, having fainted with the excess of terror that came over her. for about the space of time in which a fast speaker could count twelve, flora thought her reason was leaving her, but it did not. she found herself recovering; and there she sat, with her eyes fixed upon the window, looking more like some exquisitely-chiselled statue of despair than a being of flesh and blood, expecting each moment to have its eyes blasted by some horrible appearance, such as might be supposed to drive her to madness. and now again came the strange knocking or scratching against the glass of the window. this continued for some minutes, during which it appeared likewise to flora that some confusion was going on at another part of the house, for she fancied she heard voices and the banging of doors. it seemed to her as if she must have sat looking at the shutters of that window a long time before she saw them shake, and then one wide hinged portion of them slowly opened. once again horror appeared to be on the point of producing madness in her brain, and then, as before, a feeling of calmness rapidly ensued. she was able to see plainly that something was by the window, but what it was she could not plainly discern, in consequence of the lights she had in the room. a few moments, however, sufficed to settle that mystery, for the window was opened and a figure stood before her. one glance, one terrified glance, in which her whole soul was concentrated, sufficed to shew her who and what the figure was. there was the tall, gaunt form--there was the faded ancient apparel--the lustrous metallic-looking eyes--its half-opened month, exhibiting the tusk-like teeth! it was--yes, it was--_the vampyre!_ it stood for a moment gazing at her, and then in the hideous way it had attempted before to speak, it apparently endeavoured to utter some words which it could not make articulate to human ears. the pistols lay before flora. mechanically she raised one, and pointed it at the figure. it advanced a step, and then she pulled the trigger. a stunning report followed. there was a loud cry of pain, and the vampyre fled. the smoke and the confusion that was incidental to the spot prevented her from seeing if the figure walked or ran away. she thought she heard a crashing sound among the plants outside the window, as if it had fallen, but she did not feel quite sure. it was no effort of any reflection, but a purely mechanical movement, that made her raise the other pistol, and discharge that likewise in the direction the vampyre had taken. then casting the weapon away, she rose, and made a frantic rush from the room. she opened the door, and was dashing out, when she found herself caught in the circling arms of some one who either had been there waiting, or who had just at that moment got there. the thought that it was the vampyre, who by some mysterious means, had got there, and was about to make her his prey, now overcame her completely, and she sunk into a state of utter insensibility on the moment. chapter x. the return from the vault.--the alarm, and the search around the hall. [illustration] it so happened that george and henry bannerworth, along with mr. marchdale, had just reached the gate which conducted into the garden of the mansion when they all were alarmed by the report of a pistol. amid the stillness of the night, it came upon them with so sudden a shock, that they involuntarily paused, and there came from the lips of each an expression of alarm. "good heavens!" cried george, "can that be flora firing at any intruder?" "it must be," cried henry; "she has in her possession the only weapons in the house." mr. marchdale turned very pale, and trembled slightly, but he did not speak. "on, on," cried henry; "for god's sake, let us hasten on." as he spoke, he cleared the gate at a bound, and at a terrific pace he made towards the house, passing over beds, and plantations, and flowers heedlessly, so that he went the most direct way to it. before, however, it was possible for any human speed to accomplish even half of the distance, the report of the other shot came upon his ears, and he even fancied he heard the bullet whistle past his head in tolerably close proximity. this supposition gave him a clue to the direction at all events from whence the shots proceeded, otherwise he knew not from which window they were fired, because it had not occurred to him, previous to leaving home, to inquire in which room flora and his mother were likely to be seated waiting his return. he was right as regarded the bullet. it was that winged messenger of death which had passed his head in such very dangerous proximity, and consequently he made with tolerable accuracy towards the open window from whence the shots had been fired. the night was not near so dark as it had been, although even yet it was very far from being a light one, and he was soon enabled to see that there was a room, the window of which was wide open, and lights burning on the table within. he made towards it in a moment, and entered it. to his astonishment, the first objects he beheld were flora and a stranger, who was now supporting her in his arms. to grapple him by the throat was the work of a moment, but the stranger cried aloud in a voice which sounded familiar to harry,-"good god, are you all mad?" henry relaxed his hold, and looked in his face. "gracious heavens, it is mr. holland!" he said. "yes; did you not know me?" henry was bewildered. he staggered to a seat, and, in doing so, he saw his mother, stretched apparently lifeless upon the floor. to raise her was the work of a moment, and then marchdale and george, who had followed him as fast as they could, appeared at the open window. such a strange scene as that small room now exhibited had never been equalled in bannerworth hall. there was young mr. holland, of whom mention has already been made, as the affianced lover of flora, supporting her fainting form. there was henry doing equal service to his mother; and on the floor lay the two pistols, and one of the candles which had been upset in the confusion; while the terrified attitudes of george and mr. marchdale at the window completed the strange-looking picture. "what is this--oh! what has happened?" cried george. "i know not--i know not," said henry. "some one summon the servants; i am nearly mad." mr. marchdale at once rung the bell, for george looked so faint and ill as to be incapable of doing so; and he rung it so loudly and so effectually, that the two servants who had been employed suddenly upon the others leaving came with much speed to know what was the matter. "see to your mistress," said henry. "she is dead, or has fainted. for god's sake, let who can give me some account of what has caused all this confusion here." "are you aware, henry," said marchdale, "that a stranger is present in the room?" he pointed to mr. holland as he spoke, who, before henry could reply, said,-"sir, i may be a stranger to you, as you are to me, and yet no stranger to those whose home this is." "no, no," said henry, "you are no stranger to us, mr. holland, but are thrice welcome--none can be more welcome. mr. marchdale, this is mr holland, of whom you have heard me speak." "i am proud to know you, sir," said marchdale. "sir, i thank you," replied holland, coldly. it will so happen; but, at first sight, it appeared as if those two persons had some sort of antagonistic feeling towards each other, which threatened to prevent effectually their ever becoming intimate friends. the appeal of henry to the servants to know if they could tell him what had occurred was answered in the negative. all they knew was that they had heard two shots fired, and that, since then, they had remained where they were, in a great fright, until the bell was rung violently. this was no news at all and, therefore, the only chance was, to wait patiently for the recovery of the mother, or of flora, from one or the other of whom surely some information could be at once then procured. mrs. bannerworth was removed to her own room, and so would flora have been; but mr. holland, who was supporting her in his arms, said,-"i think the air from the open window is recovering her, and it is likely to do so. oh, do not now take her from me, after so long an absence. flora, flora, look up; do you not know me? you have not yet given me one look of acknowledgment. flora, dear flora!" the sound of his voice seemed to act as the most potent of charms in restoring her to consciousness; it broke through the death-like trance in which she lay, and, opening her beautiful eyes, she fixed them upon his face, saying,-"yes, yes; it is charles--it is charles." she burst into a hysterical flood of tears, and clung to him like some terrified child to its only friend in the whole wide world. "oh, my dear friends," cried charles holland, "do not deceive me; has flora been ill?" "we have all been ill," said george. "all ill?" "ay, and nearly mad," exclaimed harry. holland looked from one to the other in surprise, as well he might, nor was that surprise at all lessened when flora made an effort to extricate herself from his embrace, as she exclaimed,-"you must leave me--you must leave me, charles, for ever! oh! never, never look upon my face again!" "i--i am bewildered," said charles. "leave me, now," continued flora; "think me unworthy; think what you will, charles, but i cannot, i dare not, now be yours." "is this a dream?" "oh, would it were. charles, if we had never met, you would be happier--i could not be more wretched." "flora, flora, do you say these words of so great cruelty to try my love?" "no, as heaven is my judge, i do not." "gracious heaven, then, what do they mean?" flora shuddered, and henry, coming up to her, took her hand in his tenderly, as he said,-"has it been again?" "it has." "you shot it?" "i fired full upon it, henry, but it fled." "it did--fly?" "it did, henry, but it will come again--it will be sure to come again." "you--you hit it with the bullet?" interposed mr. marchdale. "perhaps you killed it?" "i think i must have hit it, unless i am mad." charles holland looked from one to the other with such a look of intense surprise, that george remarked it, and said at once to him,-"mr. holland, a full explanation is due to you, and you shall have it." "you seem the only rational person here," said charles. "pray what is it that everybody calls '_it_?'" "hush--hush!" said henry; "you shall hear soon, but not at present." "hear me, charles," said flora. "from this moment mind, i do release you from every vow, from every promise made to me of constancy and love; and if you are wise, charles, and will be advised, you will now this moment leave this house never to return to it." "no," said charles--"no; by heaven i love you, flora! i have come to say again all that in another clime i said with joy to you. when i forget you, let what trouble may oppress you, may god forget me, and my own right hand forget to do me honest service." [illustration] "oh! no more--no more!" sobbed flora. "yes, much more, if you will tell me of words which shall be stronger than others in which to paint my love, my faith, and my constancy." "be prudent," said henry. "say no more." "nay, upon such a theme i could speak for ever. you may cast me off, flora; but until you tell me you love another, i am yours till the death, and then with a sanguine hope at my heart that we shall meet again, never, dearest, to part." flora sobbed bitterly. "oh!" she said, "this is the unkindest blow of all--this is worse than all." "unkind!" echoed holland. "heed her not," said henry; "she means not you." "oh, no--no!" she cried. "farewell, charles--dear charles." "oh, say that word again!" he exclaimed, with animation. "it is the first time such music has met my ears." "it must be the last." "no, no--oh, no." "for your own sake i shall be able now, charles, to show you that i really loved you." "not by casting me from you?" "yes, even so. that will be the way to show you that i love you." she held up her hands wildly, as she added, in an excited voice,-"the curse of destiny is upon me! i am singled out as one lost and accursed. oh, horror--horror! would that i were dead!" charles staggered back a pace or two until he came to the table, at which he clutched for support. he turned very pale as he said, in a faint voice,-"is--is she mad, or am i?" "tell him i am mad, henry," cried flora. "do not, oh, do not make his lonely thoughts terrible with more than that. tell him i am mad." "come with me," whispered henry to holland. "i pray you come with me at once, and you shall know all." "i--will." "george, stay with flora for a time. come, come, mr. holland, you ought, and you shall know all; then you can come to a judgment for yourself. this way, sir. you cannot, in the wildest freak of your imagination, guess that which i have now to tell you." never was mortal man so utterly bewildered by the events of the last hour of his existence as was now charles holland, and truly he might well be so. he had arrived in england, and made what speed he could to the house of a family whom he admired for their intelligence, their high culture, and in one member of which his whole thoughts of domestic happiness in this world were centered, and he found nothing but confusion, incoherence, mystery, and the wildest dismay. well might he doubt if he were sleeping or waking--well might he ask if he or they were mad. and now, as, after a long, lingering look of affection upon the pale, suffering face of flora, he followed henry from the room, his thoughts were busy in fancying a thousand vague and wild imaginations with respect to the communication which was promised to be made to him. but, as henry had truly said to him, not in the wildest freak of his imagination could he conceive of any thing near the terrible strangeness and horror of that which he had to tell him, and consequently he found himself closeted with henry in a small private room, removed from the domestic part of the hall, to the full in as bewildered a state as he had been from the first. chapter xi. the communications to the lover.--the heart's despair. [illustration] consternation is sympathetic, and any one who had looked upon the features of charles holland, now that he was seated with henry bannerworth, in expectation of a communication which his fears told him was to blast all his dearest and most fondly cherished hopes for ever, would scarce have recognised in him the same young man who, one short hour before, had knocked so loudly, and so full of joyful hope and expectation, at the door of the hall. but so it was. he knew henry bannerworth too well to suppose that any unreal cause could blanch his cheek. he knew flora too well to imagine for one moment that caprice had dictated the, to him, fearful words of dismissal she had uttered to him. happier would it at that time have been for charles holland had she acted capriciously towards him, and convinced him that his true heart's devotion had been cast at the feet of one unworthy of so really noble a gift. pride would then have enabled him, no doubt, successfully to resist the blow. a feeling of honest and proper indignation at having his feelings trifled with, would, no doubt, have sustained him, but, alas! the case seemed widely different. true, she implored him to think of her no more--no longer to cherish in his breast the fond dream of affection which had been its guest so long; but the manner in which she did so brought along with it an irresistible conviction, that she was making a noble sacrifice of her own feelings for him, from some cause which was involved in the profoundest mystery. but now he was to hear all. henry had promised to tell him, and as he looked into his pale, but handsomely intellectual face, he half dreaded the disclosure he yet panted to hear. "tell me all, henry--tell me all," he said. "upon the words that come from your lips i know i can rely." "i will have no reservations with you," said henry, sadly. "you ought to know all, and you shall. prepare yourself for the strangest revelation you ever heard." "indeed!" "ay. one which in hearing you may well doubt; and one which, i hope, you will never find an opportunity of verifying." "you speak in riddles." "and yet speak truly, charles. you heard with what a frantic vehemence flora desired you to think no more of her?" "i did--i did." "she was right. she is a noble-hearted girl for uttering those words. a dreadful incident in our family has occurred, which might well induce you to pause before uniting your fate with that of any member of it." "impossible. nothing can possibly subdue the feelings of affection i entertain for flora. she is worthy of any one, and, as such, amid all changes--all mutations of fortune, she shall be mine." "do not suppose that any change of fortune has produced the scene you were witness to." "then, what else?" "i will tell you, holland. in all your travels, and in all your reading, did you ever come across anything about vampyres?" "about what?" cried charles, drawing his chair forward a little. "about what?" "you may well doubt the evidence of your own ears, charles holland, and wish me to repeat what i said. i say, do you know anything about vampyres?" charles holland looked curiously in henry's face, and the latter immediately added,-"i can guess what is passing in your mind at present, and i do not wonder at it. you think i must be mad." "well, really, henry, your extraordinary question--" "i knew it. were i you, i should hesitate to believe the tale; but the fact is, we have every reason to believe that one member of our own family is one of those horrible preternatural beings called vampyres." "good god, henry, can you allow your judgment for a moment to stoop to such a supposition?" "that is what i have asked myself a hundred times; but, charles holland, the judgment, the feelings, and all the prejudices, natural and acquired, must succumb to actual ocular demonstration. listen to me, and do not interrupt me. you shall know all, and you shall know it circumstantially." henry then related to the astonished charles holland all that had occurred, from the first alarm of flora, up to that period when he, holland, caught her in his arms as she was about to leave the room. "and now," he said, in conclusion, "i cannot tell what opinion you may come to as regards these most singular events. you will recollect that here is the unbiassed evidence of four or five people to the facts, and, beyond that, the servants, who have seen something of the horrible visitor." "you bewilder me, utterly," said charles holland. "as we are all bewildered." "but--but, gracious heaven! it cannot be." "it is." "no--no. there is--there must be yet some dreadful mistake." "can you start any supposition by which we can otherwise explain any of the phenomena i have described to you? if you can, for heaven's sake do so, and you will find no one who will cling to it with more tenacity than i." "any other species or kind of supernatural appearance might admit of argument; but this, to my perception, is too wildly improbable--too much at variance with all we see and know of the operations of nature." "it is so. all that we have told ourselves repeatedly, and yet is all human reason at once struck down by the few brief words of--'we have seen it.'" "i would doubt my eyesight." "one might; but many cannot be labouring under the same delusion." "my friend, i pray you, do not make me shudder at the supposition that such a dreadful thing as this is at all possible." "_i_ am, believe me, charles, most unwilling to oppress anyone with the knowledge of these evils; but you are so situated with us, that you ought to know, and you will clearly understand that you may, with perfect honour, now consider yourself free from all engagements you have entered into with flora." "no, no! by heaven, no!" "yes, charles. reflect upon the consequences now of a union with such a family." "oh, henry bannerworth, can you suppose me so dead to all good feeling, so utterly lost to honourable impulses, as to eject from my heart her who has possession of it entirely, on such a ground as this?" "you would be justified." "coldly justified in prudence i might be. there are a thousand circumstances in which a man may be justified in a particular course of action, and that course yet may be neither honourable nor just. i love flora; and were she tormented by the whole of the supernatural world, i should still love her. nay, it becomes, then, a higher and a nobler duty on my part to stand between her and those evils, if possible." "charles--charles," said henry, "i cannot of course refuse to you my meed of praise and admiration for your generosity of feeling; but, remember, if we are compelled, despite all our feelings and all our predilections to the contrary, to give in to a belief in the existence of vampyres, why may we not at once receive as the truth all that is recorded of them?" "to what do you allude?" "to this. that one who has been visited by a vampyre, and whose blood has formed a horrible repast for such a being, becomes, after death, one of the dreadful race, and visits others in the same way." "now this must be insanity," cried charles. "it bears the aspect of it, indeed," said henry; "oh, that you could by some means satisfy yourself that i am mad." "there may be insanity in this family," thought charles, with such an exquisite pang of misery, that he groaned aloud. "already," added henry, mournfully, "already the blighting influence of the dreadful tale is upon you, charles. oh, let me add my advice to flora's entreaties. she loves you, and we all esteem you; fly, then, from us, and leave us to encounter our miseries alone. fly from us, charles holland, and take with you our best wishes for happiness which you cannot know here." "never," cried charles; "i devote my existence to flora. i will not play the coward, and fly from one whom i love, on such grounds. i devote my life to her." henry could not speak for emotion for several minutes, and when at length, in a faltering voice, he could utter some words, he said,-"god of heaven, what happiness is marred by these horrible events? what have we all done to be the victims of such a dreadful act of vengeance?" "henry, do not talk in that way," cried charles. "rather let us bend all our energies to overcoming the evil, than spend any time in useless lamentations. i cannot even yet give in to a belief in the existence of such a being as you say visited flora." "but the evidences." "look you here, henry: until i am convinced that some things have happened which it is totally impossible could happen by any human means whatever, i will not ascribe them to supernatural influence." "but what human means, charles, could produce what i have now narrated to you?" "i do not know, just at present, but i will give the subject the most attentive consideration. will you accommodate me here for a time?" "you know you are as welcome here as if the house were your own, and all that it contains." "i believe so, most truly. you have no objection, i presume, to my conversing with flora upon this strange subject?" "certainly not. of course you will be careful to say nothing which can add to her fears." "i shall be most guarded, believe me. you say that your brother george, mr. chillingworth, yourself, and this mr. marchdale, have all been cognisant of the circumstances." "yes--yes." "then with the whole of them you permit me to hold free communication upon the subject?" "most certainly." "i will do so then. keep up good heart, henry, and this affair, which looks so full of terror at first sight, may yet be divested of some of its hideous aspect." "i am rejoiced, if anything can rejoice me now," said henry, "to see you view the subject with so much philosophy." "why," said charles, "you made a remark of your own, which enabled me, viewing the matter in its very worst and most hideous aspect, to gather hope." "what was that?" "you said, properly and naturally enough, that if ever we felt that there was such a weight of evidence in favour of a belief in the existence of vampyres that we are compelled to succumb to it, we might as well receive all the popular feelings and superstitions concerning them likewise." "i did. where is the mind to pause, when once we open it to the reception of such things?" "well, then, if that be the case, we will watch this vampyre and catch it." "catch it?" "yes; surely it can be caught; as i understand, this species of being is not like an apparition, that may be composed of thin air, and utterly impalpable to the human touch, but it consists of a revivified corpse." "yes, yes." "then it is tangible and destructible. by heaven! if ever i catch a glimpse of any such thing, it shall drag me to its home, be that where it may, or i will make it prisoner." "oh, charles! you know not the feeling of horror that will come across you when you do. you have no idea of how the warm blood will seem to curdle in your veins, and how you will be paralysed in every limb." "did you feel so?" "i did." "i will endeavour to make head against such feelings. the love of flora shall enable me to vanquish them. think you it will come again to-morrow?" [illustration] "i can have no thought the one way or the other." "it may. we must arrange among us all, henry, some plan of watching which, without completely prostrating our health and strength, will always provide that one shall be up all night and on the alert." "it must be done." "flora ought to sleep with the consciousness now that she has ever at hand some intrepid and well-armed protector, who is not only himself prepared to defend her, but who can in a moment give an alarm to us all, in case of necessity requiring it." "it would be a dreadful capture to make to seize a vampyre," said henry. "not at all; it would be a very desirable one. being a corpse revivified, it is capable of complete destruction, so as to render it no longer a scourge to any one." "charles, charles, are you jesting with me, or do you really give any credence to the story?" "my dear friend, i always make it a rule to take things at their worst, and then i cannot be disappointed. i am content to reason upon this matter as if the fact of the existence of a vampyre were thoroughly established, and then to think upon what is best to be done about it." "you are right." "if it should turn out then that there is an error in the fact, well and good--we are all the better off; but if otherwise, we are prepared, and armed at all points." "let it be so, then. it strikes me, charles, that you will be the coolest and the calmest among us all on this emergency; but the hour now waxes late, i will get them to prepare a chamber for you, and at least to-night, after what has occurred already, i should think we can be under no apprehension." "probably not. but, henry, if you would allow me to sleep in that room where the portrait hangs of him whom you suppose to be the vampyre, i should prefer it." "prefer it!" "yes; i am not one who courts danger for danger's sake, but i would rather occupy that room, to see if the vampyre, who perhaps has a partiality for it, will pay me a visit." "as you please, charles. you can have the apartment. it is in the same state as when occupied by flora. nothing has been, i believe, removed from it." "you will let me, then, while i remain here, call it my room?" "assuredly." this arrangement was accordingly made to the surprise of all the household, not one of whom would, indeed, have slept, or attempted to sleep there for any amount of reward. but charles holland had his own reasons for preferring that chamber, and he was conducted to it in the course of half an hour by henry, who looked around it with a shudder, as he bade his young friend good night. chapter xii. charles holland's sad feelings.--the portrait.--the occurrence of the night at the hall. [illustration] charles holland wished to be alone, if ever any human being had wished fervently to be so. his thoughts were most fearfully oppressive. the communication that had been made to him by henry bannerworth, had about it too many strange, confirmatory circumstances to enable him to treat it, in his own mind, with the disrespect that some mere freak of a distracted and weak imagination would, most probably, have received from him. he had found flora in a state of excitement which could arise only from some such terrible cause as had been mentioned by her brother, and then he was, from an occurrence which certainly never could have entered into his calculations, asked to forego the bright dream of happiness which he had held so long and so rapturously to his heart. how truly he found that the course of true love ran not smooth; and yet how little would any one have suspected that from such a cause as that which now oppressed his mind, any obstruction would arise. flora might have been fickle and false; he might have seen some other fairer face, which might have enchained his fancy, and woven for him a new heart's chain; death might have stepped between him and the realization of his fondest hopes; loss of fortune might have made the love cruel which would have yoked to its distresses a young and beautiful girl, reared in the lap of luxury, and who was not, even by those who loved her, suffered to feel, even in later years, any of the pinching necessities of the family. all these things were possible--some of them were probable; and yet none of them had occurred. she loved him still; and he, although he had looked on many a fair face, and basked in the sunny smiles of beauty, had never for a moment forgotten her faith, or lost his devotion to his own dear english girl. fortune he had enough for both; death had not even threatened to rob him of the prize of such a noble and faithful heart which he had won. but a horrible superstition had arisen, which seemed to place at once an impassable abyss between them, and to say to him, in a voice of thundering denunciation,-"charles holland, will you have a vampyre for your bride?" the thought was terrific. he paced the gloomy chamber to and fro with rapid strides, until the idea came across his mind that by so doing he might not only be proclaiming to his kind entertainers how much he was mentally distracted, but he likewise might be seriously distracting them. the moment this occurred to him he sat down, and was profoundly still for some time. he then glanced at the light which had been given to him, and he found himself almost unconsciously engaged in a mental calculation as to how long it would last him in the night. half ashamed, then, of such terrors, as such a consideration would seem to indicate, he was on the point of hastily extinguishing it, when he happened to cast his eyes on the now mysterious and highly interesting portrait in the panel. the picture, as a picture, was well done, whether it was a correct likeness or not of the party whom it represented. it was one of those kind of portraits that seem so life-like, that, as you look at them, they seem to return your gaze fully, and even to follow you with their eyes from place to place. by candle-light such an effect is more likely to become striking and remarkable than by daylight; and now, as charles holland shaded his own eyes from the light, so as to cast its full radiance upon the portrait, he felt wonderfully interested in its life-like appearance. "here is true skill," he said; "such as i have not before seen. how strangely this likeness of a man whom i never saw seems to gaze upon me." unconsciously, too, he aided the effect, which he justly enough called life-like, by a slight movement of the candle, such as any one not blessed with nerves of iron would be sure to make, and such a movement made the face look as if it was inspired with vitality. charles remained looking at the portrait for a considerable period of time. he found a kind of fascination in it which prevented him from drawing his eyes away from it. it was not fear which induced him to continue gazing on it, but the circumstance that it was a likeness of the man who, after death, was supposed to have borrowed so new and so hideous an existence, combined with its artistic merits, chained him to the spot. "i shall now," he said, "know that face again, let me see it where i may, or under what circumstances i may. each feature is now indelibly fixed upon my memory--i never can mistake it." he turned aside as he uttered these words, and as he did so his eyes fell upon a part of the ornamental frame which composed the edge of the panel, and which seemed to him to be of a different colour from the surrounding portion. curiosity and increased interest prompted him at once to make a closer inquiry into the matter; and, by a careful and diligent scrutiny, he was almost induced to come to the positive opinion, that it no very distant period in time past, the portrait had been removed from the place it occupied. when once this idea, even vague and indistinct as it was, in consequence of the slight grounds he formed it on, had got possession of his mind, he felt most anxious to prove its verification or its fallacy. he held the candle in a variety of situations, so that its light fell in different ways on the picture; and the more he examined it, the more he felt convinced that it must have been moved lately. it would appear as if, in its removal, a piece of the old oaken carved framework of the panel had been accidentally broken off, which caused the new look of the fracture, and that this accident, from the nature of the broken bit of framing, could have occurred in any other way than from an actual or attempted removal of the picture, he felt was extremely unlikely. he set down the candle on a chair near at hand, and tried if the panel was fast in its place. upon the very first touch, he felt convinced it was not so, and that it easily moved. how to get it out, though, presented a difficulty, and to get it out was tempting. "who knows," he said to himself, "what may be behind it? this is an old baronial sort of hall, and the greater portion of it was, no doubt, built at a time when the construction of such places as hidden chambers and intricate staircases were, in all buildings of importance, considered a disiderata." that he should make some discovery behind the portrait, now became an idea that possessed him strongly, although he certainly had no definite grounds for really supposing that he should do so. perhaps the wish was more father to the thought than he, in the partial state of excitement he was in, really imagined; but so it was. he felt convinced that he should not be satisfied until he had removed that panel from the wall, and seen what was immediately behind it. after the panel containing the picture had been placed where it was, it appeared that pieces of moulding had been inserted all around, which had had the effect of keeping it in its place, and it was a fracture of one of these pieces which had first called charles holland's attention to the probability of the picture having been removed. that he should have to get two, at least, of the pieces of moulding away, before he could hope to remove the picture, was to him quite apparent, and he was considering how he should accomplish such a result, when he was suddenly startled by a knock at his chamber door. until that sudden demand for admission at his door came, he scarcely knew to what a nervous state he had worked himself up. it was an odd sort of tap--one only--a single tap, as if some one demanded admittance, and wished to awaken his attention with the least possible chance of disturbing any one else. "come in," said charles, for he knew he had not fastened his door; "come in." there was no reply, but after a moment's pause, the same sort of low tap came again. again he cried "come in," but, whoever it was, seemed determined that the door should be opened for him, and no movement was made from the outside. a third time the tap came, and charles was very close to the door when he heard it, for with a noiseless step he had approached it intending to open it. the instant this third mysterious demand for admission came, he did open it wide. there was no one there! in an instant he crossed the threshold into the corridor, which ran right and left. a window at one end of it now sent in the moon's rays, so that it was tolerably light, but he could see no one. indeed, to look for any one, he felt sure was needless, for he had opened his chamber-door almost simultaneously with the last knock for admission. "it is strange," he said, as he lingered on the threshold of his room door for some moments; "my imagination could not so completely deceive me. there was most certainly a demand for admission." slowly, then, he returned to his room again, and closed the door behind him. "one thing is evident," he said, "that if i am in this apartment to be subjected to these annoyances, i shall get no rest, which will soon exhaust me." this thought was a very provoking one, and the more he thought that he should ultimately find a necessity for giving up that chamber he had himself asked as a special favour to be allowed to occupy, the more vexed he became to think what construction might be put upon his conduct for so doing. "they will all fancy me a coward," he thought, "and that i dare not sleep here. they may not, of course, say so, but they will think that my appearing so bold was one of those acts of bravado which i have not courage to carry fairly out." taking this view of the matter was just the way to enlist a young man's pride in staying, under all circumstances, where he was, and, with a slight accession of colour, which, even although he was alone, would visit his cheeks, charles holland said aloud,-"i will remain the occupant of this room come what may, happen what may. no terrors, real or unsubstantial, shall drive me from it: i will brave them all, and remain here to brave them." tap came the knock at the door again, and now, with more an air of vexation than fear, charles turned again towards it, and listened. tap in another minute again succeeded, and much annoyed, he walked close to the door, and laid his hand upon the lock, ready to open it at the precise moment of another demand for admission being made. he had not to wait long. in about half a minute it came again, and, simultaneously with the sound, the door flew open. there was no one to be seen; but, as he opened the door, he heard a strange sound in the corridor--a sound which scarcely could be called a groan, and scarcely a sigh, but seemed a compound of both, having the agony of the one combined with the sadness of the other. from what direction it came he could not at the moment decide, but he called out,-"who's there? who's there?" the echo of his own voice alone answered him for a few moments, and then he heard a door open, and a voice, which he knew to be henry's, cried,-"what is it? who speaks?" "henry," said charles. "yes--yes--yes." "i fear i have disturbed you." "you have been disturbed yourself, or you would not have done so. i shall be with you in a moment." henry closed his door before charles holland could tell him not to come to him, as he intended to do, for he felt ashamed to have, in a manner of speaking, summoned assistance for so trifling a cause of alarm as that to which he had been subjected. however, he could not go to henry's chamber to forbid him from coming to his, and, more vexed than before, he retired to his room again to await his coming. he left the door open now, so that henry bannerworth, when he had got on some articles of dress, walked in at once, saying,-"what has happened, charles?" "a mere trifle, henry, concerning which i am ashamed you should have been at all disturbed." "never mind that, i was wakeful." "i heard a door open, which kept me listening, but i could not decide which door it was till i heard your voice in the corridor." "well, it was this door; and i opened it twice in consequence of the repeated taps for admission that came to it; some one has been knocking at it, and, when i go to it, lo! i can see nobody." "indeed!" [illustration] "such is the case." "you surprise me." "i am very sorry to have disturbed you, because, upon such a ground, i do not feel that i ought to have done so; and, when i called out in the corridor, i assure you it was with no such intention." "do not regret it for a moment," said henry; "you were quite justified in making an alarm on such an occasion." "it's strange enough, but still it may arise from some accidental cause; admitting, if we did but know it, of some ready enough explanation." "it may, certainly, but, after what has happened already, we may well suppose a mysterious connexion between any unusual sight or sound, and the fearful ones we have already seen." "certainly we may." "how earnestly that strange portrait seems to look upon us, charles." "it does, and i have been examining it carefully. it seems to have been removed lately." "removed!" "yes, i think, as far as i can judge, that it has been taken from its frame; i mean, that the panel on which it is painted has been taken out." "indeed!" "if you touch it you will find it loose, and, upon a close examination, you will perceive that a piece of the moulding which holds it in its place has been chipped off, which is done in such a place that i think it could only have arisen during the removal of the picture." "you must be mistaken." "i cannot, of course, take upon myself, henry, to say precisely such is the case," said charles. "but there is no one here to do so." "that i cannot say. will you permit me and assist me to remove it? i have a great curiosity to know what is behind it." "if you have, i certainly will do so. we thought of taking it away altogether, but when flora left this room the idea was given up as useless. remain here a few moments, and i will endeavour to find something which shall assist us in its removal." henry left the mysterious chamber in order to search in his own for some means of removing the frame-work of the picture, so that the panel would slip easily out, and while he was gone, charles holland continued gazing upon it with greater interest, if possible, than before. in a few minutes henry returned, and although what he had succeeded in finding were very inefficient implements for the purpose, yet with this aid the two young men set about the task. it is said, and said truly enough, that "where there is a will there is a way," and although the young men had no tools at all adapted for the purpose, they did succeed in removing the moulding from the sides of the panel, and then by a little tapping at one end of it, and using a knife at a lever at the other end of the panel, they got it fairly out. disappointment was all they got for their pains. on the other side there was nothing but a rough wooden wall, against which the finer and more nicely finished oak panelling of the chamber rested. "there is no mystery here," said henry. "none whatever," said charles, as he tapped the wall with his knuckles, and found it all hard and sound. "we are foiled." "we are indeed." "i had a strange presentiment, now," added charles, "that we should make some discovery that would repay us for our trouble. it appears, however, that such is not to be the case; for you see nothing presents itself to us but the most ordinary appearances." "i perceive as much; and the panel itself, although of more than ordinary thickness, is, after all, but a bit of planed oak, and apparently fashioned for no other object than to paint the portrait on." "true. shall we replace it?" charles reluctantly assented, and the picture was replaced in its original position. we say charles reluctantly assented, because, although he had now had ocular demonstration that there was really nothing behind the panel but the ordinary woodwork which might have been expected from the construction of the old house, yet he could not, even with such a fact staring him in the face, get rid entirely of the feeling that had come across him, to the effect that the picture had some mystery or another. "you are not yet satisfied," said henry, as he observed the doubtful look of charles holland's face. "my dear friend," said charles, "i will not deceive you. i am much disappointed that we have made no discovery behind that picture." "heaven knows we have mysteries enough in our family," said henry. even as he spoke they were both startled by a strange clattering noise at the window, which was accompanied by a shrill, odd kind of shriek, which sounded fearful and preternatural on the night air. "what is that?" said charles. "god only knows," said henry. the two young men naturally turned their earnest gaze in the direction of the window, which we have before remarked was one unprovided with shutters, and there, to their intense surprise, they saw, slowly rising up from the lower part of it, what appeared to be a human form. henry would have dashed forward, but charles restrained him, and drawing quickly from its case a large holster pistol, he levelled it carefully at the figure, saying in a whisper,-"henry, if i don't hit it, i will consent to forfeit my head." he pulled the trigger--a loud report followed--the room was filled with smoke, and then all was still. a circumstance, however, had occurred, as a consequence of the concussion of air produced by the discharge of the pistol, which neither of the young men had for the moment calculated upon, and that was the putting out of the only light they there had. in spite of this circumstance, charles, the moment he had discharged the pistol, dropped it and sprung forward to the window. but here he was perplexed, for he could not find the old fashioned, intricate fastening which held it shut, and he had to call to henry,-"henry! for god's sake open the window for me, henry! the fastening of the window is known to you, but not to me. open it for me." thus called upon, henry sprung forward, and by this time the report of the pistol had effectually alarmed the whole household. the flashing of lights from the corridor came into the room, and in another minute, just as henry succeeded in getting the window wide open, and charles holland had made his way on to the balcony, both george bannerworth and mr. marchdale entered the chamber, eager to know what had occurred. to their eager questions henry replied,-"ask me not now;" and then calling to charles, he said,--"remain where you are, charles, while i run down to the garden immediately beneath the balcony." "yes--yes," said charles. henry made prodigious haste, and was in the garden immediately below the bay window in a wonderfully short space of time. he spoke to charles, saying,-"will you now descend? i can see nothing here; but we will both make a search." george and mr. marchdale were both now in the balcony, and they would have descended likewise, but henry said,-"do not all leave the house. god only knows, now, situated as we are, what might happen." "i will remain, then," said george. "i have been sitting up to-night as the guard, and, therefore, may as well continue to do so." marchdale and charles holland clambered over the balcony, and easily, from its insignificant height, dropped into the garden. the night was beautiful, and profoundly still. there was not a breath of air sufficient to stir a leaf on a tree, and the very flame of the candle which charles had left burning in the balcony burnt clearly and steadily, being perfectly unruffled by any wind. it cast a sufficient light close to the window to make everything very plainly visible, and it was evident at a glance that no object was there, although had that figure, which charles shot at, and no doubt hit, been flesh and blood, it must have dropped immediately below. as they looked up for a moment after a cursory examination of the ground, charles exclaimed,-"look at the window! as the light is now situated, you can see the hole made in one of the panes of glass by the passage of the bullet from my pistol." they did look, and there the clear, round hole, without any starring, which a bullet discharged close to a pane of glass will make in it, was clearly and plainly discernible. "you must have hit him," said henry. "one would think so," said charles; "for that was the exact place where the figure was." "and there is nothing here," added marchdale. "what can we think of these events--what resource has the mind against the most dreadful suppositions concerning them?" charles and henry were both silent; in truth, they knew not what to think, and the words uttered by marchdale were too strikingly true to dispute for a moment. they were lost in wonder. "human means against such an appearance as we saw to-night," said charles, "are evidently useless." "my dear young friend," said marchdale, with much emotion, as he grasped henry bannerworth's hand, and the tears stood in his eyes as he did so,--"my dear young friend, these constant alarms will kill you. they will drive you, and all whose happiness you hold dear, distracted. you must control these dreadful feelings, and there is but one chance that i can see of getting now the better of these." "what is that?" "by leaving this place for ever." "alas! am i to be driven from the home of my ancestors from such a cause as this? and whither am i to fly? where are we to find a refuge? to leave here will be at once to break up the establishment which is now held together, certainly upon the sufferance of creditors, but still to their advantage, inasmuch as i am doing what no one else would do, namely, paying away to within the scantiest pittance the whole proceeds of the estate that spreads around me." "heed nothing but an escape from such horrors as seem to be accumulating now around you." "if i were sure that such a removal would bring with it such a corresponding advantage, i might, indeed, be induced to risk all to accomplish it." "as regards poor dear flora," said mr. marchdale, "i know not what to say, or what to think; she has been attacked by a vampyre, and after this mortal life shall have ended, it is dreadful to think there may be a possibility that she, with all her beauty, all her excellence and purity of mind, and all those virtues and qualities which should make her the beloved of all, and which do, indeed, attach all hearts towards her, should become one of that dreadful tribe of beings who cling to existence by feeding, in the most dreadful manner, upon the life blood of others--oh, it is too dreadful to contemplate! too horrible--too horrible!" "then wherefore speak of it?" said charles, with some asperity. "now, by the great god of heaven, who sees all our hearts, i will not give in to such a horrible doctrine! i will not believe it; and were death itself my portion for my want of faith, i would this moment die in my disbelief of anything so truly fearful!" "oh, my young friend," added marchdale, "if anything could add to the pangs which all who love, and admire, and respect flora bannerworth must feel at the unhappy condition in which she is placed, it would be the noble nature of you, who, under happier auspices, would have been her guide through life, and the happy partner of her destiny." "as i will be still." "may heaven forbid it! we are now among ourselves, and can talk freely upon such a subject. mr. charles holland, if you wed, you would look forward to being blessed with children--those sweet ties which bind the sternest hearts to life with so exquisite a bondage. oh, fancy, then, for a moment, the mother of your babes coming at the still hour of midnight to drain from their veins the very life blood she gave to them. to drive you and them mad with the expected horror of such visitations--to make your nights hideous--your days but so many hours of melancholy retrospection. oh, you know not the world of terror, on the awful brink of which you stand, when you talk of making flora bannerworth a wife." "peace! oh, peace!" said henry. "nay, i know my words are unwelcome," continued mr. marchdale. "it happens, unfortunately for human nature, that truth and some of our best and holiest feelings are too often at variance, and hold a sad contest--" "i will hear no more of this," cried charles holland.--"i will hear no more." "i have done," said mr. marchdale. "and 'twere well you had not begun." "nay, say not so. i have but done what i considered was a solemn duty." "under that assumption of doing duty--a solemn duty--heedless of the feelings and the opinions of others," said charles, sarcastically, "more mischief is produced--more heart-burnings and anxieties caused, than by any other two causes of such mischievous results combined. i wish to hear no more of this." "do not be angered with mr. marchdale, charles," said henry. "he can have no motive but our welfare in what he says. we should not condemn a speaker because his words may not sound pleasant to our ears." "by heaven!" said charles, with animation, "i meant not to be illiberal; but i will not because i cannot see a man's motives for active interference in the affairs of others, always be ready, merely on account of such ignorance, to jump to a conclusion that they must be estimable." "to-morrow, i leave this house," said marchdale. "leave us?" exclaimed henry. "ay, for ever." "nay, now, mr. marchdale, is this generous?" "am i treated generously by one who is your own guest, and towards whom i was willing to hold out the honest right hand of friendship?" henry turned to charles holland, saying,-"charles, i know your generous nature. say you meant no offence to my mother's old friend." "if to say i meant no offence," said charles, "is to say i meant no insult, i say it freely." "enough," cried marchdale; "i am satisfied." "but do not," added charles, "draw me any more such pictures as the one you have already presented to my imagination, i beg of you. from the storehouse of my own fancy i can find quite enough to make me wretched, if i choose to be so; but again and again do i say i will not allow this monstrous superstition to tread me down, like the tread of a giant on a broken reed. i will contend against it while i have life to do so." "bravely spoken." "and when i desert flora bannerworth, may heaven, from that moment, desert me!" "charles!" cried henry, with emotion, "dear charles, my more than friend--brother of my heart--noble charles!" "nay, henry, i am not entitled to your praises. i were base indeed to be other than that which i purpose to be. come weal or woe--come what may, i am the affianced husband of your sister, and she, and she only, can break asunder the tie that binds me to her." chapter xiii. the offer for the hall.--the visit to sir francis varney.--the strange resemblance.--a dreadful suggestion. [illustration] the party made a strict search through every nook and corner of the garden, but it proved to be a fruitless one: not the least trace of any one could be found. there was only one circumstance, which was pondered over deeply by them all, and that was that, beneath the window of the room in which flora and her mother sat while the brothers were on their visit to the vault of their ancestors, were visible marks of blood to a considerable extent. it will be remembered that flora had fired a pistol at the spectral appearance, and that immediately upon that it had disappeared, after uttering a sound which might well be construed into a cry of pain from a wound. that a wound then had been inflicted upon some one, the blood beneath the window now abundantly testified; and when it was discovered, henry and charles made a very close examination indeed of the garden, to discover what direction the wounded figure, be it man or vampyre, had taken. [illustration] but the closest scrutiny did not reveal to them a single spot of blood, beyond the space immediately beneath the window;--there the apparition seemed to have received its wound, and then, by some mysterious means, to have disappeared. at length, wearied with the continued excitement, combined with want of sleep, to which they had been subjected, they returned to the hall. flora, with the exception of the alarm she experienced from the firing of the pistol, had met with no disturbance, and that, in order to spare her painful reflections, they told her was merely done as a precautionary measure, to proclaim to any one who might be lurking in the garden that the inmates of the house were ready to defend themselves against any aggression. whether or not she believed this kind deceit they knew not. she only sighed deeply, and wept. the probability is, that she more than suspected the vampyre had made another visit, but they forbore to press the point; and, leaving her with her mother, henry and george went from her chamber again--the former to endeavour to seek some repose, as it would be his turn to watch on the succeeding night, and the latter to resume his station in a small room close to flora's chamber, where it had been agreed watch and ward should be kept by turns while the alarm lasted. at length, the morning again dawned upon that unhappy family, and to none were its beams more welcome. the birds sang their pleasant carols beneath the window. the sweet, deep-coloured autumnal sun shone upon all objects with a golden luster; and to look abroad, upon the beaming face of nature, no one could for a moment suppose, except from sad experience, that there were such things as gloom, misery, and crime, upon the earth. "and must i," said henry, as he gazed from a window of the hall upon the undulating park, the majestic trees, the flowers, the shrubs, and the many natural beauties with which the place was full,--"must i be chased from this spot, the home of my self and of my kindred, by a phantom--must i indeed seek refuge elsewhere, because my own home has become hideous?" it was indeed a cruel and a painful thought! it was one he yet would not, could not be convinced was absolutely necessary. but now the sun was shining: it was morning; and the feelings, which found a home in his breast amid the darkness, the stillness, and the uncertainty of night, were chased away by those glorious beams of sunlight, that fell upon hill, valley, and stream, and the thousand sweet sounds of life and animation that filled that sunny air! such a revulsion of feeling was natural enough. many of the distresses and mental anxieties of night vanish with the night, and those which oppressed the heart of henry bannerworth were considerably modified. he was engaged in these reflections when he heard the sound of the lodge bell, and as a visitor was now somewhat rare at this establishment, he waited with some anxiety to see to whom he was indebted for so early a call. in the course of a few minutes, one of the servants came to him with a letter in her hand. it bore a large handsome seal, and, from its appearance, would seem to have come from some personage of consequence. a second glance at it shewed him the name of "varney" in the corner, and, with some degree of vexation, he muttered to himself, "another condoling epistle from the troublesome neighbour whom i have not yet seen." "if you please, sir," said the servant who had brought him the letter, "as i'm here, and you are here, perhaps you'll have no objection to give me what i'm to have for the day and two nights as i've been here, cos i can't stay in a family as is so familiar with all sorts o' ghostesses: i ain't used to such company." "what do you mean?" said henry. the question was a superfluous one--: too well he knew what the woman meant, and the conviction came across his mind strongly that no domestic would consent to live long in a house which was subject to such dreadful visitations. "what does i mean!" said the woman,--"why, sir, if it's all the same to you, i don't myself come of a wampyre family, and i don't choose to remain in a house where there is sich things encouraged. that's what i means, sir." "what wages are owing to you?" said henry. "why, as to wages, i only comed here by the day." "go, then, and settle with my mother. the sooner you leave this house, the better." "oh, indeed. i'm sure i don't want to stay." this woman was one of those who were always armed at all points for a row, and she had no notion of concluding any engagement, of any character whatever, without some disturbance; therefore, to see henry take what she said with such provoking calmness was aggravating in the extreme; but there was no help for such a source of vexation. she could find no other ground of quarrel than what was connected with the vampyre, and, as henry would not quarrel with her on such a score, she was compelled to give it up in despair. when henry found himself alone, and free from the annoyance of this woman, he turned his attention to the letter he held in his hand, and which, from the autograph in the corner, he knew came from his new neighbour, sir francis varney, whom, by some chance or another, he had never yet seen. to his great surprise, he found that the letter contained the following words:- dear sir,--"as a neighbour, by purchase of an estate contiguous to your own, i am quite sure you have excused, and taken in good part, the cordial offer i made to you of friendship and service some short time since; but now, in addressing to you a distinct proposition, i trust i shall meet with an indulgent consideration, whether such proposition be accordant with your views or not. "what i have heard from common report induces me to believe that bannerworth hall cannot be a desirable residence for yourself, or your amiable sister. if i am right in that conjecture, and you have any serious thought of leaving the place, i would earnestly recommend you, as one having some experience in such descriptions of property, to sell it at once. "now, the proposition with which i conclude this letter is, i know, of a character to make you doubt the disinterestedness of such advice; but that it is disinterested, nevertheless, is a fact of which i can assure my own heart, and of which i beg to assure you. i propose, then, should you, upon consideration, decide upon such a course of proceeding, to purchase of you the hall. i do not ask for a bargain on account of any extraneous circumstances which may at the present time depreciate the value of the property, but i am willing to give a fair price for it. under these circumstances, i trust, sir, that you will give a kindly consideration to my offer, and even if you reject it, i hope that, as neighbours, we may live long in peace and amity, and in the interchange of those good offices which should subsist between us. awaiting your reply, "believe me to be, dear sir, "your very obedient servant, "francis varney. "to henry bannerworth, esq." henry, after having read this most unobjectionable letter through, folded it up again, and placed it in his pocket. clasping his hands, then, behind his back, a favourite attitude of his when he was in deep contemplation, he paced to and fro in the garden for some time in deep thought. "how strange," he muttered. "it seems that every circumstance combines to induce me to leave my old ancestral home. it appears as if everything now that happened had that direct tendency. what can be the meaning of all this? 'tis very strange--amazingly strange. here arise circumstances which are enough to induce any man to leave a particular place. then a friend, in whose single-mindedness and judgment i know i can rely, advises the step, and immediately upon the back of that comes a fair and candid offer." there was an apparent connexion between all these circumstances which much puzzled henry. he walked to and fro for nearly an hour, until he heard a hasty footstep approaching him, and upon looking in the direction from whence it came, he saw mr. marchdale. "i will seek marchdale's advice," he said, "upon this matter. i will hear what he says concerning it." "henry," said marchdale, when he came sufficiently near to him for conversation, "why do you remain here alone?" "i have received a communication from our neighbour, sir francis varney," said henry. "indeed!" "it is here. peruse it for yourself, and then tell me, marchdale, candidly what you think of it." "i suppose," said marchdale, as he opened the letter, "it is another friendly note of condolence on the state of your domestic affairs, which, i grieve to say, from the prattling of domestics, whose tongues it is quite impossible to silence, have become food for gossip all over the neighbouring villages and estates." "if anything could add another pang to those i have already been made to suffer," said henry, "it would certainly arise from being made the food of vulgar gossip. but read the letter, marchdale. you will find its contents of a more important character than you anticipate." "indeed!" said marchdale, as he ran his eyes eagerly over the note. when he had finished it he glanced at henry, who then said,-"well, what is your opinion?" "i know not what to say, henry. you know that my own advice to you has been to get rid of this place." "it has." "with the hope that the disagreeable affair connected with it now may remain connected with it as a house, and not with you and yours as a family." "it may be so." "there appears to me every likelihood of it." "i do not know," said henry, with a shudder. "i must confess, marchdale, that to my own perceptions it seems more probable that the infliction we have experienced from the strange visitor, who seems now resolved to pester us with visits, will rather attach to a family than to a house. the vampyre may follow us." "if so, of course the parting with the hall would be a great pity, and no gain." "none in the least." "henry, a thought has struck me." "let's hear it, marchdale." "it is this:--suppose you were to try the experiment of leaving the hall without selling it. suppose for one year you were to let it to some one, henry." "it might be done." "ay, and it might, with very great promise and candour, be proposed to this very gentleman, sir francis varney, to take it for one year, to see how he liked it before becoming the possessor of it. then if he found himself tormented by the vampyre, he need not complete the purchase, or if you found that the apparition followed you from hence, you might yourself return, feeling that perhaps here, in the spots familiar to your youth, you might be most happy, even under such circumstances as at present oppress you." "most happy!" ejaculated henry. "perhaps i should not have used that word." "i am sure you should not," said henry, "when you speak of me." "well--well; let us hope that the time may not be very far distant when i may use the term happy, as applied to you, in the most conclusive and the strongest manner it can be used." "oh," said henry, "i will hope; but do not mock me with it now, marchdale, i pray you." "heaven forbid that i should mock you!" "well--well; i do not believe you are the man to do so to any one. but about this affair of the house." "distinctly, then, if i were you, i would call upon sir francis varney, and make him an offer to become a tenant of the hall for twelve months, during which time you could go where you please, and test the fact of absence ridding you or not ridding you of the dreadful visitant who makes the night here truly hideous." "i will speak to my mother, to george, and to my sister of the matter. they shall decide." mr. marchdale now strove in every possible manner to raise the spirits of henry bannerworth, by painting to him the future in far more radiant colours than the present, and endeavouring to induce a belief in his mind that a short period of time might after all replace in his mind, and in the minds of those who were naturally so dear to him, all their wonted serenity. henry, although he felt not much comfort from these kindly efforts, yet could feel gratitude to him who made them; and after expressing such a feeling to marchdale, in strong terms, he repaired to the house, in order to hold a solemn consultation with those whom he felt ought to be consulted as well as himself as to what steps should be taken with regard to the hall. the proposition, or rather the suggestion, which had been made by marchdale upon the proposition of sir francis varney, was in every respect so reasonable and just, that it met, as was to be expected, with the concurrence of every member of the family. flora's cheeks almost resumed some of their wonted colour at the mere thought now of leaving that home to which she had been at one time so much attached. "yes, dear henry," she said, "let us leave here if you are agreeable so to do, and in leaving this house, we will believe that we leave behind us a world of terror." "flora," remarked henry, in a tone of slight reproach, "if you were so anxious to leave bannerworth hall, why did you not say so before this proposition came from other mouths? you know your feelings upon such a subject would have been laws to me." "i knew you were attached to the old house," said flora; "and, besides, events have come upon us all with such fearful rapidity, there has scarcely been time to think." "true--true." "and you will leave, henry?" "i will call upon sir francis varney myself, and speak to him upon the subject." a new impetus to existence appeared now to come over the whole family, at the idea of leaving a place which always would be now associated in their minds with so much terror. each member of the family felt happier, and breathed more freely than before, so that the change which had come over them seemed almost magical. and charles holland, too, was much better pleased, and he whispered to flora,-"dear flora, you will now surely no longer talk of driving from you the honest heart that loves you?" "hush, charles, hush!" she said; "meet me an hour hence in the garden, and we will talk of this." "that hour will seem an age," he said. henry, now, having made a determination to see sir francis varney, lost no time in putting it into execution. at mr. marchdale's own request, he took him with him, as it was desirable to have a third person present in the sort of business negotiation which was going on. the estate which had been so recently entered upon by the person calling himself sir francis varney, and which common report said he had purchased, was a small, but complete property, and situated so close to the grounds connected with bannerworth hall, that a short walk soon placed henry and mr. marchdale before the residence of this gentleman, who had shown so kindly a feeling towards the bannerworth family. "have you seen sir francis varney?" asked henry of mr. marchdale, as he rung the gate-bell. "i have not. have you?" "no; i never saw him. it is rather awkward our both being absolute strangers to his person." "we can but send in our names, however; and, from the great vein of courtesy that runs through his letter, i have no doubt but we shall receive the most gentlemanly reception from him." a servant in handsome livery appeared at the iron-gates, which opened upon a lawn in the front of sir francis varney's house, and to this domestic henry bannerworth handed his card, on which he had written, in pencil, likewise the name of mr. marchdale. "if your master," he said, "is within, we shall be glad to see him." "sir francis is at home, sir," was the reply, "although not very well. if you will be pleased to walk in, i will announce you to him." henry and marchdale followed the man into a handsome enough reception-room, where they were desired to wait while their names were announced. "do you know if this gentleman be a baronet," said henry, "or a knight merely?" "i really do not; i never saw him in my life, or heard of him before he came into this neighbourhood." "and i have been too much occupied with the painful occurrences of this hall to know anything of our neighbours. i dare say mr. chillingworth, if we had thought to ask him, would have known something concerning him." "no doubt." this brief colloquy was put an end to by the servant, who said,-"my master, gentlemen, is not very well; but he begs me to present his best compliments, and to say he is much gratified with your visit, and will be happy to see you in his study." henry and marchdale followed the man up a flight of stone stairs, and then they were conducted through a large apartment into a smaller one. there was very little light in this small room; but at the moment of their entrance a tall man, who was seated, rose, and, touching the spring of a blind that was to the window, it was up in a moment, admitting a broad glare of light. a cry of surprise, mingled with terror, came from henry bannerworth's lip. _the original of the portrait on the panel stood before him!_ there was the lofty stature, the long, sallow face, the slightly projecting teeth, the dark, lustrous, although somewhat sombre eyes; the expression of the features--all were alike. "are you unwell, sir?" said sir francis varney, in soft, mellow accents, as he handed a chair to the bewildered henry. "god of heaven!" said henry; "how like!" "you seem surprised, sir. have you ever seen me before?" sir francis drew himself up to his full height, and cast a strange glance upon henry, whose eyes were rivetted upon his face, as if with a species of fascination which he could not resist. "marchdale," henry gasped; "marchdale, my friend, marchdale. i--i am surely mad." "hush! be calm," whispered marchdale. "calm--calm--can you not see? marchdale, is this a dream? look--look--oh! look." "for god's sake, henry, compose yourself." "is your friend often thus?" said sir francis varney, with the same mellifluous tone which seemed habitual to him. "no, sir, he is not; but recent circumstances have shattered his nerves; and, to tell the truth, you bear so strong a resemblance to an old portrait, in his house, that i do not wonder so much as i otherwise should at his agitation." "indeed." "a resemblance!" said henry; "a resemblance! god of heaven! it is the face itself." "you much surprise me," said sir francis. [illustration] henry sunk into the chair which was near him, and he trembled violently. the rush of painful thoughts and conjectures that came through his mind was enough to make any one tremble. "is this the vampyre?" was the horrible question that seemed impressed upon his very brain, in letters of flame. "is this the vampyre?" "are you better, sir?" said sir francis varney, in his bland, musical voice. "shall i order any refreshment for you?" "no--no," gasped henry; "for the love of truth tell me! is--is your name really varney!" "sir?" "have you no other name to which, perhaps, a better title you could urge?" "mr. bannerworth, i can assure you that i am too proud of the name of the family to which i belong to exchange it for any other, be it what it may." "how wonderfully like!" "i grieve to see you so much distressed. mr. bannerworth. i presume ill health has thus shattered your nerves?" "no; ill health has not done the work. i know not what to say, sir francis varney, to you; but recent events in my family have made the sight of you full of horrible conjectures." "what mean you, sir?" "you know, from common report, that we have had a fearful visitor at our house." "a vampyre, i have heard," said sir francis varney, with a bland, and almost beautiful smile, which displayed his white glistening teeth to perfection. "yes; a vampyre, and--and--" "i pray you go on, sir; you surely are far above the vulgar superstition of believing in such matters?" "my judgment is assailed in too many ways and shapes for it to hold out probably as it ought to do against so hideous a belief, but never was it so much bewildered as now." "why so?" "because--" "nay, henry," whispered mr. marchdale, "it is scarcely civil to tell sir francis to his face, that he resembles a vampyre." "i must, i must." "pray, sir," interrupted varney to marchdale, "permit mr. bannerworth to speak here freely. there is nothing in the whole world i so much admire as candour." "then you so much resemble the vampyre," added henry, "that--that i know not what to think." "is it possible?" said varney. "it is a damning fact." "well, it's unfortunate for me, i presume? ah!" varney gave a twinge of pain, as if some sudden bodily ailment had attacked him severely. "you are unwell, sir?" said marchdale. "no, no--no," he said; "i--hurt my arm, and happened accidentally to touch the arm of this chair with it." "a hurt?" said henry. "yes, mr. bannerworth." "a--a wound?" "yes, a wound, but not much more than skin deep. in fact, little beyond an abrasion of the skin." "may i inquire how you came by it?" "oh, yes. a slight fall." "indeed." "remarkable, is it not? very remarkable. we never know a moment when, from same most trifling cause, we may receive really some serious bodily harm. how true it is, mr. bannerworth, that in the midst of life we are in death." "and equally true, perhaps," said henry, "that in the midst of death there may be found a horrible life." "well, i should not wonder. there are really so many strange things in this world, that i have left off wondering at anything now." "there are strange things," said henry. "you wish to purchase of me the hall, sir?" "if you wish to sell." "you--you are perhaps attached to the place? perhaps you recollected it, sir, long ago?" "not very long," smiled sir francis varney. "it seems a nice comfortable old house; and the grounds, too, appear to be amazingly well wooded, which, to one of rather a romantic temperament like myself, is always an additional charm to a place. i was extremely pleased with it the first time i beheld it, and a desire to call myself the owner of it took possession of my mind. the scenery is remarkable for its beauty, and, from what i have seen of it, it is rarely to be excelled. no doubt you are greatly attached to it." "it has been my home from infancy," returned henry, "and being also the residence of my ancestors for centuries, it is natural that i should be so." "true--true." "the house, no doubt, has suffered much," said henry, "within the last hundred years." "no doubt it has. a hundred years is a tolerable long space of time, you know." "it is, indeed. oh, how any human life which is spun out to such an extent, must lose its charms, by losing all its fondest and dearest associations." "ah, how true," said sir francis varney. he had some minutes previously touched a bell, and at this moment a servant brought in on a tray some wine and refreshments. chapter xiv. henry's agreement with sir francis varney.--the sudden arrival at the hall.--flora's alarm. [illustration] on the tray which the servant brought into the room, were refreshments of different kinds, including wine, and after waving his hand for the domestic to retire, sir francis varney said,-"you will be better, mr. bannerworth, for a glass of wine after your walk, and you too, sir. i am ashamed to say, i have quite forgotten your name." "marchdale." "mr. marchdale. ay, marchdale. pray, sir, help yourself." "you take nothing yourself?" said henry. "i am under a strict regimen," replied varney. "the simplest diet alone does for me, and i have accustomed myself to long abstinence." "he will not eat or drink," muttered henry, abstractedly. "will you sell me the hall?" said sir francis varney. henry looked in his face again, from which he had only momentarily withdrawn his eyes, and he was then more struck than ever with the resemblance between him and the portrait on the panel of what had been flora's chamber. what made that resemblance, too, one about which there could scarcely be two opinions, was the mark or cicatrix of a wound in the forehead, which the painter had slightly indented in the portrait, but which was much more plainly visible on the forehead of sir francis varney. now that henry observed this distinctive mark, which he had not done before, he could feel no doubt, and a sickening sensation came over him at the thought that he was actually now in the presence of one of those terrible creatures, vampyres. "you do not drink," said varney. "most young men are not so modest with a decanter of unimpeachable wine before them. i pray you help yourself." "i cannot." henry rose as he spoke, and turning to marchdale, he said, in addition,-"will you come away?" "if you please," said marchdale, rising. "but you have not, my dear sir," said varney, "given me yet any answer about the hall?" "i cannot yet," answered henry, "i will think. my present impression is, to let you have it on whatever terms you may yourself propose, always provided you consent to one of mine." "name it." "that you never show yourself in my family." "how very unkind. i understand you have a charming sister, young, beautiful, and accomplished. shall i confess, now, that i had hopes of making myself agreeable to her?" "you make yourself agreeable to her? the sight of you would blast her for ever, and drive her to madness." "am i so hideous?" "no, but--you are--" "what am i?" "hush, henry, hush," cried marchdale. "remember you are in this gentleman's house." "true, true. why does he tempt me to say these dreadful things? i do not want to say them." "come away, then--come away at once. sir francis varney, my friend, mr. bannerworth, will think over your offer, and let you know. i think you may consider that your wish to become the purchaser of the hall will be complied with." "i wish to have it," said varney, "and i can only say, that if i am master of it, i shall be very happy to see any of the family on a visit at any time." "a visit!" said henry, with a shudder. "a visit to the tomb were far more desirable. farewell, sir." "adieu," said sir francis varney, and he made one of the most elegant bows in the world, while there came over his face a peculiarity of expression that was strange, if not painful, to contemplate. in another minute henry and marchdale were clear of the house, and with feelings of bewilderment and horror, which beggar all description, poor henry allowed himself to be led by the arm by marchdale to some distance, without uttering a word. when he did speak, he said,-"marchdale, it would be charity of some one to kill me." "to kill you!" "yes, for i am certain otherwise that i must go mad." "nay, nay; rouse yourself." "this man, varney, is a vampyre." "hush! hush!" "i tell you, marchdale," cried henry, in a wild, excited manner, "he is a vampyre. he is the dreadful being who visited flora at the still hour of midnight, and drained the life-blood from her veins. he is a vampyre. there are such things. i cannot doubt now. oh, god, i wish now that your lightnings would blast me, as here i stand, for over into annihilation, for i am going mad to be compelled to feel that such horrors can really have existence." "henry--henry." "nay, talk not to me. what can i do? shall i kill him? is it not a sacred duty to destroy such a thing? oh, horror--horror. he must be killed--destroyed--burnt, and the very dust to which he is consumed must be scattered to the winds of heaven. it would be a deed well done, marchdale." "hush! hush! these words are dangerous." "i care not." "what if they were overheard now by unfriendly ears? what might not be the uncomfortable results? i pray you be more cautious what you say of this strange man." "i must destroy him." "and wherefore?" "can you ask? is he not a vampyre?" "yes; but reflect, henry, for a moment upon the length to which you might carry out so dangerous an argument. it is said that vampyres are made by vampyres sucking the blood of those who, but for that circumstance, would have died and gone to decay in the tomb along with ordinary mortals; but that being so attacked during life by a vampyre, they themselves, after death, become such." "well--well, what is that to me?" "have you forgotten flora?" a cry of despair came from poor henry's lips, and in a moment he seemed completely, mentally and physically, prostrated. "god of heaven!" he moaned, "i had forgotten her!" "i thought you had." "oh, if the sacrifice of my own life would suffice to put an end to all this accumulating horror, how gladly would i lay it down. ay, in any way--in any way. no mode of death should appal me. no amount of pain make me shrink. i could smile then upon the destroyer, and say, 'welcome--welcome--most welcome.'" "rather, henry, seek to live for those whom you love than die for them. your death would leave them desolate. in life you may ward off many a blow of fate from them." "i may endeavour so to do." "consider that flora may be wholly dependent upon such kindness as you may be able to bestow upon her." "charles clings to her." "humph!" "you do not doubt him?" "my dear friend, henry bannerworth, although i am not an old man, yet i am so much older than you that i have seen a great deal of the world, and am, perhaps, far better able to come to accurate judgments with regard to individuals." "no doubt--no doubt; but yet--" "nay, hear me out. such judgments, founded upon experience, when uttered have all the character of prophecy about them. i, therefore, now prophecy to you that charles holland will yet be so stung with horror at the circumstance of a vampyre visiting flora, that he will never make her his wife." "marchdale, i differ from you most completely," said henry. "i know that charles holland is the very soul of honour." "i cannot argue the matter with you. it has not become a thing of fact. i have only sincerely to hope that i am wrong." "you are, you may depend, entirely wrong. i cannot be deceived in charles. from you such words produce no effect but one of regret that you should so much err in your estimate of any one. from any one but yourself they would have produced in me a feeling of anger i might have found it difficult to smother." "it has often been my misfortune through life," said mr. marchdale, sadly, "to give the greatest offence where i feel the truest friendship, because it is in such quarters that i am always tempted to speak too freely." "nay, no offence," said henry. "i am distracted, and scarcely know what i say. marchdale, i know you are my sincere friend--but, as i tell you, i am nearly mad." "my dear henry, be calmer. consider upon what is to be said concerning this interview at home." "ay; that is a consideration." "i should not think it advisable to mention the disagreeable fact, that in your neighbour you think you have found out the nocturnal disturber of your family." "no--no." "i would say nothing of it. it is not at all probable that, after what you have said to him this sir francis varney, or whatever his real name may be will obtrude himself upon you." "if he should he die." "he will, perhaps, consider that such a step would be dangerous to him." "it would be fatal, so help me. however, and then would i take especial care that no power of resuscitation should ever enable that man again to walk the earth." "they say that only way of destroying a vampyre is to fix him to the earth with a stake, so that he cannot move, and then, of course, decomposition will take its course, as in ordinary cases." "fire would consume him, and be a quicker process," said henry. "but these are fearful reflections, and, for the present, we will not pursue them. now to play the hypocrite, and endeavour to look composed and serene to my mother, and to flora while my heart is breaking." the two friends had by this time reached the hall, and leaving his friend marchdale, henry bannerworth, with feelings of the most unenviable description, slowly made his way to the apartment occupied by his mother and sister. [illustration] chapter xv. the old admiral and his servant.--the communication from the landlord of the nelson's arms. [illustration] while those matters of most grave and serious import were going on at the hall, while each day, and almost each hour in each day, was producing more and more conclusive evidence upon a matter which at first had seemed too monstrous to be at all credited, it may well be supposed what a wonderful sensation was produced among the gossip-mongers of the neighbourhood by the exaggerated reports that had reached them. the servants, who had left the hall on no other account, as they declared, but sheer fright at the awful visits of the vampyre, spread the news far and wide, so that in the adjoining villages and market-towns the vampyre of bannerworth hall became quite a staple article of conversation. such a positive godsend for the lovers of the marvellous had not appeared in the country side within the memory of that sapient individual--the oldest inhabitant. and, moreover, there was one thing which staggered some people of better education and maturer judgments, and that was, that the more they took pains to inquire into the matter, in order, if possible, to put an end to what they considered a gross lie from the commencement, the more evidence they found to stagger their own senses upon the subject. everywhere then, in every house, public as well as private, something was being continually said of the vampyre. nursery maids began to think a vampyre vastly superior to "old scratch and old bogie" as a means of terrifying their infant charges into quietness, if not to sleep, until they themselves became too much afraid upon the subject to mention it. but nowhere was gossiping carried on upon the subject with more systematic fervour than at an inn called the nelson's arms, which was in the high street of the nearest market town to the hall. there, it seemed as if the lovers of the horrible made a point of holding their head quarters, and so thirsty did the numerous discussions make the guests, that the landlord was heard to declare that he, from his heart, really considered a vampyre as very nearly equal to a contested election. it was towards evening of the same day that marchdale and henry made their visit to sir francis varney, that a postchaise drew up to the inn we have mentioned. in the vehicle were two persons of exceedingly dissimilar appearance and general aspect. one of these people was a man who seemed fast verging upon seventy years of age, although, from his still ruddy and embrowned complexion and stentorian voice, it was quite evident he intended yet to keep time at arm's-length for many years to come. he was attired in ample and expensive clothing, but every article had a naval animus about it, if we may be allowed such an expression with regard to clothing. on his buttons was an anchor, and the general assortment and colour of the clothing as nearly assimilated as possible to the undress naval uniform of an officer of high rank some fifty or sixty years ago. his companion was a younger man, and about his appearance there was no secret at all. he was a genuine sailor, and he wore the shore costume of one. he was hearty-looking, and well dressed, and evidently well fed. as the chaise drove up to the door of the inn, this man made an observation to the other to the following effect,-"a-hoy!" "well, you lubber, what now?" cried the other. "they call this the nelson's arms; and you know, shiver me, that for the best half of his life he had but one." "d--n you!" was the only rejoinder he got for this observation; but, with that, he seemed very well satisfied. "heave to!" he then shouted to the postilion, who was about to drive the chaise into the yard. "heave to, you lubberly son of a gun! we don't want to go into dock." "ah!" said the old man, "let's get out, jack. this is the port; and, do you hear, and be cursed to you, let's have no swearing, d--n you, nor bad language, you lazy swab." "aye, aye," cried jack; "i've not been ashore now a matter o' ten years, and not larnt a little shore-going politeness, admiral, i ain't been your _walley de sham_ without larning a little about land reckonings. nobody would take me for a sailor now, i'm thinking, admiral." "hold your noise!" "aye, aye, sir." jack, as he was called, bundled out of the chaise when the door was opened, with a movement so closely resembling what would have ensued had he been dragged out by the collar, that one was tempted almost to believe that such a feat must have been accomplished all at once by some invisible agency. he then assisted the old gentleman to alight, and the landlord of the inn commenced the usual profusion of bows with which a passenger by a postchaise is usually welcomed in preference to one by a stage coach. "be quiet, will you!" shouted the admiral, for such indeed he was. "be quiet." "best accommodation, sir--good wine--well-aired beds--good attendance--fine air--" "belay there," said jack; and he gave the landlord what no doubt he considered a gentle admonition, but which consisted of such a dig in the ribs, that he made as many evolutions as the clown in a pantomime when he vociferates hot codlings. "now, jack, where's the sailing instructions?" said his master. "here, sir, in the locker," said jack, as he took from his pocket a letter, which he handed to the admiral. "won't you step in, sir?" said the landlord, who had begun now to recover a little from the dig in the ribs. "what's the use of coming into port and paying harbour dues, and all that sort of thing, till we know if it's the right, you lubber, eh?" "no; oh, dear me, sir, of course--god bless me, what can the old gentleman mean?" the admiral opened the letter, and read:- "if you stop at the nelson's aims at uxotter, you will hear of me, and i can be sent for, when i will tell you more. "yours, very obediently and humbly, "josiah crinkles." "who the deuce is he?" "this is uxotter, sir," said the landlord; "and here you are, sir, at the nelson's arms. good beds--good wine--good--" "silence!" "yes, sir--oh, of course" "who the devil is josiah crinkles?" "ha! ha! ha! ha! makes me laugh, sir. who the devil indeed! they do say the devil and lawyers, sir, know something of each other--makes me smile." "i'll make you smile on the other side of that d----d great hatchway of a mouth of yours in a minute. who is crinkles?" "oh, mr. crinkles, sir, everybody knows, most respectable attorney, sir, indeed, highly respectable man, sir." "a lawyer?" "yes, sir, a lawyer." "well, i'm d----d!" jack gave a long whistle, and both master and man looked at each other aghast. "now, hang me!" cried the admiral, "if ever i was so taken in in all my life." "ay, ay, sir," said jack. "to come a hundred and seventy miles see a d----d swab of a rascally lawyer." "ay, ay, sir." "i'll smash him--jack!" "yer honour?" "get into the chaise again." "well, but where's master charles? lawyers, in course, sir, is all blessed rogues; but, howsomdever, he may have for once in his life this here one of 'em have told us of the right channel, and if so be as he has, don't be the yankee to leave him among the pirates. i'm ashamed on you." "you infernal scoundrel; how dare you preach to me in such a way, you lubberly rascal?" "cos you desarves it." "mutiny--mutiny--by jove! jack, i'll have you put in irons--you're a scoundrel, and no seaman." "no seaman!--no seaman!" "not a bit of one." "very good. it's time, then, as i was off the purser's books. good bye to you; i only hopes as you may get a better seaman to stick to you and be your _walley de sham_ nor jack pringle, that's all the harm i wish you. you didn't call me no seaman in the bay of corfu, when the bullets were scuttling our nobs." "jack, you rascal, give us your fin. come here, you d----d villain. you'll leave me, will you?" "not if i know it." "come in, then" "don't tell me i'm no seaman. call me a wagabone if you like, but don't hurt my feelings. there i'm as tender as a baby, i am.--don't do it." "confound you, who is doing it?" "the devil." "who is?" "don't, then." thus wrangling, they entered the inn, to the great amusement of several bystanders, who had collected to hear the altercation between them. "would you like a private room, sir?" said the landlord. "what's that to you?" said jack. "hold your noise, will you?" cried his master. "yes, i should like a private room, and some grog." "strong as the devil!" put in jack. "yes, sir-yes, sir. good wines--good beds--good--" "you said all that before, you know," remarked jack, as he bestowed upon the landlord another terrific dig in the ribs. "hilloa!" cried the admiral, "you can send for that infernal lawyer, mister landlord." "mr. crinkles, sir?" "yes, yes." "who may i have the honour to say, sir, wants to see him?" "admiral bell." "certainly, admiral, certainly. you'll find him a very conversible, nice, gentlemanly little man, sir." "and tell him as jack pringle is here, too," cried the seaman. "oh, yes, yes--of course," said the landlord, who was in such a state of confusion from the digs in the ribs he had received and the noise his guests had already made in his house, that, had he been suddenly put upon his oath, he would scarcely have liked to say which was the master and which was the man. "the idea now, jack," said the admiral, "of coming all this way to see a lawyer." "ay, ay, sir." "if he'd said he was a lawyer, we would have known what to do. but it's a take in, jack." "so i think. howsomdever, we'll serve him out when we catch him, you know." "good--so we will." "and, then, again, he may know something about master charles, sir, you know. lord love him, don't you remember when he came aboard to see you once at portsmouth?" "ah! i do, indeed." "and how he said he hated the french, and quite a baby, too. what perseverance and sense. 'uncle,' says he to you, 'when i'm a big man, i'll go in a ship, and fight all the french in a heap,' says he. 'and beat 'em, my boy, too,' says you; cos you thought he'd forgot that; and then he says, 'what's the use of saying that, stupid?--don't we always beat 'em?'" the admiral laughed and rubbed his hands, as he cried aloud,-"i remember, jack--i remember him. i was stupid to make such a remark." "i know you was--a d----d old fool i thought you." "come, come. hilloa, there!" "well, then, what do you call me no seaman for?" "why, jack, you bear malice like a marine." "there you go again. goodbye. do you remember when we were yard arm to yard arm with those two yankee frigates, and took 'em both! you didn't call me a marine then, when the scuppers were running with blood. was i a seaman then?" "you were, jack--you were; and you saved my life." "i didn't." "you did." "i say i didn't--it was a marlin-spike." "but i say you did, you rascally scoundrel.--i say you did, and i won't be contradicted in my own ship." "call this your ship?" "no, d--n it--i--" "mr. crinkles," said the landlord, flinging the door wide open, and so at once putting an end to the discussion which always apparently had a tendency to wax exceedingly warm. "the shark, by g--d!" said jack. a little, neatly dressed man made his appearance, and advanced rather timidly into the room. perhaps he had heard from the landlord that the parties who had sent for him were of rather a violent sort. "so you are crinkles, are you?" cried the admiral. "sit down, though you are a lawyer." "thank you, sir. i am an attorney, certainly, and my name as certainly is crinkles." "look at that." the admiral placed the letter in the little lawyer's hands, who said,-"am i to read it?" "yes, to be sure." "aloud?" "read it to the devil, if you like, in a pig's whisper, or a west india hurricane." "oh, very good, sir. i--i am willing to be agreeable, so i'll read it aloud, if it's all the same to you." he then opened the letter, and read as follows:- "to admiral bell. "admiral,--being, from various circumstances, aware that you take a warm and a praiseworthy interest in your nephew, charles holland, i venture to write to you concerning a matter in which your immediate and active co-operation with others may rescue him from a condition which will prove, if allowed to continue, very much to his detriment, and ultimate unhappiness. "you are, then, hereby informed, that he, charles holland, has, much earlier than he ought to have done, returned to england, and that the object of his return is to contract a marriage into a family in every way objectionable, and with a girl who is highly objectionable. "you, admiral, are his nearest and almost his only relative in the world; you are the guardian of his property, and, therefore, it becomes a duty on your part to interfere to save him from the ruinous consequences of a marriage, which is sure to bring ruin and distress upon himself and all who take an interest in his welfare. "the family he wishes to marry into is named bannerworth, and the young lady's name is flora bannerworth. when, however, i inform you that a vampyre is in that family, and that if he marries into it, he marries a vampyre, and will have vampyres for children, i trust i have said enough to warn you upon the subject, and to induce you to lose no time in repairing to the spot. "if you stop at the nelson's arms at uxotter, you will hear of me. i can be sent for, when i will tell you more. "yours, very obediently and humbly, "josiah crinkles." "p.s. i enclose you dr. johnson's definition of a vampyre, which is as follows: "vampyre (a german blood-sucker)--by which you perceive how many vampyres, from time immemorial, must have been well entertained at the expense of john bull, at the court of st. james, where no thing hardly is to be met with but german blood-suckers." [illustration] * * * * * the lawyer ceased to read, and the amazed look with which he glanced at the face of admiral bell would, under any other circumstances, have much amused him. his mind, however, was by far too much engrossed with a consideration of the danger of charles holland, his nephew, to be amused at anything; so, when he found that the little lawyer said nothing, he bellowed out,-"well, sir?" "we--we--well," said the attorney. "i've sent for you, and here you are, and here i am, and here's jack pringle. what have you got to say?" "just this much," said mr. crinkles, recovering himself a little, "just this much, sir, that i never saw that letter before in all my life." "you--never--saw--it?" "never." "didn't you write it?" "on my solemn word of honour, sir, i did not." jack pringle whistled, and the admiral looked puzzled. like the admiral in the song, too, he "grew paler," and then mr. crinkles added,-"who has forged my name to a letter such as this, i cannot imagine. as for writing to you, sir, i never heard of your existence, except publicly, as one of those gallant officers who have spent a long life in nobly fighting their country's battles, and who are entitled to the admiration and the applause of every englishman." jack and the admiral looked at each other in amazement, and then the latter exclaimed,-"what! this from a lawyer?" "a lawyer, sir," said crinkles, "may know how to appreciate the deeds of gallant men, although he may not be able to imitate them. that letter, sir, is a forgery, and i now leave you, only much gratified at the incident which has procured me the honour of an interview with a gentleman, whose name will live in the history of his country. good day, sir! good day!" "no! i'm d----d if you go like that," said jack, as he sprang to the door, and put his back against it. "you shall take a glass with me in honour of the wooden walls of old england, d----e, if you was twenty lawyers." "that's right, jack," said the admiral. "come, mr. crinkles, i'll think, for your sake, there may be two decent lawyers in the world, and you one of them. we must have a bottle of the best wine the ship--i mean the house--can afford together." "if it is your command, admiral, i obey with pleasure," said the attorney; "and although i assure you, on my honour, i did not write that letter, yet some of the matters mentioned in it are so generally notorious here, that i can afford you information concerning them." "can you?" "i regret to say i can, for i respect the parties." "sit down, then--sit down. jack, run to the steward's room and get the wine. we will go into it now starboard and larboard. who the deuce could have written that letter?" "i have not the least idea, sir." "well--well, never mind; it has brought me here, that's something, so i won't grumble much at it. i didn't know my nephew was in england, and i dare say he didn't know i was; but here we both are, and i won't rest till i've seen him, and ascertained how the what's-its-name--" "the vampyre." "ah! the vampyre." "shiver my timbers!" said jack pringle, who now brought in some wine much against the remonstrances of the waiters of the establishment, who considered that he was treading upon their vested interests by so doing.--"shiver my timbers, if i knows what a _wamphigher_ is, unless he's some distant relation to davy jones!" "hold your ignorant tongue," said the admiral; "nobody wants you to make a remark, you great lubber!" "very good," said jack, and he sat down the wine on the table, and then retired to the other end of the room, remarking to himself that he was not called a great lubber on a certain occasion, when bullets were scuttling their nobs, and they were yard arm and yard arm with god knows who. "now, mister lawyer," said admiral bell, who had about him a large share of the habits of a rough sailor. "now, mister lawyer, here is a glass first to our better acquaintance, for d----e, if i don't like you!" "you are very good, sir." "not at all. there was a time, when i'd just as soon have thought of asking a young shark to supper with me in my own cabin as a lawyer, but i begin to see that there may be such a thing as a decent, good sort of a fellow seen in the law; so here's good luck to you, and you shall never want a friend or a bottle while admiral bell has a shot in the locker." "gammon," said jack. "d--n you, what do you mean by that?" roared the admiral, in a furious tone. "i wasn't speaking to you," shouted jack, about two octaves higher. "it's two boys in the street as is pretending they're a going to fight, and i know d----d well they won't." "hold your noise." "i'm going. i wasn't told to hold my noise, when our nobs were being scuttled off beyrout." "never mind him, mister lawyer," added the admiral. "he don't know what he's talking about. never mind him. you go on and tell me all you know about the--the--" "the vampyre!" "ah! i always forget the names of strange fish. i suppose, after all, it's something of the mermaid order?" "that i cannot say, sir; but certainly the story, in all its painful particulars, has made a great sensation all over the country." "indeed!" "yes, sir. you shall hear how it occurred. it appears that one night miss flora bannersworth, a young lady of great beauty, and respected and admired by all who knew her was visited by a strange being who came in at the window." "my eye," said jack, "it waren't me, i wish it had a been." "so petrified by fear was she, that she had only time to creep half out of the bed, and to utter one cry of alarm, when the strange visitor seized her in his grasp." "d--n my pig tail," said jack, "what a squall there must have been, to be sure." "do you see this bottle?" roared the admiral. "to be sure, i does; i think as it's time i seed another." "you scoundrel, i'll make you feel it against that d----d stupid head of yours, if you interrupt this gentleman again." "don't be violent." "well, as i was saying," continued the attorney, "she did, by great good fortune, manage to scream, which had the effect of alarming the whole house. the door of her chamber, which was fast, was broken open." "yes, yes--" "ah," cried jack. "you may imagine the horror and the consternation of those who entered the room to find her in the grasp of a fiend-like figure, whose teeth were fastened on her neck, and who was actually draining her veins of blood." "the devil!" "before any one could lay hands sufficiently upon the figure to detain it, it had fled precipitately from its dreadful repast. shots were fired after it in vain." "and they let it go?" "they followed it, i understand, as well as they were able, and saw it scale the garden wall of the premises; there it escaped, leaving, as you may well imagine, on all their minds, a sensation of horror difficult to describe." "well, i never did hear anything the equal of that. jack, what do you think of it?" "i haven't begun to think, yet," said jack. "but what about my nephew, charles?" added the admiral. "of him i know nothing." "nothing?" "not a word, admiral. i was not aware you had a nephew, or that any gentleman bearing that, or any other relationship to you, had any sort of connexion with these mysterious and most unaccountable circumstances. i tell you all i have gathered from common report about this vampyre business. further i know not, i assure you." "well, a man can't tell what he don't know. it puzzles me to think who could possibly have written me this letter." "that i am completely at a loss to imagine," said crinkles. "i assure you, my gallant sir, that i am much hurt at the circumstance of any one using my name in such a way. but, nevertheless, as you are here, permit me to say, that it will be my pride, my pleasure, and the boast of the remainder of my existence, to be of some service to so gallant a defender of my country, and one whose name, along with the memory of his deeds, is engraved upon the heart of every briton." "quite ekal to a book, he talks," said jack. "i never could read one myself, on account o' not knowing how, but i've heard 'em read, and that's just the sort o' incomprehensible gammon." "we don't want any of your ignorant remarks," said the admiral, "so you be quiet." "ay, ay, sir." "now, mister lawyer, you are an honest fellow, and an honest fellow is generally a sensible fellow." "sir, i thank you." "if so be as what this letter says is true, my nephew charles has got a liking for this girl, who has had her neck bitten by a vampyre, you see." "i perceive, sir." "now what would you do?" "one of the most difficult, as well, perhaps, as one of the most ungracious of tasks," said the attorney, "is to interfere with family affairs. the cold and steady eye of reason generally sees things in such very different lights to what they appear to those whose feelings and whose affections are much compromised in their results." "very true. go on." "taking, my dear sir, what in my humble judgment appears to be a reasonable view of this subject, i should say it would be a dreadful thing for your nephew to marry into a family any member of which was liable to the visitations of a vampyre." "it wouldn't be pleasant." "the young lady might have children." "oh, lots," cried jack. "hold your noise, jack." "ay, ay, sir." "and she might herself actually, when after death she became a vampyre, come and feed on her own children." "become a vampyre! what, is she going to be a vampyre too?" "my dear sir, don't you know that it is a remarkable fact, as regards the physiology of vampyres, that whoever is bitten by one of those dreadful beings, becomes a vampyre?" "the devil!" "it is a fact, sir." "whew!" whistled jack; "she might bite us all, and we should be a whole ship's crew o' _wamphighers_. there would be a confounded go!" "it's not pleasant," said the admiral, as he rose from his chair, and paced to and fro in the room, "it's not pleasant. hang me up at my own yard-arm if it is." "who said it was?" cried jack. "who asked you, you brute?" "well, sir," added mr. crinkles, "i have given you all the information i can; and i can only repeat what i before had the honour of saying more at large, namely, that i am your humble servant to command, and that i shall be happy to attend upon you at any time." "thank ye--thank ye, mr.--a--a--" "crinkles." "ah, crinkles. you shall hear from me again, sir, shortly. now that i am down here, i will see to the very bottom of this affair, were it deeper than fathom ever sounded. charles holland was my poor sister's son; he's the only relative i have in the wide world, and his happiness is dearer to my heart than my own." crinkles turned aside, and, by the twinkle of his eyes, one might premise that the honest little lawyer was much affected. "god bless you, sir," he said; "farewell." "good day to you." "good-bye, lawyer," cried jack. "mind how you go. d--n me, if you don't seem a decent sort of fellow, and, after all, you may give the devil a clear berth, and get into heaven's straits with a flowing sheet, provided as you don't, towards the end of the voyage, make any lubberly blunders." the old admiral threw himself into a chair with a deep sigh. "jack," said he. "aye, aye, sir." "what's to be done now?" jack opened the window to discharge the superfluous moisture from an enormous quid he had indulged himself with while the lawyer was telling about the vampyre, and then again turning his face towards his master, he said,-"do! what shall we do? why, go at once and find out charles, our _nevy_, and ask him all about it, and see the young lady, too, and lay hold o' the _wamphigher_ if we can, as well, and go at the whole affair broadside to broadside, till we make a prize of all the particulars, after which we can turn it over in our minds agin, and see what's to be done." "jack, you are right. come along." "i knows i am. do you know now which way to steer?" "of course not. i never was in this latitude before, and the channel looks intricate. we will hail a pilot, jack, and then we shall be all right, and if we strike it will be his fault." "which is a mighty great consolation," said jack. "come along." chapter xvi. the meeting of the lovers in the garden.--an affecting scene.--the sudden appearance of sir francis varney. [illustration] our readers will recollect that flora bannerworth had made an appointment with charles holland in the garden of the hall. this meeting was looked forward to by the young man with a variety of conflicting feelings, and he passed the intermediate time in a most painful state of doubt as to what would be its result. the thought that he should be much urged by flora to give up all thoughts of making her his, was a most bitter one to him, who loved her with so much truth and constancy, and that she would say all she could to induce such a resolution in his mind he felt certain. but to him the idea of now abandoning her presented itself in the worst of aspects. "shall i," he said, "sink so low in my own estimation, as well as in hers, and in that of all honourable-minded persons, as to desert her now in the hour of affliction? dare i be so base as actually or virtually to say to her, 'flora, when your beauty was undimmed by sorrow--when all around you seemed life and joy, i loved you selfishly for the increased happiness which you might bestow upon me; but now the hand of misfortune presses heavily upon you--you are not what you were, and i desert you? never--never--never!" charles holland, it will be seen by some of our more philosophic neighbours, felt more acutely than he reasoned; but let his errors of argumentation be what they may, can we do other than admire the nobility of soul which dictated such a self denying generous course as that he was pursuing? as for flora, heaven only knows if at that precise time her intellect had completely stood the test of the trying events which had nearly overwhelmed it. the two grand feelings that seemed to possess her mind were fear of the renewed visit of the vampyre, and an earnest desire to release charles holland from his repeated vows of constancy towards her. feeling, generosity, and judgment, all revolted holding a young man to such a destiny as hers. to link him to her fate, would be to make him to a real extent a sharer in it, and the more she heard fall from his lips in the way of generous feelings of continued attachment to her, the more severely did she feel that he would suffer most acutely if united to her. and she was right. the very generosity of feeling which would have now prompted charles holland to lead flora bannerworth to the altar, even with the marks of the vampyre's teeth upon her throat, gave an assurance of a depth of feeling which would have made him an ample haven in all her miseries, in all her distresses and afflictions. what was familiarly in the family at the hall called the garden, was a semicircular piece of ground shaded in several directions by trees, and which was exclusively devoted to the growth of flowers. the piece of ground was nearly hidden from the view of the house, and in its centre was a summer-house, which at the usual season of the year was covered with all kinds of creeping plants of exquisite perfumes, and rare beauty. all around, too, bloomed the fairest and sweetest of flowers, which a rich soil and a sheltered situation could produce. alas! though, of late many weeds had straggled up among their more estimable floral culture, for the decayed fortunes of the family had prevented them from keeping the necessary servants, to place the hall and its grounds in a state of neatness, such as it had once been the pride of the inhabitants of the place to see them. it was then in this flower-garden that charles and flora used to meet. as may be supposed, he was on the spot before the appointed hour, anxiously expecting the appearance of her who was so really and truly dear to him. what to him were the sweet flowers that there grew in such happy luxuriance and heedless beauty? alas, the flower that to his mind was fairer than them all, was blighted, and in the wan cheek of her whom he loved, he sighed to see the lily usurping the place of the radiant rose. "dear, dear flora," he ejaculated, "you must indeed be taken from this place, which is so full of the most painful remembrance; now, i cannot think that mr. marchdale somehow is a friend to me, but that conviction, or rather impression, does not paralyze my judgment sufficiently to induce me not to acknowledge that his advice is good. he might have couched it in pleasanter words--words that would not, like daggers, each have brought a deadly pang home to my heart, but still i do think that in his conclusion he was right." a light sound, as of some fairy footstep among the flowers, came upon his ears, and turning instantly to the direction from whence the sound proceeded, he saw what his heart had previously assured him of, namely, that it was his flora who was coming. [illustration] yes, it was she; but, ah, how pale, how wan--how languid and full of the evidences of much mental suffering was she. where now was the elasticity of that youthful step? where now was that lustrous beaming beauty of mirthfulness, which was wont to dawn in those eyes? alas, all was changed. the exquisite beauty of form was there, but the light of joy which had lent its most transcendent charms to that heavenly face, was gone. charles was by her side in a moment. he had her hand clasped in his, while his disengaged one was wound tenderly around her taper waist. "flora, dear, dear flora," he said, "you are better. tell me that you feel the gentle air revives you?" she could not speak. her heart was too full of woe. "oh; flora, my own, my beautiful," he added, in those tones which come so direct from the heart, and which are so different from any assumption of tenderness. "speak to me, dear, dear flora--speak to me if it be but a word." "charles," was all she could say, and then she burst into a flood of tears, and leant so heavily upon his arm, that it was evident but for that support she must have fallen. charles holland welcomed those, although, they grieved him so much that he could have accompanied them with his own, but then he knew that she would be soon now more composed, and that they would relieve the heart whose sorrows called them into existence. he forbore to speak to her until he found this sudden gush of feeling was subsiding into sobs, and then in low, soft accents, he again endeavoured to breathe comfort to her afflicted and terrified spirit. "my flora," he said, "remember that there are warm hearts that love you. remember that neither time nor circumstance can change such endearing affection as mine. ah, flora, what evil is there in the whole world that love may not conquer, and in the height of its noble feelings laugh to scorn." "oh, hush, hush, charles, hush." "wherefore, flora, would you still the voice of pure affection? i love you surely, as few have ever loved. ah, why would you forbid me to give such utterance as i may to those feelings which fill up my whole heart?" "no--no--no." "flora, flora, wherefore do you say no?" "do not, charles, now speak to me of affection or love. do not tell me you love me now." "not tell you i love you! ah, flora, if my tongue, with its poor eloquence to give utterance to such a sentiment, were to do its office, each feature of my face would tell the tale. each action would show to all the world how much i loved you." "i must not now hear this. great god of heaven give me strength to carry out the purpose of my soul." "what purpose is it, flora, that you have to pray thus fervently for strength to execute? oh, if it savour aught of treason against love's majesty, forget it. love is a gift from heaven. the greatest and the most glorious gift it ever bestowed upon its creatures. heaven will not aid you in repudiating that which is the one grand redeeming feature that rescues human nature from a world of reproach." flora wrung her hands despairingly as she said,-"charles, i know i cannot reason with you. i know i have not power of language, aptitude of illustration, nor depth of thought to hold a mental contention with you." "flora, for what do i contend?" "you, you speak of love." "and i have, ere this, spoken to you of love unchecked." "yes, yes. before this." "and now, wherefore not now? do not tell me you are changed." "i am changed, charles. fearfully changed. the curse of god has fallen upon me, i know not why. i know not that in word or in thought i have done evil, except perchance unwittingly, and yet--the vampyre." "let not that affright you." "affright me! it has killed me." "nay, flora,--you think too much of what i still hope to be susceptible of far more rational explanation." "by your own words, then, charles, i must convict you. i cannot, i dare not be yours, while such a dreadful circumstance is hanging over me, charles; if a more rational explanation than the hideous one which my own fancy gives to the form that visits me can be found, find it, and rescue me from despair and from madness." they had now reached the summer-house, and as flora uttered these words she threw herself on to a seat, and covering her beautiful face with her hands, she sobbed convulsively. "you have spoken," said charles, dejectedly. "i have heard that which you wished to say to me." "no, no. not all, charles." "i will be patient, then, although what more you may have to add should tear my very heart-strings." "i--i have to add, charles," she said, in a tremulous voice, "that justice, religion, mercy--every human attribute which bears the name of virtue, calls loudly upon me no longer to hold you to vows made under different auspices." "go on, flora." "i then implore you, charles, finding me what i am, to leave me to the fate which it has pleased heaven to cast upon me. i do not ask you, charles, not to love me." "'tis well. go on, flora." "because i should like to think that, although i might never see you more, you loved me still. but you must think seldom of me, and you must endeavour to be happy with some other--" "you cannot, flora, pursue the picture you yourself would draw. these words come not from your heart." "yes--yes--yes." "did you ever love me?" "charles, charles, why will you add another pang to those you know must already rend my heart?" "no, flora, i would tear my own heart from my bosom ere i would add one pang to yours. well i know that gentle maiden modesty would seal your lips to the soft confession that you loved me. i could not hope the joy of hearing you utter these words. the tender devoted lover is content to see the truthful passion in the speaking eyes of beauty. content is he to translate it from a thousand acts, which, to eyes that look not so acutely as a lover's, bear no signification; but when you tell me to seek happiness with another, well may the anxious question burst from my throbbing heart of, 'did you ever love me, flora?'" her senses hung entranced upon his words. oh, what a witchery is in the tongue of love. some even of the former colour of her cheek returned as forgetting all for the moment but that she was listening to the voice of him, the thoughts of whom had made up the day dream of her happiness, she gazed upon his face. his voice ceased. to her it seemed as if some music had suddenly left off in its most exquisite passage. she clung to his arm--she looked imploringly up to him. her head sunk upon his breast as she cried, "charles, charles, i did love you. i do love you now." "then let sorrow and misfortune shake their grisly locks in vain," he cried. "heart to heart--hand to hand with me, defy them." he lifted up his arms towards heaven as he spoke, and at the moment came such a rattling peal of thunder, that the very earth seemed to shake upon its axis. a half scream of terror burst from the lips of flora, as she cried,-"what was that?" "only thunder," said charles, calmly. "'twas an awful sound." "a natural one." "but at such a moment, when you were defying fate to injure us. oh! charles, is it ominous?" "flora, can you really give way to such idle fancies?" "the sun is obscured." "ay, but it will shine all the brighter for its temporary eclipse. the thunder-storm will clear the air of many noxious vapours; the forked lightning has its uses as well as its powers of mischief. hark! there again!" another peal, of almost equal intensity to the other, shook the firmament. flora trembled. "charles," she said, "this is the voice of heaven. we must part--we must part for ever. i cannot be yours." "flora, this is madness. think again, dear flora. misfortunes for a time will hover over the best and most fortunate of us; but, like the clouds that now obscure the sweet sunshine, will pass away, and leave no trace behind them. the sunshine of joy will shine on you again." there was a small break in the clouds, like a window looking into heaven. from it streamed one beam of sunlight, so bright, so dazzling, and so beautiful, that it was a sight of wonder to look upon. it fell upon the face of flora; it warmed her cheek; it lent lustre to her pale lips and tearful eyes; it illumined that little summer-house as if it had been the shrine of some saint. "behold!" cried charles, "where is your omen now?" "god of heaven!'" cried flora; and she stretched out her arms. "the clouds that hover over your spirit now," said charles, "shall pass away. accept this beam of sunlight as a promise from god." "i will--i will. it is going." "it has done its office." the clouds closed over the small orifice, and all was gloom again as before. "flora," said charles, "you will not ask me now to leave you?" she allowed him to clasp her to his heart. it was beating for her, and for her only. "you will let me, flora, love you still?" her voice, as she answered him, was like the murmur of some distant melody the ears can scarcely translate to the heart. "charles we will live, love, and die together." and now there was a wrapt stillness in that summer-house for many minutes--a trance of joy. they did not speak, but now and then she would look into his face with an old familiar smile, and the joy of his heart was near to bursting in tears from his eyes. a shriek burst from flora's lips--a shriek so wild and shrill that it awakened echoes far and near. charles staggered back a step, as if shot, and then in such agonised accents as he was long indeed in banishing the remembrance of, she cried,-"the vampyre! the vampyre!" chapter xvii. the explanation.--the arrival of the admiral at the house.--a scene of confusion, and some of its results. [illustration] so sudden and so utterly unexpected a cry of alarm from flora, at such a time might well have the effect of astounding the nerves of any one, and no wonder that charles was for a few seconds absolutely petrified and almost unable to think. mechanically, then, he turned his eyes towards the door of the summer-house, and there he saw a tall, thin man, rather elegantly dressed, whose countenance certainly, in its wonderful resemblance to the portrait on the panel, might well appal any one. the stranger stood in the irresolute attitude on the threshold of the summer-house of one who did not wish to intrude, but who found it as awkward, if not more so now, to retreat than to advance. before charles holland could summon any words to his aid, or think of freeing himself from the clinging grasp of flora, which was wound around him, the stranger made a very low and courtly bow, after which he said, in winning accents,-"i very much fear that i am an intruder here. allow me to offer my warmest apologies, and to assure you, sir, and you, madam, that i had no idea any one was in the arbour. you perceive the rain is falling smartly, and i made towards here, seeing it was likely to shelter me from the shower." these words were spoken in such a plausible and courtly tone of voice, that they might well have become any drawing-room in the kingdom. flora kept her eyes fixed upon him during the utterance of these words; and as she convulsively clutched the arm of charles, she kept on whispering,-"the vampyre! the vampyre!" "i much fear," added the stranger, in the same bland tones, "that i have been the cause of some alarm to the young lady!" "release me," whispered charles to flora. "release me; i will follow him at once." "no, no--do not leave me--do not leave me. the vampyre--the dreadful vampyre!" "but, flora--" "hush--hush--hush! it speaks again." "perhaps i ought to account for my appearance in the garden at all," added the insinuating stranger. "the fact is, i came on a visit--" flora shuddered. "to mr. henry bannerworth," continued the stranger; "and finding the garden-gate open, i came in without troubling the servants, which i much regret, as i can perceive i have alarmed and annoyed the lady. madam, pray accept of my apologies." "in the name of god, who are you?" said charles. "my name is varney." "oh, yes. you are the sir francis varney, residing close by, who bears so fearful a resemblance to--" "pray go on, sir. i am all attention." "to a portrait here." "indeed! now i reflect a moment, mr. henry bannerworth did incidentally mention something of the sort. it's a most singular coincidence." the sound of approaching footsteps was now plainly heard, and in a few moments henry and george, along with mr. marchdale, reached the spot. their appearance showed that they had made haste, and henry at once exclaimed,-"we heard, or fancied we heard, a cry of alarm." "you did hear it," said charles holland. "do you know this gentleman?" "it is sir francis varney." "indeed!" varney bowed to the new comers, and was altogether as much at his ease as everybody else seemed quite the contrary. even charles holland found the difficulty of going up to such a well-bred, gentlemanly man, and saying, "sir, we believe you to be a vampyre"--to be almost, if not insurmountable. "i cannot do it," he thought, "but i will watch him." "take me away," whispered flora. "'tis he--'tis he. oh, take me away, charles." "hush, flora, hush. you are in some error; the accidental resemblance should not make us be rude to this gentleman." "the vampyre!--it is the vampyre!" "are you sure, flora?" "do i know your features--my own--my brother's? do not ask me to doubt--i cannot. i am quite sure. take me from his hideous presence, charles." "the young lady, i fear, is very much indisposed," remarked sir francis varney, in a sympathetic tone of voice. "if she will accept of my arm, i shall esteem it a great honour." "no--no--no!--god! no," cried flora. "madam, i will not press you." he bowed, and charles led flora from the summer-house towards the hall. "flora," he said, "i am bewildered--i know not what to think. that man most certainly has been fashioned after the portrait which is on the panel in the room you formerly occupied; or it has been painted from him." "he is my midnight visitor!" exclaimed flora. "he is the vampyre;--this sir francis varney is the vampyre." "good god! what can be done?" "i know not. i am nearly distracted." "be calm, flora. if this man be really what you name him, we now know from what quarter the mischief comes, which is, at all events, a point gained. be assured we shall place a watch upon him." "oh, it is terrible to meet him here." "and he is so wonderfully anxious, too, to possess the hall." "he is--he is." "it looks strange, the whole affair. but, flora, be assured of one thing, and that is, of your own safety." "can i be assured of that?" "most certainly. go to your mother now. here we are, you see, fairly within doors. go to your mother, dear flora, and keep yourself quiet. i will return to this mysterious man now with a cooler judgment than i left him." "you will watch him, charles?" "i will, indeed." "and you will not let him approach the house here alone?" "i will not." "oh, that the almighty should allow such beings to haunt the earth!" "hush, flora, hush! we cannot judge of his allwise purpose." '"tis hard that the innocent should be inflicted with its presence." charles bowed his head in mournful assent. [illustration] "is it not very, very dreadful?" "hush--hush! calm yourself, dearest, calm yourself. recollect that all we have to go upon in this matter is a resemblance, which, after all, may be accidental. but leave it all to me, and be assured that now i have some clue to this affair, i will not lose sight of it, or of sir francis varney." so saying, charles surrendered flora to the care of her mother, and then was hastening back to the summer-house, when he met the whole party coming towards the hall, for the rain was each moment increasing in intensity. "we are returning," remarked sir francis varney, with a half bow and a smile, to charles. "allow me," said henry, "to introduce you, mr. holland, to our neighbour, sir francis varney." charles felt himself compelled to behave with courtesy, although his mind was so full of conflicting feelings as regarded varney; but there was no avoiding, without such brutal rudeness as was inconsistent with all his pursuits and habits, replying in something like the same strain to the extreme courtly politeness of the supposed vampyre. "i will watch him closely," thought charles. "i can do no more than watch him closely." sir francis varney seemed to be a man of the most general and discursive information. he talked fluently and pleasantly upon all sorts of topics, and notwithstanding he could not but have heard what flora had said of him, he asked no questions whatever upon that subject. this silence as regarded a matter which would at once have induced some sort of inquiry from any other man, charles felt told much against him, and he trembled to believe for a moment that, after all, it really might be true. "is he a vampyre?" he asked himself. "are there vampyres, and is this man of fashion--this courtly, talented, educated gentleman one?" it was a perfectly hideous question. "you are charmingly situated here," remarked varney, as, after ascending the few steps that led to the hall door, he turned and looked at the view from that slight altitude. "the place has been much esteemed," said henry, "for its picturesque beauties of scenery." "and well it may be. i trust, mr. holland, the young lady is much better?" "she is, sir," said charles. "i was not honoured by an introduction." "it was my fault," said henry, who spoke to his extraordinary guest with an air of forced hilarity. "it was my fault for not introducing you to my sister." "and that was your sister?" "it was, sir." "report has not belied her--she is beautiful. but she looks rather pale, i thought. has she bad health?" "the best of health." "indeed! perhaps the little disagreeable circumstance, which is made so much food for gossip in the neighbourhood, has affected her spirits?" "it has." "you allude to the supposed visit here of a vampyre?" said charles, as he fixed his eyes upon varney's face. "yes, i allude to the supposed appearance of a supposed vampyre in this family," said sir francis varney, as he returned the earnest gaze of charles, with such unshrinking assurance, that the young man was compelled, after about a minute, nearly to withdraw his own eyes. "he will not be cowed," thought charles. "use has made him familiar to such cross-questioning." it appeared now suddenly to occur to henry that he had said something at varney's own house which should have prevented him from coming to the hall, and he now remarked,-"we scarcely expected the pleasure of your company here, sir francis varney." "oh, my dear sir, i am aware of that; but you roused my curiosity. you mentioned to me that there was a portrait here amazingly like me." "did i?" "indeed you did, or how could i know it? i wanted to see if the resemblance was so perfect." "did you hear, sir," added henry, "that my sister was alarmed at your likeness to that portrait?" "no, really." "i pray you walk in, and we will talk more at large upon that matter." "with great pleasure. one leads a monotonous life in the country, when compared with the brilliancy of a court existence. just now i have no particular engagement. as we are near neighbours i see no reason why we should not be good friends, and often interchange such civilities as make up the amenities of existence, and which, in the country, more particularly, are valuable." henry could not be hypocrite enough to assent to this; but still, under the present aspect of affairs, it was impossible to return any but a civil reply; so he said,-"oh, yes, of course--certainly. my time is very much occupied, and my sister and mother see no company." "oh, now, how wrong." "wrong, sir?" "yes, surely. if anything more than another tends to harmonize individuals, it is the society of that fairer half of the creation which we love for their very foibles. i am much attached to the softer sex--to young persons full of health. i like to see the rosy checks, where the warm blood mantles in the superficial veins, and all is loveliness and life." charles shrank back, and the word "demon" unconsciously escaped his lips. sir francis took no manner of notice of the expression, but went on talking, as if he had been on the very happiest terms with every one present. "will you follow me, at once, to the chamber where the portrait hangs," said henry, "or will you partake of some refreshment first?" "no refreshment for me," said varney. "my dear friend, if you will permit me to call you such, this is a time of the day at which i never do take any refreshment." "nor at any other," thought henry. they all went to the chamber where charles had passed one very disagreeable night, and when they arrived, henry pointed to the portrait on the panel, saying-"there, sir francis varney, is your likeness." he looked, and, having walked up to it, in an under tone, rather as if he were conversing with himself than making a remark for any one else to hear, he said-"it is wonderfully like." "it is, indeed," said charles. "if i stand beside it, thus," said varney, placing himself in a favourable attitude for comparing the two faces, "i dare say you will be more struck with the likeness than before." so accurate was it now, that the same light fell upon his face as that under which the painter had executed the portrait, that all started back a step or two. "some artists," remarked varney, "have the sense to ask where a portrait is to be hung before they paint it, and then they adapt their lights and shadows to those which would fall upon the original, were it similarly situated." "i cannot stand this," said charles to henry; "i must question him farther." "as you please, but do not insult him." "i will not." "he is beneath my roof now, and, after all, it is but a hideous suspicion we have of him." "rely upon me." charles stepped forward, and once again confronting varney, with an earnest gaze, he said-"do you know, sir, that miss bannerworth declares the vampyre she fancies to have visited this chamber to be, in features, the exact counterpart of this portrait?" "does she indeed?" "she does, indeed." "and perhaps, then, that accounts for her thinking that i am the vampyre, because i bear a strong resemblance to the portrait." "i should not be surprised," said charles. "how very odd." "very." "and yet entertaining. i am rather amused than otherwise. the idea of being a vampyre. ha! ha! if ever i go to a masquerade again, i shall certainly assume the character of a vampyre." "you would do it well." "i dare say, now, i should make quite a sensation." "i am certain you would. do you not think, gentlemen, that sir francis varney would enact the character to the very life? by heavens, he would do it so well that one might, without much difficulty, really imagine him a vampyre." "bravo--bravo," said varney, as he gently folded his hands together, with that genteel applause that may even be indulged in in a box at the opera itself. "bravo. i like to see young persons enthusiastic; it looks as if they had some of the real fire of genius in their composition. bravo--bravo." this was, charles thought, the very height and acme of impudence, and yet what could he do? what could he say? he was foiled by the downright coolness of varney. as for henry, george, and mr. marchdale, they had listened to what was passing between sir francis and charles in silence. they feared to diminish the effect of anything charles might say, by adding a word of their own; and, likewise, they did not wish to lose one observation that might come from the lips of varney. but now charles appeared to have said all he had to say, he turned to the window and looked out. he seemed like a man who had made up his mind, for a time, to give up some contest in which he had been engaged. and, perhaps, not so much did he give it up from any feeling or consciousness of being beaten, as from a conviction that it could be the more effectually, at some other and far more eligible opportunity, renewed. varney now addressed henry, saying,-"i presume the subject of our conference, when you did me the honour of a call, is no secret to any one here?" "none whatever," said henry. "then, perhaps, i am too early in asking you if you have made up your mind?" "i have scarcely, certainly, had time to think." "my dear sir, do not let me hurry you; i much regret, indeed, the intrusion." "you seem anxious to possess the hall," remarked mr. marchdale, to varney. "i am." "is it new to you?" "not quite. i have some boyish recollections connected with this neighbourhood, among which bannerworth hall stands sufficiently prominent." "may i ask how long ago that was?" said charles howard, rather abruptly. "i do not recollect, my enthusiastic young friend," said varney. "how old are you?" "just about twenty-one." "you are, then, for your age, quite a model of discretion." it would have been difficult for the most accurate observer of human nature to have decided whether this was said truthfully or ironically, so charles made no reply to it whatever. "i trust," said henry, "we shall induce you, as this is your first visit, sir francis varney, to the hall, to partake of some thing." "well, well, a cup of wine--" "is at your service." henry now led the way to a small parlour, which, although by no means one of the showiest rooms of the house, was, from the care and exquisite carving with which it abounded, much more to the taste of any who possessed an accurate judgment in such works of art. then wine was ordered, and charles took an opportunity of whispering to henry,-"notice well if he drinks." "i will." "do you see that beneath his coat there is a raised place, as if his arm was bound up?" "i do." "there, then, was where the bullet from the pistol fired by flora, when we were at the church, hit him." "hush! for god's sake, hush! you are getting into a dreadful state of excitement, charles; hush! hush!" "and can you blame--" "no, no; but what can we do?" "you are right. nothing can we do at present. we have a clue now, and be it our mutual inclination, as well as duty, to follow it. oh, you shall see how calm i will be!" "for heaven's sake, be so. i have noted that his eyes flash upon yours with no friendly feeling." "his friendship were a curse." "hush! he drinks!" "watch him." "i will." "gentlemen all," said sir francis varney, in such soft, dulcet tones, that it was quite a fascination to hear him speak; "gentlemen all, being as i am, much delighted with your company, do not accuse me of presumption, if i drink now, poor drinker as i am, to our future merry meetings." he raised the wine to his lips, and seemed to drink, after which he replaced the glass upon the table. charles glanced at it, it was still full. "you have not drank, sir francis varney," he said. "pardon me, enthusiastic young sir," said varney, "perhaps you will have the liberality to allow me to take my wine how i please and when i please." "your glass is full." "well, sir?" "will you drink it?" "not at any man's bidding, most certainly. if the fair flora bannerworth would grace the board with her sweet presence, methinks i could then drink on, on, on." "hark you, sir," cried charles, "i can bear no more of this. we have had in this house most horrible and damning evidence that there are such things as vampyres." "have you really? i suppose you eat raw pork at supper, and so had the nightmare?" "a jest is welcome in its place, but pray hear me out, sir, if it suit your lofty courtesy to do so." "oh, certainly." "then i say we believe, as far as human judgment has a right to go, that a vampyre has been here." "go on, it's interesting. i always was a lover of the wild and the wonderful." "we have, too," continued charles, "some reason to believe that you are the man." varney tapped his forehead as he glanced at henry, and said,-"oh, dear, i did not know. you should have told me he was a little wrong about the brain; i might have quarreled with the lad. dear me, how lamentable for his poor mother." "this will not do, sir francis varney _alias_ bannerworth." "oh--oh! be calm--be calm." "i defy you to your teeth, sir! no, god, no! your teeth!" "poor lad! poor lad!" "you are a cowardly demon, and here i swear to devote myself to your destruction." sir francis varney drew himself up to his full height, and that was immense, as he said to henry,-"i pray you, mr. bannerworth, since i am thus grievously insulted beneath your roof, to tell me if your friend here be mad or sane?" "he's not mad." "then--" "hold, sir! the quarrel shall be mine. in the name of my persecuted sister--in the name of heaven. sir francis varney, i defy you." sir francis, in spite of his impenetrable calmness, appeared somewhat moved, as he said,-"i have already endured insult sufficient--i will endure no more. if there are weapons at hand--" "my young friend," interrupted mr. marchdale, stepping between the excited men, "is carried away by his feelings, and knows not what he says. you will look upon it in that light, sir francis." "we need no interference," exclaimed varney, his hitherto bland voice changing to one of fury. "the hot blooded fool wishes to fight, and he shall--to the death--to the death." [illustration] "and i say he shall not," exclaimed mr. marchdale, taking henry by the arm. "george," he added, turning to the young man, "assist me in persuading your brother to leave the room. conceive the agony of your sister and mother if anything should happen to him." varney smiled with a devilish sneer, as he listened to these words, and then he said,-"as you will--as you will. there will be plenty of time, and perhaps better opportunity, gentlemen. i bid you good day." and with provoking coolness, he then moved towards the door, and quitted the room. "remain here," said marchdale; "i will follow him, and see that he quits the premises." he did so, and the young men, from the window, beheld sir francis walking slowly across the garden, and then saw mr. marchdale follow on his track. while they were thus occupied, a tremendous ringing came at the gate, but their attention was so rivetted to what was passing in the garden, that they paid not the least attention to it. chapter xviii. the admiral's advice.--the challenge to the vampyre.--the new servant at the hall. [illustration] the violent ringing of the bell continued uninterruptedly until at length george volunteered to answer it. the fact was, that now there was no servant at all in the place for, after the one who had recently demanded of henry her dismissal had left, the other was terrified to remain alone, and had precipitately gone from the house, without even going through the ceremony of announcing her intention to. to be sure, she sent a boy for her money afterwards, which may be considered a great act of condescension. suspecting, then, this state of things, george himself hastened to the gate, and, being not over well pleased at the continuous and unnecessary ringing which was kept up at it, he opened it quickly, and cried, with more impatience, by a vast amount, than was usual with him. "who is so impatient that he cannot wait a seasonable time for the door to be opened?" "and who the d----l are you?" cried one who was immediately outside. "who do you want?" cried george. "shiver my timbers!" cried admiral bell, for it was no other than that personage. "what's that to you?" "ay, ay," added jack, "answer that if you can, you shore-going-looking swab." "two madmen, i suppose," ejaculated george, and he would have closed the gate upon them; but jack introduced between it and the post the end of a thick stick, saying,-"avast there! none of that; we have had trouble enough to get in. if you are the family lawyer, or the chaplain, perhaps you'll tell us where mister charley is." "once more i demand of you who you want?" said george, who was now perhaps a little amused at the conduct of the impatient visitors. "we want the admiral's _nevey_" said jack. "but how do i know who is the admiral's _nevey_ as you call him." "why, charles holland, to be sure. have you got him aboard or not?" "mr. charles holland is certainly here; and, if you had said at once, and explicitly, that you wished to see him, i could have given you a direct answer." "he is here?" cried the admiral. "most certainly." "come along, then; yet, stop a bit. i say, young fellow, just before we go any further, tell us if he has maimed the vampyre?" "the what? "the _wamphigher_," said jack, by way of being, as he considered, a little more explanatory than the admiral. "i do not know what you mean," said george; "if you wish to see mr. charles holland walk in and see him. he is in this house; but, for myself, as you are strangers to me, i decline answering any questions, let their import be what they may." "hilloa! who are they?" suddenly cried jack, as he pointed to two figures some distance off in the meadows, who appeared to be angrily conversing. george glanced in the direction towards which jack pointed, and there he saw sir francis varney and mr. marchdale standing within a few paces of each other, and apparently engaged in some angry discussion. his first impulse was to go immediately towards them; but, before he could execute even that suggestion of his mind, he saw varney strike marchdale, and the latter fell to the ground. "allow me to pass," cried george, as he endeavoured to get by the rather unwieldy form of the admiral. but, before he could accomplish this, for the gate was narrow, he saw varney, with great swiftness, make off, and marchdale, rising to his feet, came towards the hall. when marchdale got near enough to the garden-gate to see george, he motioned to him to remain where he was, and then, quickening his pace, he soon came up to the spot. "marchdale," cried george, "you have had an encounter with sir francis varney." "i have," said marchdale, in an excited manner. "i threatened to follow him, but he struck me to the earth as easily as i could a child. his strength is superhuman." "i saw you fall." "i believe, but that he was observed, he would have murdered me." "indeed!" "what, do you mean to say that lankey, horse-marine looking fellow is as bad as that!" said the admiral. marchdale now turned his attention to the two new comers, upon whom he looked with some surprise, and then, turning to george, he said,-"is this gentleman a visitor?" "to mr. holland, i believe he is," said george; "but i have not the pleasure of knowing his name." "oh, you may know my name as soon as you like," cried the admiral. "the enemies of old england know it, and i don't care if all the world knows it. i'm old admiral bell, something of a hulk now, but still able to head a quarter-deck if there was any need to do so." "ay, ay," cried jack, and taking from his pocket a boatswain's whistle, he blew a blast so long, and loud, and shrill, that george was fain to cover his ears with his hands to shut out the brain-piercing, and, to him unusual sound. "and are you, then, a relative," said marchdale, "of mr. holland's, sir, may i ask?" "i'm his uncle, and be d----d to him, if you must know, and some one has told me that the young scamp thinks of marrying a mermaid, or a ghost, or a vampyre, or some such thing, so, for the sake of the memory of his poor mother, i've come to say no to the bargain, and d--n me, who cares." "come in, sir," said george, "i will conduct you to mr. holland. i presume this is your servant?" "why, not exactly. that's jack pringle, he was my boatswain, you see, and now he's a kind o' something betwixt and between. not exactly a servant." "ay, ay, sir," said jack. "have it all your own way, though we is paid off." "hold your tongue, you audacious scoundrel, will you." "oh, i forgot, you don't like anything said about paying off, cos it puts you in mind of--" "now, d--n you, i'll have you strung up to the yard-arm, you dog, if you don't belay there." "i'm done. all's right." by this time the party, including the admiral, jack, george bannerworth, and marchdale, had got more than half-way across the garden, and were observed by charles holland and henry, who had come to the steps of the hall to see what was going on. the moment charles saw the admiral a change of colour came over his face, and he exclaimed,-"by all that's surprising, there is my uncle!" "your uncle!" said henry. "yes, as good a hearted a man as ever drew breath, and yet, withal, as full of prejudices, and as ignorant of life, as a child." without waiting for any reply from henry, charles holland rushed forward, and seizing his uncle by the hand, he cried, in tones of genuine affection,-"uncle, dear uncle, how came you to find me out?" "charley, my boy," cried the old man, "bless you; i mean, confound your d----d impudence; you rascal, i'm glad to see you; no, i ain't, you young mutineer. what do you mean by it, you ugly, ill-looking, d----d fine fellow--my dear boy. oh, you infernal scoundrel." all this was accompanied by a shaking of the hand, which was enough to dislocate anybody's shoulder, and which charles was compelled to bear as well as he could. it quite prevented him from speaking, however, for a few moments, for it nearly shook the breath out of him. when, then, he could get in a word, he said,-"uncle, i dare say you are surprised." "surprised! d--n me, i am surprised." "well, i shall be able to explain all to your satisfaction, i am sure. allow me now to introduce you to my friends." turning then to henry, charles said,-"this is mr. henry bannerworth, uncle; and this mr. george bannerworth, both good friends of mine; and this is mr. marchdale, a friend of theirs, uncle." "oh, indeed!" "and here you see admiral bell, my most worthy, but rather eccentric uncle." "confound your impudence." "what brought him here i cannot tell; but he is a brave officer, and a gentleman." "none of your nonsense," said the admiral. "and here you sees jack pringle," said that individual, introducing himself, since no one appeared inclined to do that office for him, "a tar for all weathers. one as hates the french, and is never so happy as when he's alongside o' some o' those lubberly craft blazing away." "that's uncommonly true," remarked the admiral. "will you walk in, sir?" said henry, courteously. "any friend of charles holland's is most welcome here. you will have much to excuse us for, because we are deficient in servants at present, in consequence of come occurrences in our family, which your nephew has our full permission to explain to you in full." "oh, very good, i tell you what it is, all of you, what i've seen of you, d----e, i like, so here goes. come along, jack." the admiral walked into the house, and as he went, charles holland said to him,-"how came you to know i was here, uncle?" "some fellow wrote me a despatch." "indeed!" "yes, saying at you was a going to marry some odd sort of fish as it wasn't at all the thing to introduce into the family." "was--was a vampyre mentioned?" "that's the very thing." "hush, uncle--hush." "what for?" "do not, i implore, hint at such a thing before these kind friends of mine. i will take an opportunity within the next hour of explaining all to you, and you shall form your own kind and generous judgement upon circumstances in which my honour and my happiness are so nearly concerned." "gammon," said the admiral. "what, uncle?" "oh, i know you want to palaver me into saying it's all right. i suppose if my judgment and generosity don't like it, i shall be an old fool, and a cursed goose?" "now, uncle." "now, _nevey_." "well, well--no more at present. we will talk over this at leisure. you promise me to say nothing about it until you have heard my explanation, uncle?" "very good. make it as soon as you can, and as short as you can, that's all i ask of you." "i will, i will." charles was to the full as anxious as his uncle could be to enter upon the subject, some remote information of which, he felt convinced, had brought the old man down to the hall. who it could have been that so far intermeddled with his affairs as to write to him, he could not possibly conceive. a very few words will suffice to explain the precise position in which charles holland was. a considerable sum of money had been left to him, but it was saddled with the condition that he should not come into possession of it until he was one year beyond the age which is usually denominated that of discretion, namely, twenty-one. his uncle, the admiral, was the trustee of his fortune, and he, with rare discretion, had got the active and zealous assistance of a professional gentleman of great honour and eminence to conduct the business for him. this gentleman had advised that for the two years between the ages of twenty and twenty-two, charles holland should travel, inasmuch as in english society he would find himself in an awkward position, being for one whole year of age, and yet waiting for his property. under such circumstances, reasoned the lawyer, a young man, unless he is possessed of very rare discretion indeed, is almost sure to get fearfully involved with money-lenders. being of age, his notes, and bills, and bonds would all be good, and he would be in a ten times worse situation than a wealthy minor. all this was duly explained to charles, who, rather eagerly than otherwise, caught at the idea of a two years wander on the continent, where he could visit so many places, which to a well read young man like himself, and one of a lively imagination, were full of the most delightful associations. but the acquaintance with flora bannerworth effected a great revolution in his feelings. the dearest, sweetest spot on earth became that which she inhabited. when the bannerworths left him abroad, he knew not what to do with himself. everything, and every pursuit in which he had before taken a delight, became most distasteful to him. he was, in fact, in a short time, completely "used up," and then he determined upon returning to england, and finding out the dear object of his attachment at once. this resolution was no sooner taken, than his health and spirits returned to him, and with what rapidity he could, he now made his way to his native shores. the two years were so nearly expired, that he made up his mind he would not communicate either with his uncle, the admiral, or the professional gentleman upon whose judgment he set so high and so just a value. and at the hall he considered he was in perfect security from any interruption, and so he would have been, but for that letter which was written to admiral bell, and signed josiah crinkles, but which josiah crinkles so emphatically denied all knowledge of. who wrote it, remains at present one of those mysteries which time, in the progress of our narrative, will clear up. the opportune, or rather the painful juncture at which charles holland had arrived at bannerworth hall, we are well cognisant of. where he expected to find smiles he found tears, and the family with whom he had fondly hoped he should pass a time of uninterrupted happiness, he found plunged in the gloom incidental to an occurrence of the most painful character. our readers will perceive, too, that coming as he did with an utter disbelief in the vampyre, charles had been compelled, in some measure, to yield to the overwhelming weight of evidence which had been brought to bear upon the subject, and although he could not exactly be said to believe in the existence and the appearance of the vampyre at bannerworth hall, he was upon the subject in a most painful state of doubt and indecision. charles now took an opportunity to speak to henry privately, and inform him exactly how he stood with his uncle, adding-"now, my dear friend, if you forbid me, i will not tell my uncle of this sad affair, but i must own i would rather do so fully and freely, and trust to his own judgment upon it." "i implore you to do so," said henry. "conceal nothing. let him know the precise situation and circumstances of the family by all means. there is nothing so mischievous as secrecy: i have the greatest dislike to it. i beg you tell him all." "i will; and with it, henry, i will tell him that my heart is irrevocably flora's." "your generous clinging to one whom your heart saw and loved, under very different auspices," said henry, "believe me, charles, sinks deep into my heart. she has related to me something of a meeting she had with you." "oh, henry, she may tell you what i said; but there are no words which can express the depth of my tenderness. 'tis only time which can prove how much i love her." "go to your uncle," said henry, in a voice of emotion. "god bless you, charles. it is true you would have been fully justified in leaving my sister; but the nobler and the more generous path you have chosen has endeared you to us all." "where is flora now?" said charles. "she is in her own room. i have persuaded her, by some occupation, to withdraw her mind from a too close and consequently painful contemplation of the distressing circumstances in which she feels herself placed." "you are right. what occupation best pleases her?" "the pages of romance once had a charm for her gentle spirit." "then come with me, and, from among the few articles i brought with me here, i can find some papers which may help her to pass some merry hours." charles took henry to his room, and, unstrapping a small valise, he took from it some manuscript papers, one of which he handed to henry, saying-"give that to her: it contains an account of a wild adventure, and shows that human nature may suffer much more--and that wrongfully too--than came ever under our present mysterious affliction." "i will," said henry; "and, coming from you, i am sure it will have a more than ordinary value in her eyes." "i will now," said charles, "seek my uncle. i will tell him how i love her; and at the end of my narration, if he should not object, i would fain introduce her to him, that he might himself see that, let what beauty may have met his gaze, her peer he never yet met with, and may in vain hope to do so." "you are partial, charles." "not so. 'tis true i look upon her with a lover's eyes, but i look still with those of truthful observation." "well, i will speak to her about seeing your uncle, and let you know. no doubt, he will not be at all averse to an interview with any one who stands high in your esteem." the young men now separated--henry, to seek his beautiful sister; and charles, to communicate to his uncle the strange particulars connected with varney, the vampyre. chapter xix. flora in her chamber.--her fears.--the manuscript.--an adventure. [illustration] henry found flora in her chamber. she was in deep thought when he tapped at the door of the room, and such was the state of nervous excitement in which she was that even the demand for admission made by him to the room was sufficient to produce from her a sudden cry of alarm. "who--who is there?" she then said, in accents full of terror. "'tis i, dear flora," said henry. she opened the door in an instant, and, with a feeling of grateful relief, exclaimed-"oh, henry, is it only you?" "who did you suppose it was, flora?" she shuddered. "i--i--do not know; but i am so foolish now, and so weak-spirited, that the slightest noise is enough to alarm me." "you must, dear flora, fight up, as i had hoped you were doing, against this nervousness." "i will endeavour. did not some strangers come a short time since, brother?" "strangers to us, flora, but not to charles holland. a relative of his--an uncle whom he much respects, has found him out here, and has now come to see him." "and to advise him," said flora, as she sunk into a chair, and wept bitterly; "to advise him, of course, to desert, as he would a pestilence, a vampyre bride." "hush, hush! for the sake of heaven, never make use of such a phrase, flora. you know not what a pang it brings to my heart to hear you." "oh, forgive me, brother." "say no more of it, flora. heed it not. it may be possible--in fact, it may well be supposed as more than probable--that the relative of charles holland may shrink from sanctioning the alliance, but do you rest securely in the possession of the heart which i feel convinced is wholly yours, and which, i am sure, would break ere it surrendered you." a smile of joy came across flora's pale but beautiful face, as she cried,-"and you, dear brother--you think so much of charles's faith?" "as heaven is my judge, i do." "then i will bear up with what strength god may give me against all things that seek to depress me; i will not be conquered." "you are right, flora; i rejoice to find in you such a disposition. here is some manuscript which charles thinks will amuse you, and he bade me ask you if you would be introduced to his uncle." "yes, yes--willingly." "i will tell him so; i know he wishes it, and i will tell him so. be patient, dear flora, and all may yet be well." "but, brother, on your sacred word, tell me do you not think this sir francis varney is the vampyre?" "i know not what to think, and do not press me for a judgment now. he shall be watched." henry left his sister, and she sat for some moments in silence with the papers before her that charles had sent her. "yes," she then said, gently, "he loves me--charles loves me; i ought to be very, very happy. he loves me. in those words are concentrated a whole world of joy--charles loves me--he will not forsake me. oh, was there ever such dear love--such fond devotion?--never, never. dear charles. he loves me--he loves me!" the very repetition of these words had a charm for flora--a charm which was sufficient to banish much sorrow; even the much-dreaded vampyre was forgotten while the light of love was beaming upon her, and she told herself,-"he is mine!--he is mine! he loves me truly." after a time, she turned to the manuscript which her brother had brought her, and, with a far greater concentration of mind than she had thought it possible she could bring to it, considering the many painful subjects of contemplation that she might have occupied herself with, she read the pages with very great pleasure and interest. the tale was one which chained her attention both by its incidents and the manner of its recital. it commenced as follows, and was entitled, "hugo de verole; or, the double plot." in a very mountainous part of hungary lived a nobleman whose paternal estates covered many a mile of rock and mountain land, as well as some fertile valleys, in which reposed a hardy and contented peasantry. the old count de hugo de verole had quitted life early, and had left his only son, the then count hugo de verole, a boy of scarcely ten years, under the guardianship of his mother, an arbitrary and unscrupulous woman. the count, her husband, had been one of those quiet, even-tempered men, who have no desire to step beyond the sphere in which they are placed; he had no cares, save those included in the management of his estate, the prosperity of his serfs, and the happiness of those, around him. his death caused much lamentation throughout his domains, it was so sudden and unexpected, being in the enjoyment of his health and strength until a few hours previous, and then his energies became prostrated by pain and disease. there was a splendid funeral ceremony, which, according to the usages of his house, took place by torch-light. so great and rapid were the ravages of disease, that the count's body quickly became a mass of corruption. all were amazed at the phenomena, and were heartily glad when the body was disposed of in the place prepared for its reception in the vaults of his own castle. the guests who came to witness the funeral, and attend the count's obsequies, and to condole with the widow on the loss she had sustained, were entertained sumptuously for many days. the widow sustained her part well. she was inconsolable for the loss of her husband, and mourned his death bitterly. her grief appeared profound, but she, with difficulty, subdued it to within decent bounds, that she might not offend any of her numerous guests. however, they left her with the assurances of their profound regard, and then when they were gone, when the last guest had departed, and were no longer visible to the eye of the countess, as she gazed from the battlements, then her behaviour changed totally. she descended from the battlements, and then with an imperious gesture she gave her orders that all the gates of the castle should be closed, and a watch set. all signs of mourning she ordered to be laid on one side save her own, which she wore, and then she retired to her own apartment, where she remained unseen. here the countess remained in profound meditation for nearly two days, during which time the attendants believed she was praying for the welfare of the soul of their deceased master, and they feared she would starve herself to death if she remained any longer. just as they had assembled together for the purpose of either recalling her from her vigils or breaking open the door, they were amazed to see the countess open the room-door, and stand in the midst of them. "what do you here?" she demanded, in a stern voice. the servants were amazed and terrified at her contracted brow, and forgot to answer the question she put to them. "what do you do here?" "we came, my lady, to see--see--if--if you were well." "and why?" "because we hadn't seen your ladyship these two days, and we thought that your grief was so excessive that we feared some harm might befall you." the countess's brows contracted for a few seconds, and she was about to make a hasty reply, but she conquered the desire to do so, and merely said,-"i am not well, i am faint; but, had i been dying, i should not have thanked you for interfering to prevent me; however, you acted for the best, but do so no more. now prepare me some food." the servants, thus dismissed, repaired to their stations, but with such a degree of alacrity, that they sufficiently showed how much they feared their mistress. the young count, who was only in his sixth year, knew little about the loss he had sustained; but after a day or two's grief, there was an end of his sorrow for the time. that night there came to the castle-gate a man dressed in a black cloak, attended by a servant. they were both mounted on good horses, and they demanded to be admitted to the presence of the countess de hugo de verole. the message was carried to the countess, who started, but said,-"admit the stranger." accordingly the stranger was admitted, and shown into the apartment where the countess was sitting. at a signal the servants retired, leaving the countess and the stranger alone. it was some moments ere they spoke, and then the countess said in a low tone,-"you are come?" "i am come." "you cannot now, you see, perform your threat. my husband, the count, caught a putrid disease, and he is no more." "i cannot indeed do what i intended, inform your husband of your amours; but i can do something as good, and which will give you as much annoyance." "indeed." "aye, more, it will cause you to be hated. i can spread reports." "you can." "and these may ruin you." "they may." "what do you intend to do? do you intend that i shall be an enemy or a friend? i can be either, according to my will." "what, do you desire to be either?" inquired the countess, with a careless tone. "if you refuse my terms, you can make me an implacable enemy, and if you grant them, you can make me a useful friend and auxiliary," said the stranger. "what would you do if you were my enemy?" inquired the countess. "it is hardly my place," said the stranger, "to furnish you with a knowledge of my intentions, but i will say this much, that the bankrupt count of morven is your lover." "well?" "and in the second place, that you were the cause of the death of your husband." "how dare you, sir--" "i dare say so much, and i dare say, also, that the count of morven bought the drug of me, and that he gave it to you, and that you gave it to the count your husband." "and what could you do if you were my friend?" inquired the countess, in the same tone, and without emotion. "i should abstain from doing all this; should be able to put any one else out of your way for you, when you get rid of this count of morven, as you assuredly will; for i know him too well not to be sure of that." "get rid of him!" "exactly, in the same manner you got rid of the old count." "then i accept your terms." "it is agreed, then?" "yes, quite." "well, then, you must order me some rooms in a tower, where i can pursue my studies in quiet." "you will be seen--and noticed--all will be discovered." "no, indeed, i will take care of that, i can so far disguise myself that he will not recognise me, and you can give out i am a philosopher or necromancer, or what you will; no one will come to me--they will be terrified." "very well." "and the gold?" "shall be forthcoming as soon as i can get it. the count has placed all his gold in safe keeping, and all i can seize are the rents as they become due." "very well; but let me have them. in the meantime you must provide for me, as i have come here with the full intention of staying here, or in some neighbouring town." "indeed!" "yes; and my servant must be discharged, as i want none here." the countess called to an attendant and gave the necessary orders, and afterwards remained some time with the stranger, who had thus so unceremoniously thrust himself upon her, and insisted upon staying under such strange and awful circumstances. * * * * * the count of morven came a few weeks after, and remained some days with the countess. they were ceremonious and polite until they had a moment to retire from before people, when the countess changed her cold disdain to a cordial and familiar address. "and now, my dear morven," she exclaimed, as soon as they were unobserved--"and now, my dear morven, that we are not seen, tell me, what have you been doing with yourself?" "why, i have been in some trouble. i never had gold that would stay by me. you know my hand was always open." "the old complaint again." "no; but having come to the end of my store, i began to grow serious." "ah, morven!' said the countess, reproachfully. "well, never mind; when my purse is low my spirits sink, as the mercury does with the cold. you used to say my spirits were mercurial--i think they were." "well, what did you do?" "oh, nothing." "was that what you were about to tell me?" inquired the countess. "oh, dear, no. you recollect the italian quack of whom i bought the drug you gave to the count, and which put an end to his days--he wanted more money. well, as i had no more to spare, i could spare no more to him, and he turned vicious, and threatened. i threatened, too, and he knew i was fully able and willing to perform any promise i might make to him on that score. i endeavoured to catch him, as he had already began to set people off on the suspicious and marvellous concerning me, and if i could have come across him, i would have laid him very low indeed." "and you could not find him?" "no, i could not." [illustration] "well, then, i will tell you where he is at this present moment." "you?" "yes, i." "i can scarcely credit my senses at what you say," said count morven. "my worthy doctor, you are little better than a candidate for divine honours. but where is he?" "will you promise to be guided by me?" said the countess. "if you make it a condition upon which you grant the information, i must." "well, then, i take that as a promise." "you may. where--oh, where is he?" "remember your promise. your doctor is at this moment in this castle." "this castle?" "yes, this castle." "surely there must be some mistake; it is too much fortune at once." "he came here for the same purpose he went to you." "indeed!" "yes, to get more money by extortion, and a promise to poison anybody i liked." "d--n! it is the offer he made to me, and he named you." "he named you to me, and said i should be soon tired of you." "you have caged him?" "oh, dear, no; he has a suite of apartments in the eastern tower, where he passes for a philosopher, or a wizard, as people like best." "how?" "i have given him leave there." "indeed!" "yes; and what is more amazing is, that he is to aid me in poisoning you when i have become tired of you." "this is a riddle i cannot unravel; tell me the solution." "well, dear, listen,--he came to me and told me of something i already knew, and demanded money and a residence for his convenience, and i have granted him the asylum." "you have?" "i have." "i see; i will give him an inch or two of my andrea ferrara." "no--no." "do you countenance him?" "for a time. listen--we want men in the mines; my late husband sent very few to them of late years, and therefore they are getting short of men there." "aye, aye." "the thing will be for you to feign ignorance of the man, and then you will be able to get him seized, and placed in the mines, for such men as he are dangerous, and carry poisoned weapons." "would he not be better out of the world at once; there would be no escape, and no future contingencies?" "no--no. i will have no more lives taken; and he will be made useful; and, moreover, he will have time to reflect upon the mistake he had made in threatening me." "he was paid for the job, and he had no future claim. but what about the child?" "oh, he may remain for some time longer here with us." "it will be dangerous to do so," said the count; "he is now ten years old, and there is no knowing what may be done for him by his relatives." "they dare not enter the gates of this castle morven." "well, well; but you know he might have travelled the same road as his father, and all would be settled." "no more lives, as i told you; but we can easily secure him some other way, and we shall be equally as free from him and them." "that is enough--there are dungeons, i know, in this castle, and he can be kept there safe enough." "he can; but that is not what i propose. we can put him into the mines and confine him as a lunatic." "excellent!" "you see, we must make those mines more productive somehow or other; they would be so, but the count would not hear of it; he said it was so inhuman, they were so destructive of life." "paha! what were the mines intended for if not for use?" "exactly--i often said so, but he always put a negative to it." "we'll make use of an affirmative, my dear countess, and see what will be the result in a change of policy. by the way, when will our marriage be celebrated?" "not for some months." "how, so long? i am impatient." "you must restrain your impatience--but we must have the boy settled first, and the count will have been dead a longer time then, and we shall not give so much scandal to the weak-minded fools that were his friends, for it will be dangerous to have so many events happen about the same period." "you shall act as you think proper--but the first thing to be done will be, to get this cunning doctor quietly out of the way." "yes." "i must contrive to have him seized, and carried to the mines." "beneath the tower in which he lives is a trap-door and a vault, from which, by means of another trap and vault, is a long subterranean passage that leads to a door that opens into one end of the mines; near this end live several men whom you must give some reward to, and they will, by concert, seize him, and set him to work." "and if he will not work?" "why, they will scourge him in such a manner, that he would be afraid even of a threat of a repetition of the same treatment." "that will do. but i think the worthy doctor will split himself with rage and malice, he will be like a caged tiger." "but he will be denuded of his teeth and claws," replied the countess, smiling "therefore he will have leisure to repent of having threatened his employers." * * * * * some weeks passed over, and the count of morven contrived to become acquainted with the doctor. they appeared to be utter strangers to each other, though each knew the other; the doctor having disguised himself, he believed the disguise impenetrable and therefore sat at ease. "worthy doctor," said the count to him, one day; "you have, no doubt, in your studies, become acquainted with many of the secrets of science." "i have, my lord count; i may say there are few that are not known to father aldrovani. i have spent many years in research." "indeed!" "yes; the midnight lamp has burned till the glorious sun has reached the horizon, and brings back the day, and yet have i been found beside my books." "'tis well; men like you should well know the value of the purest and most valuable metals the earth produces?" "i know of but one--that is gold!" "'tis what i mean." "but 'tis hard to procure from the bowels of the earth--from the heart of these mountains by which we are surrounded." "yes, that is true. but know you not the owners of this castle and territory possess these mines and work them?" "i believe they do; but i thought they had discontinued working them some years." "oh, no! that was given out to deceive the government, who claimed so much out of its products." "oh! ah! aye, i see now." "and ever since they have been working it privately, and storing bars of gold up in the vaults of this--" "here, in this castle?" "yes; beneath this very tower--it being the least frequented--the strongest, and perfectly inaccessible from all sides, save the castle--it was placed there for the safest deposit." "i see; and there is much gold deposited in the vaults?" "i believe there is an immense quantity in the vaults." "and what is your motive for telling me of this hoard of the precious metal?" "why, doctor, i thought that you or i could use a few bars; and that, if we acted in concert, we might be able to take away, at various times, and secrete, in some place or other, enough to make us rich men for all our lives." "i should like to see this gold before i said anything about it," replied the doctor, thoughtfully. "as you please; do you find a lamp that will not go out by the sudden draughts of air, or have the means of relighting it, and i will accompany you." "when?" "this very night, good doctor, when you shall see such a golden harvest you never yet hoped for, or even believed in." "to-night be it, then," replied the doctor. "i will have a lamp that will answer our purpose, and some other matters." "do, good doctor," and the count left the philosopher's cell. * * * * * "the plan takes," said the count to the countess, "give me the keys, and the worthy man will be in safety before daylight." "is he not suspicious?" "not at all." * * * * * that night, about an hour before midnight,--the count morven stole towards the philosopher's room. he tapped at the door. "enter," said the philosopher. the count entered, and saw the philosopher seated, and by him a lamp of peculiar construction, and incased in gauze wire, and a cloak. "are you ready?" inquired the count. "quite," he replied. "is that your lamp?" "it is." "follow me, then, and hold the lamp tolerably high, as the way is strange, and the steps steep." "lead on." "you have made up your mind, i dare say, as to what share of the undertaking you will accept of with me." "and what if i will not?" said the philosopher, coolly. "it falls to the ground, and i return the keys to their place." "i dare say i shall not refuse, if you have not deceived me as to the quantity and purity of the metal they have stored up." "i am no judge of these metals, doctor. i am no assayest; but i believe you will find what i have to show you will far exceed your expectations on that head." "'tis well: proceed." they had now got to the first vault, in which stood the first door, and, with some difficulty, they opened the vault door. "it has not been opened for some time," said the philosopher. "i dare say not, they seldom used to go here, from what i can learn, though it is kept a great secret." "and we can keep it so, likewise." "true." they now entered the vault, and came to the second door, which opened into a kind of flight of steps, cut out of the solid rock, and then along a passage cut out of the mountain, of some kind of stone, but not so hard as the rock itself. "you see," said the count, "what care has been taken to isolate the place, and detach it from the castle, so that it should not be dependent upon the possessor of the castle. this is the last door but one, and now prepare yourself for a surprise, doctor, this will be an extraordinary one." so saying, the count opened the door, and stepped on one side, when the doctor approached the place, and was immediately thrust forward by the count and he rolled down some steps into the mine, and was immediately seized by some of the miners, who had been stationed there for that purpose, and carried to a distant part of the mine, there to work for the remainder of his life. the count, seeing all secure, refastened the doors, and returned to the castle. a few weeks after this the body of a youth, mangled and disfigured, was brought to the castle, which the countess said was her son's body. the count had immediately secured the real heir, and thrust him into the mines, there to pass a life of labour and hopeless misery. * * * * * there was a high feast held. the castle gates were thrown open, and everybody who came were entertained without question. this was on the occasion of the count's and countess's marriage. it seemed many months after the death of her son, whom she affected to mourn for a long time. however, the marriage took place, and in all magnificence and splendour. the countess again appeared arrayed in splendour and beauty: she was proud and haughty, and the count was imperious. in the mean time, the young count de hugo de verole was confined in the mines, and the doctor with him. by a strange coincidence, the doctor and the young count became companions, and the former, meditating projects of revenge, educated the young count as well as he was able for several years in the mines, and cherished in the young man a spirit of revenge. they finally escaped together, and proceeded to leyden, where the doctor had friends, and where he placed his pupil at the university, and thus made him a most efficient means of revenge, because the education of the count gave him a means of appreciating the splendour and rank he had been deprived of. he, therefore, determined to remain at leyden until he was of age, and then apply to his father's friends, and then to his sovereign, to dispossess and punish them both for their double crime. the count and countess lived on in a state of regal splendour. the immense revenue of his territory, and the treasure the late count had amassed, as well as the revenue that the mines brought in, would have supported a much larger expenditure than even their tastes disposed them to enjoy. they had heard nothing of the escape of the doctor and the young count. indeed, those who knew of it held their peace and said nothing about it, for they feared the consequences of their negligence. the first intimation they received was at the hands of a state messenger, summoning them to deliver up the castle revenues and treasure of the late count. this was astounding to them, and they refused to do so, but were soon after seized upon by a regiment of cuirassiers sent to take them, and they were accused of the crime of murder at the instance of the doctor. they were arraigned and found guilty, and, as they were of the patrician order, their execution was delayed, and they were committed to exile. this was done out of favour to the young count, who did not wish to have his family name tainted by a public execution, or their being confined like convicts. the count and countess quitted hungary, and settled in italy, where they lived upon the remains of the count of morven's property, shorn of all their splendour but enough to keep them from being compelled to do any menial office. the young count took possession of his patrimony and his treasure at last, such as was left by his mother and her paramour. the doctor continued to hide his crime from the young count, and the perpetrators denying all knowledge of it, he escaped; but he returned to his native place, leyden, with a reward for his services from the young count. flora rose from her perusal of the manuscript, which here ended, and even as she did so, she heard a footstep approaching her chamber door. chapter xx. the dreadful mistake.--the terrific interview in the chamber.--the attack of the vampyre. [illustration] the footstep which flora, upon the close of the tale she had been reading, heard approaching her apartment, came rapidly along the corridor. "it is henry, returned to conduct me to an interview with charles's uncle," she said. "i wonder, now, what manner of man he is. he should in some respects resemble charles; and if he do so, i shall bestow upon him some affection for that alone." tap--tap came upon the chamber door. flora was not at all alarmed now, as she had been when henry brought her the manuscript. from some strange action of the nervous system, she felt quite confident, and resolved to brave everything. but then she felt quite sure that it was henry, and before the knocking had taken her by surprise. "come in," she said, in a cheerful voice. "come in." the door opened with wonderful swiftness--a figure stepped into the room, and then closed it as rapidly, and stood against it. flora tried to scream, but her tongue refused its office; a confused whirl of sensations passed through her brain--she trembled, and an icy coldness came over her. it was sir francis varney, the vampyre! he had drawn up his tall, gaunt frame to its full height, and crossed his arms upon his breast; there was a hideous smile upon his sallow countenance, and his voice was deep and sepulchral, as he said,-"flora bannerworth, hear that which i have to say, and hear it calmly. you need have nothing to fear. make an alarm--scream, or shout for help, and, by the hell beneath us, you are lost!" there was a death-like, cold, passionless manner about the utterance of these words, as if they were spoken mechanically, and came from no human lips. flora heard them, and yet scarcely comprehended them; she stepped slowly back till she reached a chair, and there she held for support. the only part of the address of varney that thoroughly reached her ears, was that if she gave any alarm some dreadful consequences were to ensue. but it was not on account of these words that she really gave no alarm; it was because she was utterly unable to do so. "answer me," said varney. "promise that you will hear that which i have to say. in so promising you commit yourself to no evil, and you shall hear that which shall give you much peace." it was in vain she tried to speak; her lips moved, but she uttered no sound. "you are terrified," said varney, "and yet i know not why. i do not come to do you harm, although harm have you done me. girl, i come to rescue you from a thraldom of the soul under which you now labour." there was a pause of some moments' duration, and then, faintly, flora managed to say,-"help! help! oh, help me, heaven!" varney made a gesture of impatience, as he said,-"heaven works no special matters now. flora bannerworth, if you have as much intellect as your nobility and beauty would warrant the world in supposing, you will listen to me." "i--i hear," said flora, as she still, dragging the chair with her, increased the distance between them. "'tis well. you are now more composed." she fixed her eyes upon the face of varney with a shudder. there could be no mistake. it was the same which, with the strange, glassy looking eyes, had glared upon her on that awful night of the storm when she was visited by the vampyre. and varney returned that gaze unflinchingly there was a hideous and strange contortion of his face now as he said,-"you are beautiful. the most cunning statuary might well model some rare work of art from those rounded limbs, that were surely made to bewitch the gazer. your skin rivals the driven snow--what a face of loveliness, and what a form of enchantment." she did not speak, but a thought came across her mind, which at once crimsoned her cheek--she knew she had fainted on the first visit of the vampyre, and now he, with a hideous reverence, praised beauties which he might have cast his demoniac eyes over at such a time. "you understand me," he said. "well, let that pass. i am something allied to humanity yet." "speak your errand," gasped flora, "or come what may, i scream for help to those who will not be slow to render it." "i know it." "you know i will scream?" "no; you will hear me. i know they would not be slow to tender help to you, but you will not call for it; i will present to you no necessity." "say on--say on." "you perceive i do not attempt to approach you; my errand is one of peace." "peace from you! horrible being, if you be really what even now my appalled imagination shrinks from naming you, would not even to you absolute annihilation be a blessing?" "peace, peace. i came not here to talk on such a subject. i must be brief, flora bannerworth, for time presses. i do not hate you. wherefore should i? you are young, and you are beautiful, and you bear a name which should command, and does command, some portion of my best regard." "there is a portrait," said flora, "in this house." "no more--no more. i know what you would say." "it is yours." "the house, and all within, i covet," he said, uneasily. "let that suffice. i have quarrelled with your brother--i have quarrelled with one who just now fancies he loves you." "charles holland loves me truly." "it does not suit me now to dispute that point with you. i have the means of knowing more of the secrets of the human heart than common men. i tell you, flora bannerworth, that he who talks to you of love, loves you not but with the fleeting fancy of a boy; and there is one who hides deep in his heart a world of passion, one who has never spoken to you of love, and yet who loves you with a love as far surpassing the evanescent fancy of this boy holland, as does the mighty ocean the most placid lake that ever basked in idleness beneath a summer's sun." there was a wonderful fascination in the manner now of varney. his voice sounded like music itself. his words flowed from his tongue, each gently and properly accented, with all the charm of eloquence. despite her trembling horror of that man--despite her fearful opinion, which might be said to amount to a conviction of what he really was, flora felt an irresistible wish to hear him speak on. ay, despite too, the ungrateful theme to her heart which he had now chosen as the subject of his discourse, she felt her fear of him gradually dissipating, and now when he made a pause, she said,-"you are much mistaken. on the constancy and truth of charles holland, i would stake my life." "no doubt, no doubt." "have you spoken now that which you had to say?" "no, no. i tell you i covet this place, i would purchase it, but having with your bad-tempered brothers quarrelled, they will hold no further converse with me." "and well they may refuse." "be, that as it may, sweet lady, i come to you to be my mediator. in the shadow of the future i can see many events which are to come." "indeed." "it is so. borrowing some wisdom from the past, and some from resources i would not detail to you, i know that if i have inflicted much misery upon you, i can spare you much more. your brother or your lover will challenge me." "oh, no, no." "i say such will happen, and i can kill either. my skill as well as my strength is superhuman." "mercy! mercy!" gasped flora. "i will spare either or both on a condition." "what fearful condition?" "it is not a fearful one. your terrors go far before the fact. all i wish, maiden, of you is to induce these imperious brothers of yours to sell or let the hall to me." "is that all?" "it is. i ask no more, and, in return, i promise you not only that i will not fight with them, but that you shall never see me again. rest securely, maiden, you will be undisturbed by me." "oh, god! that were indeed an assurance worth the striving for," said flora. "it is one you may have. but--" "oh, i knew--my heart told me there was yet some fearful condition to come." "you are wrong again. i only ask of you that you keep this meeting a secret." "no, no, no--i cannot." "nay, what so easy?" "i will not; i have no secrets from those i love." "indeed, you will find soon the expediency of a few at least; but if you will not, i cannot urge it longer. do as your wayward woman's nature prompts you." there was a slight, but a very slight, tone of aggravation in these words, and the manner in which they were uttered. as he spoke, he moved from the door towards the window, which opened into a kitchen garden. flora shrunk as far from him as possible, and for a few moments they regarded each other in silence. "young blood," said varney, "mantles in your veins." she shuddered with terror. "be mindful of the condition i have proposed to you. i covet bannerworth hall." "i--i hear." "and i must have it. i will have it, although my path to it be through a sea of blood. you understand me, maiden? repeat what has passed between us or not, as you please. i say, beware of me, if you keep not the condition i have proposed." "heaven knows that this place is becoming daily more hateful to us all," said flora. "indeed!" "you well might know so much. it is no sacrifice to urge it now. i will urge my brother." "thanks--a thousand thanks. you may not live to regret even having made a friend of varney--" "the vampyre!" said flora. he advanced towards her a step, and she involuntarily uttered a scream of terror. in an instant his hand clasped her waist with the power of an iron vice; she felt hit hot breath flushing on her cheek. her senses reeled, and she found herself sinking. she gathered all her breath and all her energies into one piercing shriek, and then she fell to the floor. there was a sudden crash of broken glass, and then all was still. chapter xxi. the conference between the uncle and nephew, and the alarm. [illustration] meanwhile charles holland had taken his uncle by the arm, and led him into a private room. "dear uncle," he said, "be seated, and i will explain everything without reserve." "seated!--nonsense! i'll walk about," said the admiral. "d--n me! i've no patience to be seated, and very seldom had or have. go on now, you young scamp." "well--well; you abuse me, but i am quite sure, had you been in my situation, you would have acted precisely as i have done." "no, i shouldn't." "well, but, uncle--" "don't think to come over me by calling me uncle. hark you, charles--from this moment i won't be your uncle any more." "very well, sir." "it ain't very well. and how dare you, you buccaneer, call me sir, eh? i say, how dare you?" "i will call you anything you like." "but i won't be called anything i like. you might as well call me at once morgan, the pirate, for he was called anything he liked. hilloa, sir! how dare you laugh, eh? i'll teach you to laugh at me. i wish i had you on board ship--that's all, you young rascal. i'd soon teach you to laugh at your superior officer, i would." "oh, uncle, i did not laugh at you." "what did you laugh at, then?" "at the joke." "joke. d--n me, there was no joke at all!" "oh, very good." "and it ain't very good." charles knew very well that, this sort of humour, in which was the old admiral, would soon pass away, and then that he would listen to him comfortably enough; so he would not allow the least exhibition of petulance or mere impatience to escape himself, but contented himself by waiting until the ebullition of feeling fairly worked itself out. "well, well," at length said the old man, "you have dragged me here, into a very small and a very dull room, under pretence of having something to tell me, and i have heard nothing yet." "then i will now tell you," said charles. "i fell in love--" "bah!" "with flora bannerworth, abroad; she is not only the most beautiful of created beings--" "bah!" "but her mind is of the highest order of intelligence, honour, candour, and all amiable feelings--" "bah!" "really, uncle, if you say 'bah!' to everything, i cannot go on." "and what the deuce difference, sir, does it make to you, whether i say 'bah!' or not?" "well, i love her. she came to england, and, as i could not exist, but was getting ill, and should, no doubt, have died if i had not done so, i came to england." "but d----e, i want to know about the mermaid." "the vampyre, you mean, sir?" "well, well, the vampyre." "then, uncle, all i can tell you is, that it is supposed a vampyre came one night and inflicted a wound upon flora's neck with his teeth, and that he is still endeavouring to renew his horrible existence from the young, pure blood that flows through her veins." "the devil he is!" "yes. i am bewildered, i must confess, by the mass of circumstances that have combined to give the affair a horrible truthfulness. poor flora is much injured in health and spirits; and when i came home, she, at once, implored me to give her up, and think of her no more, for she could not think of allowing me to unite my fate with hers, under such circumstances." "she did?" "such were her words, uncle. she implored me--she used that word, 'implore'--to fly from her, to leave her to her fate, to endeavour to find happiness with some one else." "well?" "but i saw her heart was breaking." "what o' that?" "much of that, uncle. i told her that when i deserted her in the hour of misfortune that i hoped heaven would desert me. i told her that if her happiness was wrecked, to cling yet to me, and that with what power and what strength god had given me, i would stand between her and all ill." "and what then?" "she--she fell upon my breast and wept and blessed me. could i desert her--could i say to her, 'my dear girl, when you were full of health and beauty, i loved you, but now that sadness is at your heart i leave you?' could i tell her that, uncle, and yet call myself a man?" "no!" roared the old admiral, in a voice that made the room echo again; "and i tell you what, if you had done so, d--n you, you puppy, i'd have braced you, and--and married the girl myself. i would, d----e, but i would." "dear uncle!" "don't dear me, sir. talk of deserting a girl when the signal of distress, in the shape of a tear, is in her eye!" "but i--" "you are a wretch--a confounded lubberly boy--a swab--a d----d bad grampus." "you mistake, uncle." "no, i don't. god bless you, charles, you shall have her--if a whole ship's crew of vampyres said no, you shall have her. let me see her--just let me see her." the admiral gave his lips a vigorous wipe with his sleeve, and charles said hastily,-"my dear uncle, you will recollect that miss bannerworth is quite a young lady." "i suppose she is." "well, then, for god's sake, don't attempt to kiss her." "not kiss her! d----e, they like it. not kiss her, because she's a young lady! d----e, do you think i'd kiss a corporal of marines?" "no, uncle; but you know young ladies are very delicate." "and ain't i delicate--shiver my timbers, ain't i delicate? where is she? that's what i want to know." "then you approve of what i have done?" "you are a young scamp, but you have got some of the old admiral's family blood in you, so don't take any credit for acting like an honest man--you couldn't help it." "but if i had not so acted," said charles, with a smile, "what would have become of the family blood, then?" "what's that to you? i would have disowned you, because that very thing would have convinced me you were an impostor, and did not belong to the family at all." "well, that would have been one way of getting over the difficulty." "no difficulty at all. the man who deserts the good ship that carries him through the waves, or the girl that trusts her heart to him, ought to be chopped up into meat for wild monkeys." "well, i think so to." "of course you do." "why, of course?" "because it's so d----d reasonable that, being a nephew of mine, you can't possibly help it." "bravo, uncle! i had no idea you were so argumentative." "hadn't you, spooney; you'd be an ornament to the gun-room, you would; but where's the 'young lady' who is so infernal delicate--where is she, i say?" "i will fetch her, uncle." "ah, do; i'll be bound, now, she's one of the right build--a good figure-head, and don't make too much stern-way." [illustration] "well, well, whatever you do, now don't pay her any compliments, for your efforts in that line are of such a very doubtful order, that i shall dread to hear you." "you be off, and mind your own business; i haven't been at sea forty years without picking up some out-and-out delicate compliments to say to a young lady." "but do you really imagine, now, that the deck of a man-of-war is a nice place to pick up courtly compliments in?" "of course i do. there you hear the best of language, d----e! you don't know what you are talking about, you fellows that have stuck on shore all your lives; it's we seamen who learn life." "well, well--hark!" "what's that?" "a cry--did you not hear a cry?" "a signal of distress, by g--d!" in their efforts to leave the room, the uncle and nephew for about a minute actually blocked up the door-way, but the superior bulk of the admiral prevailed, and after nearly squeezing poor charles flat, he got out first. but this did not avail him, for he knew not where to go. now, the second scream which flora had uttered when the vampyre had clasped her waist came upon their ears, and, as they were outside the room, it acted well as a guide in which direction to come. charles fancied correctly enough at once that it proceeded from the room which was called "flora's own room," and thitherward accordingly he dashed at tremendous speed. henry, however, happened to be nearer at hand, and, moreover, he did not hesitate a moment, because he knew that flora was in her own room; so he reached it first, and charles saw him rush in a few moments before he could reach the room. the difference of time, however, was very slight, and henry had only just raised flora from the floor as charles appeared. "god of heaven!" cried the latter, "what has happened?" "i know not," said henry; "as god is my judge, i know not. flora, flora, speak to us! flora! flora!" "she has fainted!" cried charles. "some water may restore her. oh, henry, henry, is not this horrible?" "courage! courage!" said henry although his voice betrayed what a terrible state of anxiety he was himself in; "you will find water in that decanter, charles. here is my mother, too! another visit! god help us!" mrs. bannerworth sat down on the edge of the sofa which was in the room, and could only wring her hands and weep. "avast!" cried the admiral, making his appearance. "where's the enemy, lads?" "uncle," said charles, "uncle, uncle, the vampyre has been here again--the dreadful vampyre!" "d--n me, and he's gone, too, and carried half the window with him. look there!" it was literally true; the window, which was a long latticed one, was smashed through. "help! oh, help!" said flora, as the water that was dashed in her face began to recover her. "you are safe!" cried henry, "you are safe!" "flora," said charles; "you know my voice, dear flora? look up, and you will see there are none here but those who love you." flora opened her eyes timidly as the said,-"has it gone?" "yes, yes, dear," said charles. "look around you; here are none but true friends." "and tried friends, my dear," said admiral bell, "excepting me; and whenever you like to try me, afloat or ashore, d--n me, shew me old nick himself, and i won't shrink--yard arm and yard arm--grapnel to grapnel--pitch pots and grenades!" "this is my uncle, flora," said charles. "i thank you, sir," said flora, faintly. "all right!" whispered the admiral to charles; "what a figure-head, to be sure! poll at swansea would have made just about four of her, but she wasn't so delicate, d--n me!" "i should think not." "you are right for once in a way, charley." "what was it that alarmed you?" said charles, tenderly, as he now took one of flora's hands in his. "varney--varney, the vampyre." "varney!" exclaimed henry; "varney here!" "yes, he came in at that door: and when i screamed, i suppose--for i hardly was conscious--he darted out through the window." "this," said henry, "is beyond all human patience. by heaven! i cannot and will not endure it." "it shall be my quarrel," said charles; "i shall go at once and defy him. he shall meet me." "oh, no, no, no," said flora, as she clung convulsively to charles. "no, no; there is a better way." "what way?" "the place has become full of terrors. let us leave it. let him, as he wishes, have it." "let _him_ have it?" "yes, yes. god knows, if it purchase an immunity from these visits, we may well be overjoyed. remember that we have ample reason to believe him more than human. why should you allow yourselves to risk a personal encounter with such a man, who might be glad to kill you that he might have an opportunity of replenishing his own hideous existence from your best heart's blood?" the young men looked aghast. "besides," added flora, "you cannot tell what dreadful powers of mischief he may have, against which human courage might be of no avail." "there is truth and reason," said mr. marchdale, stepping forward, "in what flora says." "only let me come across him, that's all," said admiral bell, "and i'll soon find out what he is. i suppose he's some long slab of a lubber after all, ain't he, with no strength." "his strength is immense," said marchdale. "i tried to seize him, and i fell beneath his arm as if i had been struck by the hammer of a cyclops." "a what?" cried the admiral. "a cyclops." "d--n me, i served aboard the cyclops eleven years, and never saw a very big hammer aboard of her." "what on earth is to be done?" said henry. "oh," chimed in the admiral, "there's always a bother about what's to be done on earth. now, at sea, i could soon tell you what was to be done." "we must hold a solemn consultation over this matter," said henry. "you are safe now, flora." "oh, be ruled by me. give up the hall." "you tremble." "i do tremble, brother, for what may yet ensue. i implore you to give up the hall. it is but a terror to us now--give it up. have no more to do with it. let us make terms with sir francis varney. remember, we dare not kill him." "he ought to be smothered," said the admiral. "it is true," remarked henry, "we dare not, even holding all the terrible suspicions we do, take his life." "by foul means certainly not," said charles, "were he ten times a vampyre. i cannot, however, believe that he is so invulnerable as he is represented." "no one represents him here," said marchdale. "i speak, sir, because i saw you glance at me. i only know that, having made two unsuccessful attempts to seize him, he eluded me, once by leaving in my grasp a piece of his coat, and the next time he struck me down, and i feel yet the effects of the terrific blow." "you hear?" said flora. "yes, i hear," said charles. "for some reason," added marchdale, in a tone of emotion, "what i say seems to fall always badly upon mr. holland's ear. i know not why; but if it will give him any satisfaction, i will leave bannerworth hall to-night." "no, no, no," said henry; "for the love of heaven, do not let us quarrel." "hear, hear," cried the admiral. "we can never fight the enemy well if the ship's crew are on bad terms. come now, you charles, this appears to be an honest, gentlemanly fellow--give him your hand." "if mr. charles holland," said marchdale, "knows aught to my prejudice in any way, however slight, i here beg of him to declare it at once, and openly." "i cannot assert that i do," said charles. "then what the deuce do you make yourself so disagreeable for, eh?" cried the admiral. "one cannot help one's impression and feelings," said charles; "but i am willing to take mr. marchdale's hand." "and i yours, young sir," said marchdale, "in all sincerity of spirit, and with good will towards you." they shook hands; but it required no conjuror to perceive that it was not done willingly or cordially. it was a handshaking of that character which seemed to imply on each side, "i don't like you, but i don't know positively any harm of you." "there now," said the admiral, "that's better." "now, let us hold counsel about this varney," said henry. "come to the parlour all of you, and we will endeavour to come to some decided arrangement." "do not weep, mother," said flora. "all may yet be well. we will leave this place." "we will consider that question, flora," said henry; "and believe me your wishes will go a long way with all of us, as you may well suppose they always would." they left mrs. bannerworth with flora, and proceeded to the small oaken parlour, in which were the elaborate and beautiful carvings which have been before mentioned. henry's countenance, perhaps, wore the most determined expression of all. he appeared now as if he had thoroughly made up his mind to do something which should have a decided tendency to put a stop to the terrible scenes which were now day by day taking place beneath that roof. charles holland looked serious and thoughtful, as if he were revolving some course of action in his mind concerning which he was not quite clear. mr. marchdale was more sad and depressed, to all appearance, than any of them. as for the admiral, he was evidently in a state of amazement, and knew not what to think. he was anxious to do something, and yet what that was to be he had not the most remote idea, any more than as if he was not at all cognisant of any of those circumstances, every one of which was so completely out of the line of his former life and experience. george had gone to call on mr. chillingworth, so he was not present at the first part of this serious council of war. chapter xxii. the consultation.--the determination to leave the hall. [illustration] this was certainly the most seriously reasonable meeting which had been held at bannerworth hall on the subject of the much dreaded vampyre. the absolute necessity for doing something of a decisive character was abundantly apparent, and when henry promised flora that her earnest wish to leave the house should not be forgotten as an element in the discussion which was about to ensue, it was with a rapidly growing feeling on his own part, to the effect that that house, associated even as it was with many endearing recollections, was no home for him. hence he was the more inclined to propose a departure from the hall if it could possibly be arranged satisfactorily in a pecuniary point of view. the pecuniary point of view, however, in which henry was compelled to look at the subject, was an important and a troublesome one. we have already hinted at the very peculiar state of the finances of the family; and, in fact, although the income derivable from various sources ought to have been amply sufficient to provide henry, and those who were dependent upon him, with a respectable livelihood, yet it was nearly all swallowed up by the payment of regular instalments upon family debts incurred by his father. and the creditors took great credit to themselves that they allowed of such an arrangement, instead of sweeping off all before them, and leaving the family to starve. the question, therefore, or, at all events, one of the questions, now was, how far would a departure from the hall of him, henry, and the other branches of the family, act upon that arrangement? during a very few minutes' consideration, henry, with the frank and candid disposition which was so strong a characteristic of his character, made up his mind to explain all this fully to charles holland and his uncle. when once he formed such a determination he was not likely to be slow in carrying it into effect, and no sooner, then, were the whole of them seated in the small oaken parlour than he made an explicit statement of his circumstances. "but," said mr. marchdale, when he had done, "i cannot see what right your creditors have to complain of where you live, so long as you perform your contract to them." "true; but they always expected me, i knew, to remain at the hall, and if they chose, why, of course, at any time, they could sell off the whole property for what it would fetch, and pay themselves as far as the proceeds would go. at all events, i am quite certain there could be nothing at all left for me." "i cannot imagine," added mr. marchdale, "that any men could be so unreasonable." "it is scarcely to be borne," remarked charles holland, with more impatience than he usually displayed, "that a whole family are to be put to the necessity of leaving their home for no other reason than the being pestered by such a neighbour as sir francis varney. it makes one impatient and angry to reflect upon such a state of things." "and yet they are lamentably true," said henry. "what can we do?" "surely there must be some sort of remedy." "there is but one that i can imagine, and that is one we all alike revolt from. we might kill him." "that is out of the question." "of course my impression is that he bears the same name really as myself, and that he is my ancestor, from whom was painted the portrait on the panel." "have circumstances really so far pressed upon you," said charles holland, "as at length to convince you that this man is really the horrible creature we surmise he may be?" "dare we longer doubt it?" cried henry, in a tone of excitement. "he is the vampyre." "i'll be hanged if i believe it," said admiral bell! "stuff and nonsense! vampyre, indeed! bother the vampyre." "sir," said henry, "you have not had brought before you, painfully, as we have, all the circumstances upon which we, in a manner, feel compelled to found this horrible belief. at first incredulity was a natural thing. we had no idea that ever we could be brought to believe in such a thing." "that is the case," added marchdale. "but, step by step, we have been driven from utter disbelief in this phenomenon to a trembling conviction that it must be true." "unless we admit that, simultaneously, the senses of a number of persons have been deceived." "that is scarcely possible." "then do you mean really to say there are such fish?" said the admiral. "we think so." "well, i'm d----d! i have heard all sorts of yarns about what fellows have seen in one ocean and another; but this does beat them all to nothing." "it is monstrous," exclaimed charles. there was a pause of some few moments' duration, and then mr. marchdale said, in a low voice,-"perhaps i ought not to propose any course of action until you, henry, have yourself done so; but even at the risk of being presumptuous, i will say that i am firmly of opinion you ought to leave the hall." "i am inclined to think so, too," said henry. "but the creditors?" interposed charles. "i think they might be consulted on the matter beforehand," added marchdale, "when no doubt they would acquiesce in an arrangement which could do them no harm." "certainly, no harm," said henry, "for i cannot take the estate with me, as they well know." "precisely. if you do not like to sell it, you can let it." "to whom?" "why, under the existing circumstances, it is not likely you would get any tenant for it than the one who has offered himself." "sir francis varney?" "yes. it seems to be a great object with him to live here, and it appears to me, that notwithstanding all that has occurred, it is most decidedly the best policy to let him." nobody could really deny the reasonableness of this advice, although it seemed strange, and was repugnant to the feelings of them all, as they heard it. there was a pause of some seconds' duration, and then henry said,-"it does, indeed, seem singular, to surrender one's house to such a being." "especially," said charles, "after what has occurred." "true." "well," said mr. marchdale, "if any better plan of proceeding, taking the whole case into consideration, can be devised, i shall be most happy." "will you consent to put off all proceedings for three days?" said charles holland, suddenly. "have you any plan, my dear sir?" said mr. marchdale. "i have, but it is one which i would rather say nothing about for the present." "i have no objection," said henry, "i do not know that three days can make any difference in the state of affairs. let it be so, if you wish, charles." "then i am satisfied," said charles. "i cannot but feel that, situated as i am regarding flora, this is almost more my affair than even yours, henry." "i cannot see that," said henry. "why should you take upon yourself more of the responsibility of these affairs than i, charles? you induce in my mind a suspicion that you have some desperate project in your imagination, which by such a proposition you would seek to reconcile me to." charles was silent, and henry then added,-"now, charles, i am quite convinced that what i have hinted at is the fact. you have conceived some scheme which you fancy would be much opposed by us?" "i will not deny that i have," said charles. "it is one, however, which you must allow me for the present to keep locked in my own breast." "why will you not trust us?" "for two reasons." "indeed!" "the one is, that i have not yet thoroughly determined upon the course i project; and the other is, that it is one in which i am not justified in involving any one else." "charles, charles," said henry, despondingly; "only consider for a moment into what new misery you may plunge poor flora, who is, heaven knows, already sufficiently afflicted, by attempting an enterprise which even we, who are your friends, may unwittingly cross you in the performance of." "this is one in which i fear no such result. it cannot so happen. do not urge me." "can't you say at once what you think of doing?" said the old admiral. "what do you mean by turning your sails in all sorts of directions so oddly? you sneak, why don't you be what do you call it--explicit?" "i cannot, uncle." "what, are you tongue-tied?" "all here know well," said charles, "that if i do not unfold my mind fully, it is not that i fear to trust any one present, but from some other most special reason." "charles, i forbear to urge you further," said henry, "and only implore you to be careful." at this moment the room door opened, and george bannerworth, accompanied by mr. chillingworth, came in. "do not let me intrude," said the surgeon; "i fear, as i see you seated, gentlemen, that my presence must be a rudeness and a disturbance to some family consultation among yourselves?" "not at all, mr. chillingworth," said henry. "pray be seated; we are very glad indeed to see you. admiral bell, this is a friend on whom we can rely--mr. chillingworth." "and one of the right sort, i can see," said the admiral, as he shook mr. chillingworth by the hand. "sir, you do me much honour," said the doctor. "none at all, none at all; i suppose you know all about this infernal odd vampyre business?" "i believe i do, sir." "and what do you think of it?" "i think time will develop the circumstances sufficiently to convince us all that such things cannot be." "d--n me, you are the most sensible fellow, then, that i have yet met with since i have been in this neighbourhood; for everybody else is so convinced about the vampyre, that they are ready to swear by him." "it would take much more to convince me. i was coming over here when i met mr. george bannerworth coming to my house." "yes," said george, "and mr. chillingworth has something to tell us of a nature confirmatory of our own suspicions." "it is strange," said henry; "but any piece of news, come it from what quarter it may, seems to be confirmatory, in some degree or another, of that dreadful belief in vampyres." "why," said the doctor, "when mr. george says that my news is of such a character, i think he goes a little too far. what i have to tell you, i do not conceive has anything whatever to do with the fact, or one fact of there being vampyres." "let us hear it," said henry. "it is simply this, that i was sent for by sir francis varney myself." "you sent for?" "yes; he sent for me by a special messenger to come to him, and when i went, which, under the circumstances, you may well guess, i did with all the celerity possible, i found it was to consult me about a flesh wound in his arm, which was showing some angry symptoms." "indeed." "yes, it was so. when i was introduced to him i found him lying on a couch, and looking pale and unwell. in the most respectful manner, he asked me to be seated, and when i had taken a chair, he added,-"'mr. chillingworth, i have sent for you in consequence of a slight accident which has happened to my arm. i was incautiously loading some fire-arms, and discharged a pistol so close to me that the bullet inflicted a wound on my arm.' "'if you will allow me," said i, 'to see the wound, i will give you my opinion.' "he then showed me a jagged wound, which had evidently been caused by the passage of a bullet, which, had it gone a little deeper, must have inflicted serious injury. as it was, the wound was but trifling. "he had evidently been attempting to dress it himself, but finding some considerable inflammation, he very likely got a little alarmed." "you dressed the wound?" "i did." "and what do you think of sir francis varney, now that you have had so capital an opportunity," said henry, "of a close examination of him?" "why, there is certainly something odd about him which i cannot well define, but, take him altogether, he can be a very gentlemanly man indeed." "so he can." "his manners are easy and polished; he has evidently mixed in good society, and i never, in all my life, heard such a sweet, soft, winning voice." "that is strictly him. you noticed, i presume, his great likeness to the portrait on the panel?" "i did. at some moments, and viewing his face in some particular lights, it showed much more strongly than at others. my impression was that he could, when he liked, look much more like the portrait on the panel than when he allowed his face to assume its ordinary appearance." "probably such an impression would be produced upon your mind," said charles, "by some accidental expression of the countenance which even he was not aware of, and which often occurs in families." "it may be so." "of course you did not hint, sir, at what has passed here with regard to him?" said henry. "i did not. being, you see, called in professionally, i had no right to take advantage of that circumstance to make any remarks to him about his private affairs." "certainly not." "it was all one to me whether he was a vampyre or not, professionally, and however deeply i might feel, personally, interested in the matter, i said nothing to him about it, because, you see, if i had, he would have had a fair opportunity of saying at once, 'pray, sir, what is that to you?' and i should have been at a loss what to reply." "can we doubt," said henry, "but that this very wound has been inflicted upon sir francis varney, by the pistol-bullet which was discharged at him by flora?" "everything leads to such an assumption certainly," said charles holland. "and yet you cannot even deduce from that the absolute fact of sir francis varney being a vampyre?" "i do not think, mr. chillingworth," said marchdale, "anything would convince you but a visit from him, and an actual attempt to fasten upon some of your own veins." "that would not convince me," said chillingworth. "then you will not be convinced?" "i certainly will not. i mean to hold out to the last. i said at the first, and i say so still, that i never will give way to this most outrageous superstition." "i wish i could think with you," said marchdale, with a shudder; "but there may be something in the very atmosphere of this house which has been rendered hideous by the awful visits that have been made to it, which forbids me to disbelieve in those things which others more happily situated can hold at arm's length, and utterly repudiate." "there may be," said henry; "but as to that, i think, after the very strongly expressed wish of flora, i will decide upon leaving the house." "will you sell it or let it?" "the latter i should much prefer," was the reply. "but who will take it now, except sir francis varney? why not at once let him have it? i am well aware that this does sound odd advice, but remember, we are all the creatures of circumstances, and that, in some cases where we least like it, we must swim with the stream." "that you will not decide upon, however, at present," said charles holland, as he rose. "certainly not; a few days can make no difference." "none for the worse, certainly, and possibly much for the better." "be it so; we will wait." "uncle," said charles, "will you spare me half an hour of your company?" "an hour, my boy, if you want it," said the admiral, rising from his chair. "then this consultation is over," said henry, "and we quite understand that to leave the hall is a matter determined on, and that in a few days a decision shall be come to as to whether varney the vampyre shall be its tenant or not." chapter xxiii. the admiral's advice to charles holland.--the challenge to the vampyre. [illustration] when charles holland got his uncle into a room by themselves, he said,-"uncle, you are a seaman, and accustomed to decide upon matters of honour. i look upon myself as having been most grievously insulted by this sir francis varney. all accounts agree in representing him as a gentleman. he goes openly by a title, which, if it were not his, could easily be contradicted; therefore, on the score of position in life, there is no fault to find with him. what would you do if you were insulted by a gentleman?" the old admiral's eyes sparkled, and he looked comically in the face of charles, as he said,-"i know now where you are steering." "what would you do, uncle?" "fight him!" "i knew you would say so, and that's just what i want to do as regards sir francis varney." "well, my boy, i don't know that you can do better. he must be a thundering rascal, whether he is a vampyre or not; so if you feel that he has insulted you, fight him by all means, charles." "i am much pleased, uncle, to find that you take my view of the subject," said charles. "i knew that if i mentioned such a thing to the bannerworths, they would endeavour all in their power to pursuade me against it." "yes, no doubt; because they are all impressed with a strange fear of this fellow's vampyre powers. besides, if a man is going to fight, the fewer people he mentions it to most decidedly the better, charles." "i believe that is the fact, uncle. should i overcome varney, there will most likely be at once an end to the numerous and uncomfortable perplexities of the bannerworths as regards him; and if he overcome me, why, then, at all events, i shall have made an effort to rescue flora from the dread of this man." "and then he shall fight me," added the admiral, "so he shall have two chances, at all events, charles." "nay, uncle, that would, you know, scarcely be fair. besides, if i should fall, i solemnly bequeath flora bannerworth to your good offices. i much fear that the pecuniary affairs of poor henry,--from no fault of his, heaven knows,--are in a very bad state, and that flora may yet live to want some kind and able friend." "never fear, charles. the young creature shall never want while the old admiral has got a shot in the locker." "thank you, uncle, thank you. i have ample cause to know, and to be able to rely upon your kind and generous nature. and now about the challenge?" "you write it, boy, and i'll take it." "will you second me, uncle?" "to be sure i will. i wouldn't trust anybody else to do so on any account. you leave all the arrangements with me, and i'll second you as you ought to be seconded." "then i will write it at once, for i have received injuries at the hands of that man, or devil, be he what he may, that i cannot put up with. his visit to the chamber of her whom i love would alone constitute ample ground of action." "i should say it rather would, my boy." "and after this corroborative story of the wound, i cannot for a moment doubt that sir francis varney is the vampyre, or the personifier of the vampyre." "that's clear enough, charles. come, just you write your challenge, my boy, at once, and let me have it." "i will, uncle." charles was a little astonished, although pleased, at his uncle's ready acquiescence in his fighting a vampyre, but that circumstance he ascribed to the old man's habits of life, which made him so familiar with strife and personal contentions of all sorts, that he did not ascribe to it that amount of importance which more peaceable people did. had he, while he was writing the note to sir francis varney, seen the old admiral's face, and the exceedingly cunning look it wore, he might have suspected that the acquiescence in the duel was but a seeming acquiescence. this, however, escaped him, and in a few moments he read to his uncle the following note:- "to sir francis varney. "sir,--the expressions made use of towards me by you, as well as general circumstances, which i need not further allude to here, induce me to demand of you that satisfaction due from one gentleman to another. my uncle, admiral bell, is the bearer of this note, and will arrange preliminaries with any friend you may choose to appoint to act in your behalf. i am, sir, yours, &c. "charles holland." "will that do?" said charles. "capital!" said the admiral. "i am glad you like it." "oh, i could not help liking it. the least said and the most to the purpose, always pleases me best; and this explains nothing, and demands all you want--which is a fight; so it's all right, you see, and nothing can be possibly better." charles did glance in his uncle's face, for he suspected, from the manner in which these words were uttered, that the old man was amusing himself a little at his expense. the admiral, however, looked so supernaturally serious that charles was foiled. "i repeat, it's a capital letter," he said. "yes, you said so." "well, what are you staring at?" "oh, nothing." "do you doubt my word?" "not at all, uncle; only i thought there was a degree of irony in the manner in which you spoke." "none at all, my boy. i never was more serious in all my life." "very good. then you will remember that i leave my honour in this affair completely in your hands." "depend upon me, my boy." "i will, and do." "i'll be off and see the fellow at once." the admiral bustled out of the room, and in a few moments charles heard him calling loudly,-"jack--jack pringle, you lubber, where are you?--jack pringle, i say." "ay, ay, sir," said jack, emerging from the kitchen, where he had been making himself generally useful in assisting mrs. bannerworth, there being no servant in the house, to cook some dinner for the family. "come on, you rascal, we are going for a walk." "the rations will be served out soon," growled jack. "we shall be back in time, you cormorant, never fear. you are always thinking of eating and drinking, you are, jack; and i'll be hanged if i think you ever think of anything else. come on, will you; i'm going on rather a particular cruise just now, so mind what you are about." "aye, aye, sir," said the tar, and these two originals, who so perfectly understood each other, walked away, conversing as they went, and their different voices coming upon the ear of charles, until distance obliterated all impression of the sound. charles paced to and fro in the room where he had held this brief and conclusive conversation with his uncle. he was thoughtful, as any one might well be who knew not but that the next four-and-twenty hours would be the limit of his sojourn in this world. "oh, flora--flora!" he at length said, "how happy we might to have been together--how happy we might have been! but all is past now, and there seems nothing left us but to endure. there it but one chance, and that is in my killing this fearful man who is invested with so dreadful an existence. and if i do kill him in fair and in open fight, i will take care that his mortal frame has no power again to revisit the glimpses of the moon." it was strange to imagine that such was the force of many concurrent circumstances, that a young man like charles holland, of first-rate abilities and education, should find it necessary to give in so far to a belief which was repugnant to all his best feelings and habits of thought, as to be reasoning with himself upon the best means of preventing the resuscitation of the corpse of a vampyre. but so it was. his imagination had yielded to a succession of events which very few persons indeed could have held out against. "i have heard and read," he said, as he continued his agitated and uneasy walk, "of how these dreadful beings are to be in their graves. i have heard of stakes being driven through the body so as to pin it to the earth until the gradual progress of decay has rendered its revivification a thing of utter and total impossibility. then, again," he added, after a slight pause, "i have heard of their being burned, and the ashes gathered to the winds of heaven to prevent them from ever again uniting or assuming human form." [illustration] these were disagreeable and strange fancies, and he shuddered while he indulged in them. he felt a kind of trembling horror come over him even at the thought of engaging in conflict with a being, who perhaps, had lived more than a hundred years. "that portrait," he thought, "on the panel, is the portrait of a man in the prime of life. if it be the portrait of sir francis varney, by the date which the family ascribe to it he must be nearly one hundred and fifty years of age now." this was a supposition which carried the imagination to a vast amount of strange conjectures. "what changes he must have witnessed about him in that time," thought charles. "how he must have seen kingdoms totter and fall, and how many changes of habits, of manners, and of customs must he have become a spectator of. renewing too, ever and anon, his fearful existence by such fearful means." this was a wide field of conjecture for a fertile imagination, and now that he was on the eve of engaging with such a being in mortal combat, on behalf of her he loved, the thoughts it gave rise to came more strongly and thickly upon him than ever they had done before. "but i will fight him," he suddenly said, "for flora's sake, were he a hundred times more hideous a being than so many evidences tend to prove him. i will fight with him, and it may be my fate to rid the world of such a monster in human form." charles worked himself up to a kind of enthusiasm by which he almost succeeded in convincing himself that, in attempting the destruction of sir francis varney, he was the champion of human nature. it would be aside from the object of these pages, which is to record facts as they occurred, to enter into the metaphysical course of reasoning which came across charles's mind; suffice it to say that he felt nothing shaken as regarded his resolve to meet varney the vampyre, and that he made up his mind the conflict should be one of life or death. "it must be so," he said. "it must be so. either he or i must fall in the fight which shall surely be." he now sought flora, for how soon might he now be torn from her for ever by the irresistible hand of death. he felt that, during the few brief hours which now would only elapse previous to his meeting with sir francis varney, he could not enjoy too much of the society of her who reigned supreme in his heart, and held in her own keeping his best affections. but while charles is thus employed, let us follow his uncle and jack pringle to the residence of varney, which, as the reader is aware, was so near at hand that it required not many minutes' sharp walking to reach it. the admiral knew well he could trust jack with any secret, for long habits of discipline and deference to the orders of superiors takes off the propensity to blabbing which, among civilians who are not accustomed to discipline, is so very prevalent. the old man therefore explained to jack what he meant to do, and it received jack's full approval; but as in the enforced detail of other matters it must come out, we will not here prematurely enter into the admiral's plans. when they reached the residence of sir francis varney, they were received courteously enough, and the admiral desired jack to wait for him in the handsome hall of the house, while he was shewn up stairs to the private room of the vampyre. "confound the fellow!" muttered the old admiral, "he is well lodged at all events. i should say he was not one of those sort of vampyres who have nowhere to go to but their own coffins when the evening comes." the room into which the admiral was shewn had green blinds to it, and they were all drawn down. it is true that the sun was shining brightly outside, although transiently, but still a strange green tinge was thrown over everything in the room, and more particularly did it appear to fall upon the face of varney, converting his usually sallow countenance into a still more hideous and strange colour. he was sitting upon a couch, and, when the admiral came in, he rose, and said, in a deep-toned voice, extremely different to that he usually spoke in,-"my humble home is much honoured, sir, by your presence in it." "good morning," said the admiral. "i have come to speak to you, sir, rather seriously." "however abrupt this announcement may sound to me," said varney, "i am quite sure i shall always hear, with the most profound respect, whatever admiral bell may have to say." "there is no respect required," said the admiral, "but only a little attention." sir francis bowed in a stately manner, saying,-"i shall be quite unhappy if you will not be seated, admiral bell." "oh, never mind that, sir francis varney, if you be sir francis varney; for you may be the devil himself, for all i know. my nephew, charles holland, considers that, one way and another, he has a very tolerable quarrel with you." "i much grieve to hear it." "do you?" "believe me, i do. i am most scrupulous in what i say; and an assertion that i am grieved, you may thoroughly and entirely depend upon." "well, well, never mind that; charles holland is a young man just entering into life. he loves a girl who is, i think, every way worthy of him." "oh, what a felicitous prospect!" "just hear me out, if you please." "with pleasure, sir--with pleasure." "well, then, when a young, hot-headed fellow thinks he has a good ground of quarrel with anybody, you will not be surprised at his wanting to fight it out." "not at all." "well, then, to come to the point, my nephew, charles holland, has a fancy for fighting with you." "ah!" "you take it d----d easy." "my dear sir, why should i be uneasy? he is not my nephew, you know. i shall have no particular cause, beyond those feelings of common compassion which i hope inhabit my breast as well as every one else's." "what do you mean?" "why, he is a young man just, as you say, entering into life, and i cannot help thinking it would be a pity to cut him off like a flower in the bud, so very soon." "oh, you make quite sure, then, of settling him, do you?" "my dear sir, only consider; he might be very troublesome, indeed; you know young men are hot-headed and troublesome. even if i were only to maim him, he might be a continual and never-ceasing annoyance to me. i think i should be absolutely, in a manner of speaking, compelled to cut him off." "the devil you do!" "as you say, sir." "d--n your assurance, mr. vampyre, or whatever odd fish you may be." "admiral bell, i never called upon you and received a courteous reception, and then insulted you." "then why do you talk of cutting off a better man than yourself? d--n it, what would you say to him cutting you off?" "oh, as for me, my good sir, that's quite another thing. cutting me off is very doubtful." sir francis varney gave a strange smile as he spoke, and shook his head, as if some most extraordinary and extravagant proposition had been mooted, which it was scarcely worth the while of anybody possessed of common sense to set about expecting. admiral bell felt strongly inclined to get into a rage, but he repressed the idea as much as he could, although, but for the curious faint green light that came through the blinds, his heightened colour would have sufficiently proclaimed what state of mind he was in. "mr. varney," he said, "all this is quite beside the question; but, at all events, if it have any weight at all, it ought to have a considerable influence in deciding you to accept of what terms i propose." "what are they, sir?" "why, that you permit me to espouse my nephew charles's quarrel, and meet you instead of him." "you meet me?" "yes; i've met a better man more than once before. it can make no difference to you." "i don't know that, admiral bell. one generally likes, in a duel, to face him with whom one has had the misunderstanding, be it on what grounds it may." "there's some reason, i know, in what you say; but, surely, if i am willing, you need not object." "and is your nephew willing thus to shift the danger and the job of resenting his own quarrels on to your shoulders?" "no; he knows nothing about it. he has written you a challenge, of which i am the bearer, but i voluntarily, and of my own accord, wish to meet you instead." "this is a strange mode of proceeding." "if you will not accede to it, and fight him first, and any harm comes to him, you shall fight me afterwards." "indeed." "yes, indeed you shall, however surprised you may look." "as this appears to be quite a family affair, then," said sir francis varney, "it certainly does appear immaterial which of you i fight with first." "quite so; now you take a sensible view of the question. will you meet me?" "i have no particular objection. have you settled all your affairs, and made your will?" "what's that to you?" "oh, i only asked, because there is generally so much food for litigation if a man dies intestate, and is worth any money." "you make devilish sure," said the admiral, "of being the victor. have you made your will?" "oh, my will," smiled sir francis; "that, my good sir, is quite an indifferent affair." "well, make it or not, as you like. i am old, i know, but i can pull a trigger as well as any one." "do what?" "pull a trigger." "why, you don't suppose i resort to any such barbarous modes of fighting?" "barbarous! why, how do you fight then?" "as a gentleman, with my sword." "swords! oh, nonsense! nobody fights with swords now-a-days. that's all exploded." "i cling to the customs and the fashions of my youth," said varney. "i have been, years ago, accustomed always to wear a sword, and to be without one now vexes me." "pray, how many years ago?" "i am older than i look, but that is not the question. i am willing to meet you with swords if you like. you are no doubt aware that, as the challenged party, i am entitled to the choice of weapons." "i am." "then you cannot object to my availing myself of the one in the use of which i am perfectly unequalled." "indeed." "yes, i am, i think, the first swordsman in europe; i have had immense practice." "well, sir, you have certainly made a most unexpected choice of weapons. i can use a sword still, but am by no means a master of fencing. however, it shall not be said that i went back from my word, and let the chances be as desperate as they may, i will meet you." "very good." "with swords?" "ay, with swords; but i must have everything properly arranged, so that no blame can rest on me, you know. as you will be killed, you are safe from all consequences, but i shall be in a very different position; so, if you please, i must have this meeting got up in such a manner as shall enable me to prove, to whoever may question me on the subject, that you had fair play." "oh, never fear that." "but i do fear it. the world, my good sir, is censorious, and you cannot stop people from saying extremely ill-natured things." "what do you require, then?" "i require you to send me a friend with a formal challenge." "well?" "then i shall refer him to a friend of mine, and they two must settle everything between them." "is that all?" "not quite. i will have a surgeon on the ground, in case, when i pink you, there should be a chance of saving your life. it always looks humane." "when you pink me?" "precisely." "upon my word, you take these affairs easy. i suppose you have had a few of them?" "oh, a good number. people like yourself worry me into them, i don't like the trouble, i assure you; it is no amusement to me. i would rather, by a great deal, make some concession than fight, because i will fight with swords, and the result is then so certain that there is no danger in the matter to me." "hark you, sir francis varney. you are either a very clever actor, or a man, as you say, of such skill with your sword, that you can make sure of the result of a duel. you know, therefore, that it is not fair play on your part to fight a duel with that weapon." "oh, i beg your pardon there. i never challenge anybody, and when foolish people will call me out, contrary to my inclination, i think i am bound to take what care of myself i can." "d--n me, there's some reason in that, too," said the admiral; "but why do you insult people?" "people insult me first." "oh, nonsense!" "how should you like to be called a vampyre, and stared at as if you were some hideous natural phenomenon?" "well, but--" "i say, admiral bell, how should you like it? i am a harmless country gentleman, and because, in the heated imaginations of some member of a crack-brained family, some housebreaker has been converted into a vampyre, i am to be pitched upon as the man, and insulted and persecuted accordingly." "but you forget the proofs." "what proofs?" "the portrait, for one." "what! because there is an accidental likeness between me and an old picture, am i to be set down as a vampyre? why, when i was in austria last, i saw an old portrait of a celebrated court fool, and you so strongly resemble it, that i was quite struck when i first saw you with the likeness; but i was not so unpolite as to tell you that i considered you were the court fool turned vampyre." "d--n your assurance!" "and d--n yours, if you come to that." the admiral was fairly beaten. sir francis varney was by far too long-headed and witty for him. after now in vain endeavouring to find something to say, the old man buttoned up his coat in a great passion, and looking fiercely at varney, he said,--"i don't pretend to a gift of the gab. d--n me, it ain't one of my peculiarities; but though you may talk me down, you sha'n't keep me down." "very good, sir." "it is not very good. you shall hear from me." "i am willing." "i don't care whether you are willing or not. you shall find that when once i begin to tackle an enemy, i don't so easily leave him. one or both of us, sir, is sure to sink." "agreed." "so say i. you shall find that i'm a tar for all weathers, and if you were a hundred and fifty vampires all rolled into one, i'd tackle you somehow." the admiral walked to the door in high dudgeon; when he was near to it, varney said, in some of his most winning and gentle accents,-"will you not take some refreshment, sir before you go from my humble house?" "no!" roared the admiral. "something cooling?" "no!" "very good, sir. a hospitable host can do no more than offer to entertain his guests." admiral bell turned at the door, and said, with some degree of intense bitterness, "you look rather poorly. i suppose, to-night, you will go and suck somebody's blood, you shark--you confounded vampyre! you ought to be made to swallow a red-hot brick, and then let dance about till it digests." varney smiled as he rang the bell, and said to a servant,-"show my very excellent friend admiral bell out. he will not take any refreshments." the servant bowed, and preceded the admiral down the staircase; but, to his great surprise, instead of a compliment in the shape of a shilling or half-a-crown for his pains, he received a tremendous kick behind, with a request to go and take it to his master, with his compliments. the fume that the old admiral was in beggars all description. he walked to bannerworth hall at such a rapid pace, that jack pringle had the greatest difficulty in the world to keep up with him, so as to be at all within speaking distance. "hilloa, jack," cried the old man, when they were close to the hall. "did you see me kick that fellow?" "ay, ay, sir." "well, that's some consolation, at any rate, if somebody saw it. it ought to have been his master, that's all i can say to it, and i wish it had." "how have you settled it, sir?" "settled what?" "the fight, sir." "d--n me, jack, i haven't settled it at all." "that's bad, sir." "i know it is; but it shall be settled for all that, i can tell him, let him vapour as much as he may about pinking me, and one thing and another." "pinking you, sir?" "yes. he wants to fight with cutlasses, or toasting-forks, d--n me, i don't know exactly which, and then he must have a surgeon on the ground, for fear when he pinks me i shouldn't slip my cable in a regular way, and he should be blamed." jack gave a long whistle, as he replied,-"going to do it, sir?" "i don't know now what i'm going to do. mind, jack, mum is the word." "ay, ay, sir." "i'll turn the matter over in my mind, and then decide upon what had best be done. if he pinks me, i'll take d----d good care he don't pink charles." "no, sir, don't let him do that. a _wamphigher_, sir, ain't no good opponent to anybody. i never seed one afore, but it strikes me as the best way to settle him, would be to shut him up in some little bit of a cabin, and then smoke him with brimstone, sir." "well, well, i'll consider, jack, i'll consider. something must be done, and that quickly too. zounds, here's charles--what the deuce shall i say to him, by way of an excuse, i wonder, for not arranging his affair with varney? hang me, if i ain't taken aback now, and don't know where to place a hand." chapter xxiv. the letter to charles.--the quarrel.--the admiral's narrative.--the midnight meeting. [illustration] it was charles holland who now advanced hurriedly to meet the admiral. the young man's manner was anxious. he was evidently most intent upon knowing what answer could be sent by sir francis varney to his challenge. "uncle," he said, "tell me at once, will he meet me? you can talk of particulars afterwards, but now tell me at once if he will meet me?" "why, as to that," said the admiral, with a great deal of fidgetty hesitation, "you see, i can't exactly say." "not say!" "no. he's a very odd fish. don't you think he's a very odd fish, jack pringle'?" "ay, ay, sir." "there, you hear, charles, that jack is of my opinion that your opponent is an odd fish." "but, uncle, why trifle with my impatience thus? have you seen sir francis varney?" "seen him. oh, yes." "and what did he say?" "why, to tell the truth, my lad, i advise you not to fight with him at all." "uncle, is this like you? this advice from you, to compromise my honour, after sending a man a challenge?" "d--n it all, jack, i don't know how to get out of it," said the admiral. "i tell you what it is, charles, he wants to fight with swords; and what on earth is the use of your engaging with a fellow who has been practising at his weapon for more than a hundred years?" "well, uncle, if any one had told me that you would be terrified by this sir francis varney into advising me not to fight, i should have had no hesitation whatever in saying such a thing was impossible." "i terrified?" "why, you advise me not to meet this man, even after i have challenged him." "jack," said the admiral, "i can't carry it on, you see. i never could go on with anything that was not as plain as an anchor, and quite straightforward. i must just tell all that has occurred." "ay, ay, sir. the best way." "you think so, jack?" "i know it is, sir, always axing pardon for having a opinion at all, excepting when it happens to be the same as yourn, sir." "hold your tongue, you libellous villain! now, listen to me, charles. i got up a scheme of my own." charles gave a groan, for he had a very tolerable appreciation of his uncle's amount of skill in getting up a scheme of any kind or description. "now here am i," continued the admiral, "an old hulk, and not fit for use anymore. what's the use of me, i should like to know? well, that's settled. but you are young and hearty, and have a long life before you. why should you throw away your life upon a lubberly vampyre?" "i begin to perceive now, uncle," said charles, reproachfully, "why you, with such apparent readiness, agreed to this duel taking place." "well, i intended to fight the fellow myself, that's the long and short of it, boy." "how could you treat me so?" "no nonsense, charles. i tell you it was all in the family. i intended to fight him myself. what was the odds whether i slipped my cable with his assistance, or in the regular course a little after this? that's the way to argufy the subject; so, as i tell you, i made up my mind to fight him myself." charles looked despairingly, but said,-"what was the result?" "oh, the result! d--n me, i suppose that's to come. the vagabond won't fight like a christian. he says he's quite willing to fight anybody that calls him out, provided it's all regular." "well--well." "and he, being the party challenged--for he says he never himself challenges anybody, as he is quite tired of it--must have his choice of weapons." "he is entitled to that; but it is generally understood now-a-days that pistols are the weapons in use among gentlemen for such purposes." "ah, but he won't understand any such thing, i tell you. he will fight with swords." "i suppose he is, then, an adept at the use of the sword?" "he says he is." "no doubt--no doubt. i cannot blame a man for choosing, when he has the liberty of choice, that weapon in the use of which he most particularly, from practice, excels." "yes; but if he be one half the swordsman he has had time enough, according to all accounts, to be, what sort of chance have you with him?" "do i hear you reasoning thus?" "yes, to be sure you do. i have turned wonderfully prudent, you see: so i mean to fight him myself, and mind, now, you have nothing whatever to do with it." "an effort of prudence that, certainly." "well, didn't i say so?" "come--come, uncle, this won't do. i have challenged sir francis varney, and i must meet him with any weapon he may, as the challenged party, choose to select. besides, you are not, i dare say, aware that i am a very good fencer, and probably stand as fair a chance as varney in a contest with swords." "indeed!" "yes, uncle. i could not be so long on the continent as i have been without picking up a good knowledge of the sword, which is so popular all over germany." "humph! but only consider, this d----d fellow is no less than a hundred and fifty years old." "i care not." "yes, but i do." "uncle, uncle, i tell you i will fight with him; and if you do not arrange matters for me so that i can have the meeting with this man, which i have myself sought, and cannot, even if i wished, now recede from with honour, i must seek some other less scrupulous friend to do so." "give me an hour or two to think of it, charles," said the admiral. "don't speak to any one else, but give me a little time. you shall have no cause of complaint. your honour cannot suffer in my hands." "i will wait your leisure, uncle; but remember that such affairs as these, when once broached, had always better be concluded with all convenient dispatch." "i know that, boy--i know that." the admiral walked away, and charles, who really felt much fretted at the delay which had taken place, returned to the house. he had not been there long, when a lad, who had been temporarily hired during the morning by henry to answer the gate, brought him a note, saying,-"a servant, sir, left this for you just now." "for me?" said charles, as he glanced at the direction. "this is strange, for i have no acquaintance about here. does any one wait?" "no, sir." the note was properly directed to him, therefore charles holland at once opened it. a glance at the bottom of the page told him that it came from his enemy, sir francis varney, and then he read it with much eagerness. it ran thus:- "sir,--your uncle, as he stated himself to be, admiral bell, was the bearer to me, as i understood him this day, of a challenge from you. owing to some unaccountable hallucination of intellect, he seemed to imagine that i intended to set myself up as a sort of animated target, for any one to shoot at who might have a fancy so to do. "according to this eccentric view of the case, the admiral had the kindness to offer to fight me first, when, should he not have the good fortune to put me out of the world, you were to try your skill, doubtless. "i need scarcely say that i object to these family arrangements. you have challenged me, and, fancying the offence sufficient, you defy me to mortal combat. if, therefore, i fight with any one at all, it must be with you. "you will clearly understand me, sir, that i do not accuse you of being at all party to this freak of intellect of your uncle's. he, no doubt, alone conceived it, with a laudable desire on his part of serving you. if, however, to meet me, do so to-night, in the middle of the park surrounding your own friends estate. "there is a pollard oak growing close to a small pool; you, no doubt, have noticed the spot often. meet me there, if you please, and any satisfaction you like i will give you, at twelve o'clock this night. "come alone, or you will not see me. it shall be at your own option entirely, to convert the meeting into a hostile one or not. you need send me no answer to this. if you are at the place i mention at the time i have named, well and good. if you an not, i can only, if i please, imagine that you shrink from a meeting with "francis varney." charles holland read this letter twice over carefully, and then folding it up, and placing it in his pocket, he said,-"yes, i will meet him; he may be assured that i will meet him. he shall find that i do not shrink from francis varney in the name of honour, love, virtue, and heaven, i will meet this man, and it shall go hard with me but i will this night wring from him the secret of what he really is. for the sake of her who is so dear to me--for her sake, i will meet this man, or monster, be he what he may." it would have been far more prudent had charles informed henry bannerworth or george of his determination to meet the vampyre that evening, but he did not do so. somehow he fancied it would be some reproach against his courage if he did not go, and go alone, too, for he could not help suspecting that, from the conduct of his uncle, sir francis varney might have got up an opinion inimical to his courage. with all the eager excitement of youth, there was nothing that arrayed itself to his mind in such melancholy and uncomfortable colours as an imputation upon his courage. "i will show this vampyre, if he be such," he said, "that i am not afraid to meet him, and alone, too, at his own hour--at midnight, even when, if his preternatural powers be of more avail to him than at any other time, he can attempt, if he dare, to use them." charles resolved upon going armed, and with the greatest care he loaded his pistols, and placed them aside ready for action, when the time should come to set out to meet the vampyre at the spot in the park which had been particularly alluded to in his letter. this spot was perfectly well known to charles; indeed, no one could be a single day at bannerworth hall without noticing it, so prominent an object was that pollard oak, standing, as it did, alone, with the beautiful green sward all around it. near to it was the pool which hid been mentioned, which was, in reality, a fish-pond, and some little distance off commenced the thick plantation, among the intricacies of which sir francis varney, or the vampyre, had been supposed to disappear, after the revivification of his body at the full of the moon. this spot was in view of several of the windows of the house, so that if the night should happen to be a very light one, and any of the inhabitants of the hall should happen to have the curiosity to look from those particular windows, no doubt the meeting between charles holland and the vampyre would be seen. this, however, was a contingency which was nothing to charles, whatever it might be to sir francis varney, and he scarcely at all considered it as worth consideration. he felt more happy and comfortable now that everything seemed to be definitively arranged by which he could come to some sort of explanation with that mysterious being who had so effectually, as yet, succeeded in destroying his peace of mind and his prospects of happiness. "i will this night force him to declare himself," thought charles. "he shall tell me who and what he really is, and by some means i will endeavour to put an end to those frightful persecutions which flora has suffered." this was a thought which considerably raised charles's spirits, and when he sought flora again, which he now did, she was surprised to see him so much more easy and composed in his mind, which was sufficiently shown by his manner, than he had been but so short a time before. "charles," she said, "what has happened to give such an impetus to your spirits?" "nothing, dear flora, nothing; but i have been endeavouring to throw from my mind all gloomy thoughts, and to convince myself that in the future you and i, dearest, may yet be very happy." "oh, charles, if i could but think so." "endeavour, flora, to think so. remember how much our happiness is always in our own power, flora, and that, let fate do her worst, so long as we are true to each other, we have a recompense for every ill." "oh, indeed, charles, that is a dear recompense." "and it is well that no force of circumstances short of death itself can divide us." "true, charles, true, and i am more than ever now bound to look upon you with a loving heart; for have you not clung to me generously under circumstances which, if any at all could have justified you in rending asunder every tie which bound us together, surely would have done so most fully." "it is misfortune and distress that tries love," said charles. "it is thus that the touchstone is applied to see if it be current gold indeed, or some base metal, which by a superficial glitter imitates it." "and your love is indeed true gold." "i am unworthy of one glance from those dear eyes if it were not." "oh, if we could but go from here i think then we might be happy. a strong impression is upon my mind, and has been so for some time, that these persecutions to which i have been subjected are peculiar to this house." "think you so?" "i do, indeed!" "it may be so, flora. you are aware that your brother has made up his mind that he will leave the hall." "yes, yes." "and that only in deference to an expressed wish of mine he put off the carrying such a resolve into effect for a few days." "he said so much." "do not, however, imagine, dearest flora, that those few days will be idly spent." "nay, charles, i could not imagine so." "believe me, i have some hopes that in that short space of time i shall be able to accomplish yet something which shall have a material effect upon the present posture of affairs." "do not run into danger, charles." "i will not. believe me, flora, i have too much appreciation of the value of an existence which is blessed by your love, to encounter any needless risks." "you say needless. why do you not confide in me, and tell me if the object you have in view to accomplish in the few days delay is a dangerous one at all." "will you forgive me, flora, if for once i keep a secret from you?" "then, charles, along with the forgiveness i must conjure up a host of apprehensions." "nay, why so?" "you would tell me if there were no circumstances that you feared would fill me with alarm." "now, flora, your fears and not your judgment condemn me. surely you cannot think me so utterly heedless as to court danger for danger's sake." "no, not so--" "you pause." "and yet you have a sense of what you call honour, which, i fear, would lead you into much risk." "i have a sense of honour; but not that foolish one which hangs far more upon the opinions of others than my own. if i thought a course of honour lay before me, and all the world, in a mistaken judgment, were to condemn it as wrong, i would follow it." "you are right, charles; you are right. let me pray of you to be careful, and, at all events, to interpose no more delay to our leaving this house than you shall feel convinced is absolutely necessary for some object of real and permanent importance." charles promised flora bannerworth that for her sake, as well as his own, he would be most specially careful of his safety; and then in such endearing conversation as may be well supposed to be dictated by such hearts as theirs another happy hour was passed away. [illustration] they pictured to themselves the scene where first they met, and with a world of interest hanging on every word they uttered, they told each other of the first delightful dawnings of that affection which had sprung up between them, and which they fondly believed neither time nor circumstance would have the power to change or subvert. in the meantime the old admiral was surprised that charles was so patient, and had not been to him to demand the result of his deliberation. but he knew not on what rapid pinions time flies, when in the presence of those whom we love. what was an actual hour, was but a fleeting minute to charles holland, as he sat with flora's hand clasped in his, and looking at her sweet face. at length a clock striking reminded him of his engagement with his uncle, and he reluctantly rose. "dear flora," he said, "i am going to sit up to watch to-night, so be under no sort of apprehension." "i will feel doubly safe," she said. "i have now something to talk to my uncle about, and must leave you." flora smiled, and held out her hand to him. he pressed it to his heart. he knew not what impulse came over him then, but for the first time he kissed the cheek of the beautiful girl. with a heightened colour she gently repulsed him. he took a long lingering look at her as he passed out of the room, and when the door was closed between them, the sensation he experienced was as if some sudden cloud had swept across the face of the sun, dimming to a vast extent its precious lustre. a strange heaviness came across his spirits, which before had been so unaccountably raised. he felt as if the shadow of some coming evil was resting on his soul--as if some momentous calamity was preparing for him, which would almost be enough to drive him to madness, and irredeemable despair. "what can this be," he exclaimed, "that thus oppresses me? what feeling is this that seems to tell me, i shall never again see flora bannerworth?" unconsciously he uttered these words, which betrayed the nature of his worst forebodings. "oh, this is weakness," he then added. "i must fight out against this; it is mere nervousness. i must not endure it, i will not suffer myself thus to become the sport of imagination. courage, courage, charles holland. there are real evils enough, without your adding to them by those of a disordered fancy. courage, courage, courage." chapter xxv. the admiral's opinion.--the request of charles. [illustration] charles then sought the admiral, whom he found with his hands behind him, pacing to and fro in one of the long walks of the garden, evidently in a very unsettled state of mind. when charles appeared, he quickened his pace, and looked in such a state of unusual perplexity that it was quite ridiculous to observe him. "i suppose, uncle, you have made up your mind thoroughly by this time?" "well, i don't know that." "why, you have had long enough surely to think over it. i have not troubled you soon." "well, i cannot exactly say you have, but, somehow or another, i don't think very fast, and i have an unfortunate propensity after a time of coming exactly round to where i began." "then, to tell the truth, uncle, you can come to no sort of conclusion." "only one." "and what may that be?" "why, that you are right in one thing, charles, which is, that having sent a challenge to this fellow of a vampyre, you must fight him." "i suspect that that is a conclusion you had from the first, uncle?" "why so?" "because it is an obvious and a natural one. all your doubts, and trouble, and perplexities, have been to try and find some excuse for not entertaining that opinion, and now that you really find it in vain to make it, i trust that you will accede as you first promised to do, and not seek by any means to thwart me." "i will not thwart you, my boy, although in my opinion you ought not to fight with a vampyre." "never mind that. we cannot urge that as a valid excuse, so long as he chooses to deny being one. and after all, if he be really wrongfully suspected, you must admit that he is a very injured man." "injured!--nonsense. if he is not a vampyre, he's some other out-of-the-way sort of fish, you may depend. he's the oddest-looking fellow ever i came across in all my born days, ashore or afloat." "is he?" "yes, he is: and yet, when i come to look at the thing again in my mind, some droll sights that i have seen come across my memory. the sea is the place for wonders and for mysteries. why, we see more in a day and a night there, than you landsmen could contrive to make a whole twelvemonth's wonder of." "but you never saw a vampyre, uncle?" "well, i don't know that. i didn't know anything about vampyres till i came here; but that was my ignorance, you know. there might have been lots of vampyres where i've been, for all i know." "oh, certainly; but as regards this duel, will you wait now until to-morrow morning, before you take any further steps in the matter?" "till to-morrow morning?" "yes, uncle." "why, only a little while ago, you were all eagerness to have something done off-hand." "just so; but now i have a particular reason for waiting until to-morrow morning." "have you? well, as you please, boy--as you please. have everything your own way." "you are very kind, uncle; and now i have another favour to ask of you." "what is it?" "why, you know that henry bannerworth receives but a very small sum out of the whole proceeds of the estate here, which ought, but for his father's extravagance, to be wholly at his disposal." "so i have heard." "i am certain he is at present distressed for money, and i have not much. will you lend me fifty pounds, uncle, until my own affairs are sufficiently arranged to enable you to pay yourself again?" "will i! of course i will." "i wish to offer that sum as an accommodation to henry. from me, i dare say he will receive it freely, because he must be convinced how freely it is offered; and, besides, they look upon me now almost as a member of the family in consequence of my engagement with flora." "certainly, and quite correct too: there's a fifty-pound note, my boy; take it, and do what you like with it, and when you want any more, come to me for it." "i knew i could trespass thus far on your kindness, uncle." "trespass! it's no trespass at all." "well, we will not fall out about the terms in which i cannot help expressing my gratitude to you for many favours. to-morrow, you will arrange the duel for me." "as you please. i don't altogether like going to that fellow's house again." "well, then, we can manage, i dare say, by note." "very good. do so. he puts me in mind altogether of a circumstance that happened a good while ago, when i was at sea, and not so old a man as i am now." "puts you in mind of a circumstance, uncle?" "yes; he's something like a fellow that figured in an affair that i know a good deal about; only i do think as my chap was more mysterious by a d----d sight than this one." "indeed!" "oh, dear, yes. when anything happens in an odd way at sea, it is as odd again as anything that occurs on land, my boy, you may depend." "oh, you only fancy that, uncle, because you have spent so long a time at sea." "no, i don't imagine it, you rascal. what can you have on shore equal to what we have at sea? why, the sights that come before us would make you landsmen's hairs stand up on end, and never come down again." "in the ocean, do you mean, that you see those sights, uncle?" "to be sure. i was once in the southern ocean, in a small frigate, looking out for a seventy-four we were to join company with, when a man at the mast-head sung out that he saw her on the larboard bow. well, we thought it was all right enough, and made away that quarter, when what do you think it turned out to be?" "i really cannot say." "the head of a fish." "a fish!" "yes! a d----d deal bigger than the hull of a vessel. he was swimming along with his head just what i dare say he considered a shaving or so out of the water." "but where were the sails, uncle?" "the sails?" "yes; your man at the mast-head must have been a poor seaman not to have missed the sails." "all, that's one of your shore-going ideas, now. you know nothing whatever about it. i'll tell you where the sails were, master charley." "well, i should like to know." "the spray, then, that he dashed up with a pair of fins that were close to his head, was in such a quantity, and so white, that they looked just like sails." "oh!" "ah! you may say 'oh!' but we all saw him--the whole ship's crew; and we sailed alongside of him for some time, till he got tired of us, and suddenly dived down, making such a vortex in the water, that the ship shook again, and seemed for about a minute as if she was inclined to follow him to the bottom of the sea." "and what do you suppose it was, uncle?" "how should i know?" "did you ever see it again?" "never; though others have caught a glimpse of him now and then in the same ocean, but never came so near him as we did, that ever i heard of, at all events. they may have done so." "it is singular!" "singular or not, it's a fool to what i can tell you. why, i've seen things that, if i were to set about describing them to you, you would say i was making up a romance." "oh, no; it's quite impossible, uncle, any one could ever suspect you of such a thing." "you'd believe me, would you?" "of course i would." "then here goes. i'll just tell you now of a circumstance that i haven't liked to mention to anybody yet." "indeed! why so?" "because i didn't want to be continually fighting people for not believing it; but here you have it:--" we were outward bound; a good ship, a good captain, and good messmates, you know, go far towards making a prosperous voyage a pleasant and happy one, and on this occasion we had every reasonable prospect of all. our hands were all tried men--they had been sailors from infancy; none of your french craft, that serve an apprenticeship and then become land lubbers again. oh, no, they were stanch and true, and loved the ocean as the sluggard loves his bed, or the lover his mistress. ay, and for the matter of that, the love was a more enduring and a more healthy love, for it increased with years, and made men love one another, and they would stand by each other while they had a limb to lift--while they were able to chew a quid or wink an eye, leave alone wag a pigtail. we were outward bound for ceylon, with cargo, and were to bring spices and other matters home from the indian market. the ship was new and good--a pretty craft; she sat like a duck upon the water, and a stiff breeze carried her along the surface of the waves without your rocking, and pitching, and tossing, like an old wash-tub at a mill-tail, as i have had the misfortune to sail in more than once afore. no, no, we were well laden, and well pleased, and weighed anchor with light hearts and a hearty cheer. away we went down the river, and soon rounded the north foreland, and stood out in the channel. the breeze was a steady and stiff one, and carried us through the water as though it had been made for us. "jack," said i to a messmate of mine, as he stood looking at the skies, then at the sails, and finally at the water, with a graver air than i thought was at all consistent with the occasion or circumstances. "well," he replied. "what ails you? you seem as melancholy as if we were about to cast lots who should be eaten first. are you well enough?" "i am hearty enough, thank heaven," he said, "but i don't like this breeze." "don't like the breeze!" said i; "why, mate, it is as good and kind a breeze as ever filled a sail. what would you have, a gale?" "no, no; i fear that." "with such a ship, and such a set of hearty able seamen, i think we could manage to weather out the stiffest gale that ever whistled through a yard." "that may be; i hope it is, and i really believe and think so." "then what makes you so infernally mopish and melancholy?" "i don't know, but can't help it. it seems to me as though there was something hanging over us, and i can't tell what." "yes, there are the colours, jack, at the masthead; they are flying over us with a hearty breeze." "ah! ah!" said jack, looking up at the colours, and then went away without saying anything more, for he had some piece of duty to perform. i thought my messmate had something on his mind that caused him to feel sad and uncomfortable, and i took no more notice of it; indeed, in the course of a day or two he was as merry as any of the rest, and had no more melancholy that i could perceive, but was as comfortable as anybody. we had a gale off the coast of biscay, and rode it out without the loss of a spar or a yard; indeed, without the slightest accident or rent of any kind. "now, jack, what do you think of our vessel?" said i. "she's like a duck upon water, rises and falls with the waves, and doesn't tumble up and down like a hoop over stones." "no, no; she goes smoothly and sweetly; she is a gallant craft, and this is her first voyage, and i predict a prosperous one." "i hope so," he said. well, we went on prosperously enough for about three weeks; the ocean was as calm and as smooth as a meadow, the breeze light but good, and we stemmed along majestically over the deep blue waters, and passed coast after coast, though all around was nothing but the apparently pathless main in sight. "a better sailer i never stepped into," said the captain one day; "it would be a pleasure to live and die in such a vessel." well, as i said, we had been three weeks or thereabouts, when one morning, after the sun was up and the decks washed, we saw a strange man sitting on one of the water-casks that were on deck, for, being full, we were compelled to stow some of them on deck. you may guess those on deck did a little more than stare at this strange and unexpected apparition. by jingo, i never saw men open their eyes wider in all my life, nor was i any exception to the rule. i stared, as well i might; but we said nothing for some minutes, and the stranger looked calmly on us, and then cocked his eye with a nautical air up at the sky, as if he expected to receive a twopenny-post letter from st. michael, or a _billet doux_ from the virgin mary. "where has he come from?" said one of the men in a low tone to his companion, who was standing by him at that moment. "how can i tell?" replied his companion. "he may have dropped from the clouds; he seems to be examining the road; perhaps he is going back." the stranger sat all this time with the most extreme and provoking coolness and unconcern; he deigned us but a passing notice, but it was very slight. he was a tall, spare man--what is termed long and lathy--but he was evidently a powerful man. he had a broad chest, and long, sinewy arms, a hooked nose, and a black, eagle eye. his hair was curly, but frosted by age; it seemed as though it had been tinged with white at the extremities, but he was hale and active otherwise, to judge from appearances. notwithstanding all this, there was a singular repulsiveness about him that i could not imagine the cause, or describe; at the same time there was an air of determination in his wild and singular-looking eyes, and over their whole there was decidedly an air and an appearance so sinister as to be positively disagreeable. "well," said i, after we had stood some minutes, "where did you come from, shipmate?" he looked at me and then up at the sky, in a knowing manner. "come, come, that won't do; you have none of peter wilkins's wings, and couldn't come on the aerial dodge; it won't do; how did you get here?" he gave me an awful wink, and made a sort of involuntary movement, which jumped him up a few inches, and he bumped down again on the water-cask. "that's as much as to say," thought i, "that he's sat himself on it." "i'll go and inform the captain," said i, "of this affair; he'll hardly believe me when i tell him, i am sure." so saying, i left the deck and went to the cabin, where the captain was at breakfast, and related to him what i had seen respecting the stranger. the captain looked at me with an air of disbelief, and said,-"what?--do you mean to say there's a man on board we haven't seen before?" "yes, i do, captain. i never saw him afore, and he's sitting beating his heels on the water-cask on deck." "the devil!" "he is, i assure you, sir; and he won't answer any questions." "i'll see to that. i'll see if i can't make the lubber say something, providing his tongue's not cut out. but how came he on board? confound it, he can't be the devil, and dropped from the moon." "don't know, captain," said i. "he is evil-looking enough, to my mind, to be the father of evil, but it's ill bespeaking attentions from that quarter at any time." "go on, lad; i'll come up after you." i left the cabin, and i heard the captain coming after me. when i got on deck, i saw he had not moved from the place where i left him. there was a general commotion among the crew when they heard of the occurrence, and all crowded round him, save the man at the wheel, who had to remain at his post. the captain now came forward, and the men fell a little back as he approached. for a moment the captain stood silent, attentively examining the stranger, who was excessively cool, and stood the scrutiny with the same unconcern that he would had the captain been looking at his watch. "well, my man," said the captain, "how did you come here?" "i'm part of the cargo," he said, with an indescribable leer. "part of the cargo be d----d!" said the captain, in sudden rage, for he thought the stranger was coming his jokes too strong. "i know you are not in the bills of lading." "i'm contraband," replied the stranger; "and my uncle's the great chain of tartary." the captain stared, as well he might, and did not speak for some minutes; all the while the stranger kept kicking his heels against the water-casks and squinting up at the skies; it made us feel very queer. "well, i must confess you are not in the regular way of trading." "oh, no," said the stranger; "i am contraband--entirely contraband." "and how did you come on board?" at this question the stranger again looked curiously up at the skies, and continued to do so for more than a minute; he then turned his gaze upon the captain. "no, no," said the captain; "eloquent dumb show won't do with me; you didn't come, like mother shipton, upon a birch broom. how did you come on board my vessel?" "i walked on board," said the stranger. "you walked on board; and where did you conceal yourself?" "below." "very good; and why didn't you stay below altogether?" "because i wanted fresh air. i'm in a delicate state of health, you see; it doesn't do to stay in a confined place too long." "confound the binnacle!" said the captain; it was his usual oath when anything bothered him, and he could not make it out. "confound the binnacle!--what a delicate-looking animal you are. i wish you had stayed where you were; your delicacy would have been all the same to me. delicate, indeed!" "yes, very," said the stranger, coolly. there was something so comic in the assertion of his delicateness of health, that we should all have laughed; but we were somewhat scared, and had not the inclination. "how have you lived since you came on board?" inquired the captain. "very indifferently." "but how? what have you eaten? and what have you drank?" "nothing, i assure you. all i did while was below was--" "what?" "why, i sucked my thumbs like a polar bear in its winter quarters." and as he spoke the stranger put his two thumbs into his mouth, and extraordinary thumbs they were, too, for each would have filled an ordinary man's mouth. "these," said the stranger, pulling them out, and gazing at them wistfully, and with a deep sigh he continued,-"these were thumbs at one time; but they are nothing now to what they were." "confound the binnacle!" muttered the captain to himself, and then he added, aloud,-"it's cheap living, however; but where are you going to, and why did you come aboard?" "i wanted a cheap cruise, and i am going there and back." "why, that's where we are going," said the captain. "then we are brothers," exclaimed the stranger, hopping off the water-cask like a kangaroo, and bounding towards the captain, holding out his hand as though he would have shaken hands with him. "no, no," said the captain; "i can't do it." "can't do it!" exclaimed the stranger, angrily. "what do you mean?" "that i can't have anything to do with contraband articles; i am a fair trader, and do all above board. i haven't a chaplain on board, or he should offer up prayers for your preservation, and the recovery of your health, which seems so delicate." "that be--" the stranger didn't finish the sentence; he merely screwed his mouth up into an incomprehensible shape, and puffed out a lot of breath, with some force, and which sounded very much like a whistle: but, oh, what thick breath he had, it was as much like smoke as anything i ever saw, and so my shipmate said. "i say, captain," said the stranger, as he saw him pacing the deck. "well." "just send me up some beef and biscuit, and some coffee royal--be sure it's royal, do you hear, because i'm partial to brandy, it's the only good thing there is on earth." i shall not easily forget the captain's look as he turned towards the stranger, and gave his huge shoulders a shrug, as much as to say,-"well, i can't help it now; he's here, and i can't throw him overboard." the coffee, beef, and biscuit were sent him, and the stranger seemed to eat them with great _gout_, and drank the coffee with much relish, and returned the things, saying, "your captain is an excellent cook; give him my compliments." i thought the captain would think that was but a left-handed compliment, and look more angry than pleased, but no notice was taken of it. it was strange, but this man had impressed upon all in the vessel some singular notion of his being more than he should be--more than a mere mortal, and not one endeavoured to interfere with him; the captain was a stout and dare-devil a fellow as you would well met with, yet he seemed tacitly to acknowledge more than he would say, for he never after took any further notice of the stranger nor he of him. they had barely any conversation, simply a civil word when they first met, and so forth; but there was little or no conversation of any kind between them. the stranger slept upon deck, and lived upon deck entirely; he never once went below after we saw him, and his own account of being below so long. this was very well, but the night-watch did not enjoy his society, and would have willingly dispensed with it at that hour so particularly lonely and dejected upon the broad ocean, and perhaps a thousand miles away from the nearest point of land. at this dread and lonely hour, when no sound reaches the ear and disturbs the wrapt stillness of the night, save the whistling of the wind through the cordage, or an occasional dash of water against the vessel's side, the thoughts of the sailor are fixed on far distant objects--his own native land and the friends and loved ones he has left behind him. he then thinks of the wilderness before, behind, and around him; of the immense body of water, almost in places bottomless; gazing upon such a scene, and with thoughts as strange and indefinite as the very boundless expanse before him, it is no wonder if he should become superstitious; the time and place would, indeed unbidden, conjure up thoughts and feelings of a fearful character and intensity. the stranger at such times would occupy his favourite seat on the water cask, and looking up at the sky and then on the ocean, and between whiles he would whistle a strange, wild, unknown melody. the flesh of the sailors used to creep up in knots and bumps when they heard it; the wind used to whistle as an accompaniment and pronounce fearful sounds to their ears. the wind had been highly favourable from the first, and since the stranger had been discovered it had blown fresh, and we went along at a rapid rate, stemming the water, and dashing the spray off from the bows, and cutting the water like a shark. this was very singular to us, we couldn't understand it, neither could the captain, and we looked very suspiciously at the stranger, and wished him at the bottom, for the freshness of the wind now became a gale, and yet the ship came through the water steadily, and away we went before the wind, as if the devil drove us; and mind i don't mean to say he didn't. the gale increased to a hurricane, and though we had not a stitch of canvass out, yet we drove before the gale as if we had been shot out of the mouth of a gun. the stranger still sat on the water casks, and all night long he kept up his infernal whistle. now, sailors don't like to hear any one whistle when there's such a gale blowing over their heads--it's like asking for more; but he would persist, and the louder and stronger the wind blew, the louder he whistled. at length there came a storm of rain, lightning, and wind. we were tossed mountains high, and the foam rose over the vessel, and often entirely over our heads, and the men were lashed to their posts to prevent being washed away. but the stranger still lay on the water casks, kicking his heels and whistling his infernal tune, always the same. he wasn't washed away nor moved by the action of the water; indeed, we heartily hoped and expected to see both him and the water cask floated overboard at every minute; but, as the captain said,-"confound the binnacle! the old water tub seems as if it were screwed on to the deck, and won't move off and he on the top of it." there was a strong inclination to throw him overboard, and the men conversed in low whispers, and came round the captain, saying,-"we have come, captain, to ask you what you think of this strange man who has come so mysteriously on board?" "i can't tell what to think, lads; he's past thinking about--he's something above my comprehension altogether, i promise you." "well, then, we are thinking much of the same thing, captain." "what do you mean?" "that he ain't exactly one of our sort." "no, he's no sailor, certainly; and yet, for a land lubber, he's about as rum a customer as ever i met with." "so he is, sir." "he stands salt water well; and i must say that i couldn't lay a top of those water casks in that style very well." "nor nobody amongst us, sir." "well, then, he's in nobody's way, it he?--nobody wants to take his berth, i suppose?" the men looked at each other somewhat blank; they didn't understand the meaning at all--far from it; and the idea of any one's wanting to take the stranger's place on the water casks was so outrageously ludicrous, that at any other time they would have considered it a devilish good joke and have never ceased laughing at it. he paused some minutes, and then one of them said,-"it isn't that we envy him his berth, captain, 'cause nobody else could live there for a moment. any one amongst us that had been there would have been washed overboard a thousand times over." "so they would," said the captain. "well, sir, he's more than us." "very likely; but how can i help that?" "we think he's the main cause of all this racket in the heavens--the storm and hurricane; and that, in short, if he remains much longer we shall all sink." "i am sorry for it. i don't think we are in any danger, and had the strange being any power to prevent it, he would assuredly do so, lest he got drowned." "but we think if he were thrown overboard all would be well." "indeed!" "yes, captain, you may depend upon it he's the cause of all the mischief. throw him overboard and that's all we want." "i shall not throw him overboard, even if i could do such a thing; and i am by no means sure of anything of the kind." "we do not ask it, sir." "what do you desire?" "leave to throw him overboard--it is to save our own lives." "i can't let you do any such thing; he's in nobody's way." "but he's always a whistling. only hark now, and in such a hurricane as this, it is dreadful to think of it. what else can we do, sir?--he's not human." at this moment, the stranger's whistling came clear upon their ears; there was the same wild, unearthly notes as before, but the cadences were stronger, and there was a supernatural clearness in all the tones. "there now," said another, "he's kicking the water cask with his heels." "confound the binnacle!" said the captain; "it sounds like short peals of thunder. go and talk to him, lads." "and if that won't do, sir, may we--" "don't ask me any questions. i don't think a score of the best men that were ever born could move him." "i don't mind trying," said one. upon this the whole of the men moved to the spot where the water casks were standing and the stranger lay. there was he, whistling like fury, and, at the same time, beating his heels to the tune against the empty casks. we came up to him, and he took no notice of us at all, but kept on in the same way. "hilloa!" shouted one. "hilloa!" shouted another. no notice, however, was taken of us, and one of our number, a big, herculean fellow, an irishman, seized him by the leg, either to make him get up, or, as we thought, to give him a lift over our heads into the sea. however, he had scarcely got his fingers round the calf of the leg, when the stranger pinched his leg so tight against the water cask, that he could not move, and was as effectually pinned as if he had been nailed there. the stranger, after he had finished a bar of the music, rose gradually to a sitting posture, and without the aid of his hands, and looking the unlucky fellow in the face, he said,-"well, what do you want?" "my hand," said the fellow. "take it then," he said. he did take it, and we saw that there was blood on it. the stranger stretched out his left hand, and taking him by the breech, he lifted him, without any effort, upon the water-cask beside him. we all stared at this, and couldn't help it; and we were quite convinced we could not throw him overboard, but he would probably have no difficulty in throwing us overboard. "well, what do you want?" he again exclaimed to us all. we looked at one another, and had scarce courage to speak; at length i said,-"we wish you to leave off whistling." "leave off whistling!" he said. "and why should i do anything of the kind?" "because it brings the wind." "ha! ha! why, that's the very reason i am whistling, to bring the wind." "but we don't want so much." "pho! pho! you don't know what's good for you--it's a beautiful breeze, and not a bit too stiff." "it's a hurricane." "nonsense." "but it is." "now you see how i'll prove you are wrong in a minute. you see my hair, don't you?" he said, after he took off his cap. "very well, look now." he got up on the water-cask, and stood bolt upright; and running his fingers through his hair, made it all stand straight on end. "confound the binnacle!" said the captain, "if ever i saw the like." "there," said the stranger, triumphantly, "don't tell me there's any wind to signify; don't you see, it doesn't even move one of my grey hairs; and if it blew as hard as you say, i am certain it would move a hair." "confound the binnacle!" muttered the captain as he walked away. "d--n the cabouse, if he ain't older than i am--he's too many for me and everybody else." "are you satisfied?" what could we say?--we turned away and left the place, and stood at our quarters--there was no help for it--we were impelled to grin and abide by it. [illustration] as soon as we had left the place he put his cap on again and sat down on the water-casks, and then took leave of his prisoner, whom he set free, and there lay at full length on his back, with his legs hanging down. once more he began to whistle most furiously, and beat time with his feet. for full three weeks did he continue at this game night and day, without any interruption, save such as he required to consume enough coffee royal, junk, and biscuit, as would have served three hearty men. well, about that time, one night the whistling ceased and he began to sing--oh! it was singing--such a voice! gog and magog in guildhall, london, when they spoke were nothing to him--it was awful; but the wind calmed down to a fresh and stiff breeze. he continued at this game for three whole days and nights, and on the fourth it ceased, and when we went to take his coffee royal to him he was gone. we hunted about everywhere, but he was entirely gone, and in three weeks after we safely cast anchor, having performed our voyage in a good month under the usual time; and had it been an old vessel she would have leaked and stinted like a tub from the straining; however, we were glad enough to get in, and were curiously inquisitive as to what was put in our vessel to come back with, for as the captain said,-"confound the binnacle! i'll have no more contraband articles if i can help it." chapter xxvi. the meeting by moonlight in the park.--the turret window in the hall.--the letters. [illustration] the old admiral showed such a strong disposition to take offence at charles if he should presume, for a moment, to doubt the truth of the narrative that was thus communicated to him, that the latter would not anger him by so doing, but confined his observations upon it to saying that he considered it was very wonderful, and very extraordinary, and so on, which very well satisfied the old man. the day was now, however, getting far advanced, and charles holland began to think of his engagement with the vampyre. he read and read the letter over and over again, but he could not come to a correct conclusion as to whether it intended to imply that he, sir francis varney, would wish to fight him at the hour and place mentioned, or merely give him a meeting as a preliminary step. he was rather, on the whole, inclined to think that some explanation would be offered by varney, but at all events he persevered in his determination of going well armed, lest anything in the shape of treachery should be intended. as nothing of any importance occurred now in the interval of time till nearly midnight, we will at once step to that time, and our readers will suppose it to be a quarter to twelve o'clock at night, and young charles holland on the point of leaving the house, to keep his appointment by the pollard oak, with the mysterious sir francis varney. he placed his loaded pistols conveniently in his pocket, so that at a moment's notice he could lay hands on them, and then wrapping himself up in a travelling cloak he had brought with him to bannerworth hall, he prepared to leave his chamber. the moon still shone, although now somewhat on the wane, and although there were certainly many clouds in the sky they were but of a light fleecy character, and very little interrupted the rays of light that came from the nearly full disc of the moon. from his window he could not perceive the spot in the park where he was to meet varney, because the room in which he was occupied not a sufficiently high place in the house to enable him to look over a belt of trees that stopped the view. from almost any of the upper windows the pollard oak could be seen. it so happened now that the admiral had been placed in a room immediately above the one occupied by his nephew, and, as his mind was full of how he should manage with regard to arranging the preliminaries of the duel between charles and varney on the morrow, he found it difficult to sleep; and after remaining in bed about twenty minutes, and finding that each moment he was only getting more and more restless, he adopted a course which he always did under such circumstances. he rose and dressed himself again, intending to sit up for an hour and then turn into bed and try a second time to get to sleep. but he had no means of getting a light, so he drew the heavy curtain from before the window, and let in as much of the moonlight as he could. this window commanded a most beautiful and extensive view, for from it the eye could carry completely over the tops of the tallest trees, so that there was no interruption whatever to the prospect, which was as extensive as it was delightful. even the admiral, who never would confess to seeing much beauty in scenery where water formed not a large portion of it, could not resist opening his window and looking out, with a considerable degree of admiration, upon wood and dale, as they were illuminated by the moon's rays, softened, and rendered, if anything, more beautiful by the light vapours, through which they had to struggle to make their way. charles holland, in order to avoid the likelihood of meeting with any one who would question him as to where he was going, determined upon leaving his room by the balcony, which, as we are aware, presented ample facilities for his so doing. he cast a glance at the portrait in the panel before he left the apartment, and then saying,-"for you, dear flora, for you i essay this meeting with the fearful original of that portrait," he immediately opened his window, and stepped out on to the balcony. young and active as was charles holland, to descend from that balcony presented to him no difficulty whatever, and he was, in a very few moments, safe in the garden of bannerworth hall. he never thought, for a moment, to look up, or he would, in an instant, have seen the white head of his old uncle, as it was projected over the sill of the window of his chamber. the drop of charles from the balcony of his window, just made sufficient noise to attract the admiral's attention, and, then, before he could think of making any alarm, he saw charles walking hastily across a grass plot, which was sufficiently in the light of the moon to enable the admiral at once to recognise him, and leave no sort of doubt as to his positive identity. of course, upon discovering that it was charles, the necessity for making an alarm no longer existed, and, indeed, not knowing what it was that had induced him to leave his chamber, a moment's reflection suggested to him the propriety of not even calling to charles, lest he should defeat some discovery which he might be about to make. "he has heard something, or seen something," thought the admiral, "and is gone to find out what it is. i only wish i was with him; but up here i can do nothing at all, that's quite clear." charles, he saw, walked very rapidly, and like a man who has some fixed destination which he wishes to reach as quickly as possible. when he dived among the trees which skirted one side of the flower gardens, the admiral was more puzzled than ever, and he said-"now where on earth is he off to? he is fully dressed, and has his cloak about him." after a few moments' reflection he decided that, having seen something suspicious, charles must have got up, and dressed himself, to fathom it. the moment this idea became fairly impressed upon his mind, he left his bedroom, and descended to where one of the brothers he knew was sitting up, keeping watch during the night. it was henry who was so on guard; and when the admiral came into the room, he uttered an expression of surprise to find him up, for it was now some time past twelve o'clock. "i have come to tell you that charles has left the house," said the admiral. "left the house?" "yes; i saw him just now go across the garden." "and you are sure it was he?" "quite sure. i saw him by the moonlight cross the green plot." "then you may depend he has seen or heard something, and gone alone to find out what it is rather than give any alarm." "that is just what i think." "it must be so. i will follow him, if you can show me exactly which way he went." "that i can easily. and in case i should have made any mistake, which it is not at all likely, we can go to his room first and see if it is empty." "a good thought, certainly; that will at once put an end to all doubt upon the question." they both immediately proceeded to charles's room, and then the admiral's accuracy of identification of his nephew was immediately proved by finding that charles was not there, and that the window was wide open. "you see i am right," said the admiral. "you are," cried henry; "but what have we here?" "where?" "here on the dressing-table. here are no less than three letters, all laid as it on purpose to catch the eye of the first one who might enter the room." "indeed!" "you perceive them?" henry held them to the light, and after a moment's inspection of them, he said, in a voice of much surprise,-"good god! what is the meaning of this?" "the meaning of what?" "the letters are addressed to parties in the house here. do you not see?" "to whom?" "one to admiral bell--" "the deuce!" "another to me, and the third to my sister flora. there is some new mystery here." the admiral looked at the superscription of one of the letters which was handed to him in silent amazement. then he cried,-"set down the light, and let us read them." henry did so, and then they simultaneously opened the epistles which were severally addressed to them. there was a silence, as of the very grave, for some moments, and then the old admiral staggered to a seat, as he exclaimed,-"am i dreaming--am i dreaming?" "is this possible?" said henry, in a voice of deep emotion, as he allowed the note addressed to him to drop on to the floor. "d--n it, what does yours say?" cried the old admiral, in a louder tone. "read it--what says yours?" "read it--i'm amazed." the letters were exchanged, and read by each with the same breathless attention they had bestowed upon their own; after which, they both looked at each other in silence, pictures of amazement, and the most absolute state of bewilderment. not to keep our readers in suspense, we at once transcribe each of these letters. the one to the admiral contained these words,- "my dear uncle, "of course you will perceive the prudence of keeping this letter to yourself, but the fact is, i have now made up my mind to leave bannerworth hall. "flora bannerworth is not now the person she was when first i knew her and loved her. such being the case, and she having altered, not i, she cannot accuse me of fickleness. "i still love the flora bannerworth i first knew, but i cannot make my wife one who is subject to the visitations of a vampyre. "i have remained here long enough now to satisfy myself that this vampyre business is no delusion. i am quite convinced that it is a positive fact, and that, after death, flora will herself become one of the horrible existences known by that name. "i will communicate to you from the first large city on the continent whither i am going, at which i make any stay, and in the meantime, make what excuses you like at bannerworth hall, which i advise you to leave as quickly as you can, and believe me to be, my dear uncle, yours truly, "charles holland." henry's letter was this:- "my dear sir, "if you calmly and dispassionately consider the painful and distressing circumstances in which your family are placed, i am sure that, far from blaming me for the step which this note will announce to you i have taken, you will be the first to give me credit for acting with an amount of prudence and foresight which was highly necessary under the circumstances. "if the supposed visits of a vampyre to your sister flora had turned out, as first i hoped they would, a delusion and been in any satisfactory manner explained away i should certainly have felt pride and pleasure in fulfilling my engagement to that young lady. "you must, however, yourself feel that the amount of evidence in favour of a belief that an actual vampyre has visited flora, enforces a conviction of its truth. "i cannot, therefore, make her my wife under such very singular circumstances. "perhaps you may blame me for not taking at once advantage of the permission given me to forego my engagement when first i came to your house; but the fact is, i did not then in the least believe in the existence of the vampyre, but since a positive conviction of that most painful fact has now forced itself upon me, i beg to decline the honour of an alliance which i had at one time looked forward to with the most considerable satisfaction. "i shall be on the continent as fast as conveyances can take me, therefore, should you entertain any romantic notions of calling me to an account for a course of proceeding i think perfectly and fully justifiable, you will not find me. "accept the assurances of my respect for yourself and pity for your sister, and believe me to be, my dear sir, your sincere friend, "charles holland." these two letters might well make the admiral stare at henry bannerworth, and henry stare at him. an occurrence so utterly and entirely unexpected by both of them, was enough to make them doubt the evidence of their own senses. but there were the letters, as a damning evidence of the outrageous fact, and charles holland was gone. it was the admiral who first recovered from the stunning effect of the epistles, and he, with a gesture of perfect fury, exclaimed,-"the scoundrel--the cold-blooded villain! i renounce him for ever! he is no nephew of mine; he is some d----d imposter! nobody with a dash of my family blood in his veins would have acted so to save himself from a thousand deaths." "who shall we trust now," said henry, "when those whom we take to our inmost hearts deceive us thus? this is the greatest shock i have yet received. if there be a pang greater than another, surely it is to be found in the faithlessness and heartlessness of one we loved and trusted." "he is a scoundrel!" roared the admiral. "d--n him, he'll die on a dunghill, and that's too good a place for him. i cast him off--i'll find him out, and old as i am, i'll fight him--i'll wring his neck, the rascal; and, as for poor dear miss flora, god bless her! i'll--i'll marry her myself, and make her an admiral.--i'll marry her myself. oh, that i should be uncle to such a rascal!" "calm yourself," said henry, "no one can blame you." "yes, you can; i had no right to be his uncle, and i was an old fool to love him." the old man sat down, and his voice became broken with emotion as he said,-"sir, i tell you i would have died willingly rather than this should have happened. this will kill me now,--i shall die now of shame and grief." tears gushed from the admiral's eyes and the sight of the noble old man's emotion did much to calm the anger of henry which, although he said but little, was boiling at his heart like a volcano. "admiral bell," he said, "you have nothing to do with this business; we can not blame you for the heartlessness of another. i have but one favour to ask of you." "what--what can i do?" "say no more about him at all." "i can't help saying something about him. you ought to turn me out of the house." "heaven forbid! what for?" "because i'm his uncle--his d----d old fool of an uncle, that always thought so much of him." "nay, my good sir, that was a fault on the right side, and cannot discredit you. i thought him the most perfect of human beings." "oh, if i could but have guessed this." "it was impossible. such duplicity never was equalled in this world--it was impossible to foresee it." "hold--hold! did he give you fifty pounds?" "what?" "did he give you fifty pounds?" "give me fifty pounds! most decidedly not; what made you think of such a thing?" "because to-day he borrowed fifty pounds of me, he said, to lend to you." "i never heard of the transaction until this moment." "the villain!" "no, doubt, sir, he wanted that amount to expedite his progress abroad." "well, now, damme, if an angel had come to me and said 'hilloa! admiral bell, your nephew, charles holland, is a thundering rogue,' i should have said 'you're a liar!'" "this is fighting against facts, my dear sir. he is gone--mention him no more; forget him, as i shall endeavour myself to do, and persuade my poor sister to do." "poor girl! what can we say to her?" "nothing, but give her all the letters, and let her be at once satisfied of the worthlessness of him she loved." "the best way. her woman's pride will then come to her help." "i hope it will. she is of an honourable race, and i am sure she will not condescend to shed a tear for such a man as charles holland has proved himself to be." "d--n him, i'll find him out, and make him fight you. he shall give you satisfaction." "no, no." "no? but he shall." "i cannot fight with him." "you cannot?" "certainly not. he is too far beneath me now. i cannot fight on honourable terms with one whom i despise as too dishonourable to contend with. i have nothing now but silence and contempt." "i have though, for i'll break his neck when i see him, or he shall break mine. the villain! i'm ashamed to stay here, my young friend." "how mistaken a view you take of this matter, my dear sir. as admiral bell, a gentleman, a brave officer, and a man of the purest and most unblemished honour, you confer a distinction upon us by your presence here." the admiral wrung henry by the hand, as he said,-"to-morrow--wait till to-morrow; we will talk over this matter to morrow--i cannot to-night, i have not patience; but to-morrow, my dear boy, we will have it all out. god bless you. good night." chapter xxvii. the noble confidence of flora bannerworth in her lover.--her opinion of the three letters.--the admiral's admiration. [illustration] to describe the feelings of henry bannerworth on the occasion of this apparent defalcation from the path of rectitude and honour by his friend, as he had fondly imagined charles holland to be, would be next to impossible. if, as we have taken occasion to say, it be a positive fact, that a noble and a generous mind feels more acutely any heartlessness of this description from one on whom it has placed implicit confidence, than the most deliberate and wicked of injuries from absolute strangers, we can easily conceive that henry bannerworth was precisely the person to feel most acutely the conduct which all circumstances appeared to fix upon charles holland, upon whose faith, truth, and honour, he would have staked his very existence but a few short hours before. with such a bewildered sensation that he scarcely knew where he walked or whither to betake himself, did he repair to his own chamber, and there he strove, with what energy he was able to bring to the task, to find out some excuses, if he could, for charles's conduct. but he could find none. view it in what light he would, it presented but a picture of the most heartless selfishness it had ever been his lot to encounter. the tone of the letters, too, which charles had written, materially aggravated the moral delinquency of which he had been guilty; belief, far better, had he not attempted an excuse at all than have attempted such excuses as were there put down in those epistles. a more cold blooded, dishonourable proceeding could not possibly be conceived. it would appear, that while he entertained a doubt with regard to the reality of the visitation of the vampyre to flora bannerworth, he had been willing to take to himself abundance of credit for the most honourable feelings, and to induce a belief in the minds of all that an exalted feeling of honour, as well as a true affection that would know no change, kept him at the feet of her whom he loved. like some braggart, who, when there is no danger, is a very hero, but who, the moment he feels convinced he will be actually and truly called upon for an exhibition of his much-vaunted prowess, had charles holland deserted the beautiful girl who, if anything, had now certainly, in her misfortunes, a far higher claim upon his kindly feeling than before. henry could not sleep, although, at the request of george, who offered to keep watch for him the remainder of the night he attempted to do so. he in vain said to himself, "i will banish from my mind this most unworthy subject. i have told admiral bell that contempt is the only feeling i can now have for his nephew, and yet i now find myself dwelling upon him, and upon his conduct, with a perseverance which is a foe to my repose." at length came the welcome and beautiful light of day, and henry rose fevered and unrefreshed. his first impulse now was to hold a consultation with his brother george, as to what was to be done, and george advised that mr. marchdale, who as yet knew nothing of the matter, should be immediately informed of it, and consulted, as being probably better qualified than either of them to come to a just, a cool, and a reasonable opinion upon the painful circumstance, which it could not be expected that either of them would be able to view calmly. "let it be so, then," said henry; "mr. marchdale shall decide for us." they at once sought this friend of the family, who was in his own bed-room, and when henry knocked at the door, marchdale opened it hurriedly, eagerly inquiring what was the matter. "there is no alarm," said henry. "we have only come to tell you of a circumstance which has occurred during the night, and which will somewhat surprise you." "nothing calamitous, i hope?" "vexatious; and yet, i think it is a matter upon which we ought almost to congratulate ourselves. read those two letters, and give us your candid opinion upon them." henry placed in mr. marchdale's hands the letter addressed to himself, as well as that to the admiral. marchdale read them both with marked attention, but he did not exhibit in his countenance so much surprise as regret. when he had finished, henry said to him,-"well, marchdale, what think you of this new and extraordinary episode in our affairs?" "my dear young friends," said marchdale, in a voice of great emotion, "i know not what to say to you. i have no doubt but that you are both of you much astonished at the receipt of these letters, and equally so at the sudden absence of charles holland." "and are not you?" "not so much as you, doubtless, are. the fact is, i never did entertain a favourable opinion of the young man, and he knew it. i have been accustomed to the study of human nature under a variety of aspects; i have made it a matter of deep, and i may add, sorrowful, contemplation, to study and remark those minor shades of character which commonly escape observation wholly. and, i repeat, i always had a bad opinion of charles holland, which he guessed, and hence he conceived a hatred to me, which more than once, as you cannot but remember, showed itself in little acts of opposition and hostility." "you much surprise me." "i expected to do so. but you cannot help remembering that at one time i was on the point of leaving here solely on his account." "you were so." "indeed i should have done so, but that i reasoned with myself upon the subject, and subdued the impulse of the anger which some years ago, when i had not seen so much of the world, would have guided me." "but why did you not impart to us your suspicions? we should at least, then, have been prepared for such a contingency as has occurred." "place yourself in my position, and then yourself what you would have done. suspicion is one of those hideous things which all men should be most specially careful not only how they entertain at all, but how they give expression to. besides, whatever may be the amount of one's own internal conviction with regard to the character of any one, there is just a possibility that one may be wrong." "true, true." "that possibility ought to keep any one silent who has nothing but suspicion to go upon, however cautious it may make him, as regards his dealings with the individual. i only suspected from little minute shades of character, that would peep out in spite of him, that charles holland was not the honourable man he would fain have had everybody believe him to be." "and had you from the first such a feeling?" "i had." "it is very strange." "yes; and what is more strange still, is that he from the first seemed to know it; and despite a caution which i could see he always kept uppermost in his thoughts, he could not help speaking tartly to me at times." "i have noticed that," said george. "you may depend it is a fact," added marchdale, "that nothing so much excites the deadly and desperate hatred of a man who is acting a hypocritical part, as the suspicion, well grounded or not, that another sees and understands the secret impulses of his dishonourable heart." "i cannot blame you, or any one else, mr. marchdale," said henry, "that you did not give utterance to your secret thoughts, but i do wish that you had done so." "nay, dear henry," replied mr. marchdale, "believe me, i have made this matter a subject of deep thought, and have abundance of reasons why i ought not to have spoken to you upon the subject." "indeed!" "indeed i have, and not among the least important is the one, that if i had acquainted you with my suspicions, you would have found yourself in the painful position of acting a hypocritical part yourself towards this charles holland, for you must either have kept the secret that he was suspected, or you must have shewn it to him by your behaviour." "well, well. i dare say, marchdale, you acted for the best. what shall we do now?" "can you doubt?" "i was thinking of letting flora at once know the absolute and complete worthlessness of her lover, so that she could have no difficulty in at once tearing herself from him by the assistance of the natural pride which would surely come to her aid, upon finding herself so much deceived." "the test may be possible." "you think so?" "i do, indeed." "here is a letter, which of course remains unopened, addressed to flora by charles holland. the admiral rather thought it would hurt her feelings to deliver her such an epistle, but i must confess i am of a contrary opinion upon that point, and think now the more evidence she has of the utter worthlessness of him who professed to love her with so much disinterested affection, the better it will be for her." "you could not, possibly, henry, have taken a more sensible view of the subject." "i am glad you agree with me." "no reasonable man could do otherwise, and from what i have seen of admiral bell, i am sure, upon reflection, he will be of the same opinion." "then it shall be so. the first shock to poor flora may be severe, but we shall then have the consolation of knowing that it is the only one, and that in knowing the very worst, she has no more on that score to apprehend. alas, alas! the hand of misfortune now appears to have pressed heavily upon us indeed. what in the name of all that is unlucky and disastrous, will happen next, i wonder?" "what can happen?" said marchdale; "i think you have now got rid of the greatest evil of all--a false friend." "we have, indeed." "go, then, to flora; assure her that in the affection of others who know no falsehood, she will find a solace from every ill. assure her that there are hearts that will place themselves between her and every misfortune." mr. marchdale was much affected as he spoke. probably he felt deeper than he chose to express the misfortunes of that family for whom he entertained so much friendship. he turned aside his head to hide the traces of emotion which, despite even his great powers of self-command, would shew themselves upon his handsome and intelligent countenance. then it appeared as if his noble indignation had got, for a few brief moments, the better of all prudence, and he exclaimed,-"the villain! the worse than villain! who would, with a thousand artifices, make himself beloved by a young, unsuspecting, and beautiful girl, but then to leave her to the bitterness of regret, that she had ever given such a man a place in her esteem. the heartless ruffian!" "be calm, mr. marchdale, i pray you be calm," said george; "i never saw you so much moved." "excuse me," he said, "excuse me; i am much moved, and i am human. i cannot always, let me strive my utmost, place a curb upon my feelings." "they are feelings which do you honour." "nay, nay, i am foolish to have suffered myself to be led away into such a hasty expression of them. i am accustomed to feel acutely and to feel deeply, but it is seldom i am so much overcome as this." "will you accompany us to the breakfast room at once, mr. marchdale, where we will make this communication to flora; you will then be able to judge by her manner of receiving it, what it will be best to say to her." "come, then, and pray be calm. the least that is said upon this painful and harassing subject, after this morning, will be the best." "you are right--you are right." mr. marchdale hastily put on his coat. he was dressed, with the exception of that one article of apparel, when the brothers came to his chamber, and then he came to the breakfast-parlour where the painful communication was to be made to flora of her lover's faithlessness. flora was already seated in that apartment. indeed, she had been accustomed to meet charles holland there before others of the family made their appearance, but, alas! this morning the kind and tender lover was not there. the expression that sat upon the countenances of her brothers, and of mr. marchdale, was quite sufficient to convince her that something more serious than usual had occurred, and she at the moment turned very pale. marchdale observed this change of change of countenance in her, and he advanced towards her, saying,-"calm yourself, flora, we have something to communicate to you, but it is a something which should excite indignation, and no other feeling, in your breast." "brother, what is the meaning of this?" said flora, turning aside from marchdale, and withdrawing the hand which he would have taken. "i would rather have admiral bell here before i say anything," said henry, "regarding a matter in which he cannot but feel much interested personally." "here he is," said the admiral, who at that moment had opened the door of the breakfast room. "here he is, so now fire away, and don't spare the enemy." "and charles?" said flora, "where is charles?" "d--n charles!" cried the admiral, who had not been much accustomed to control his feelings. "hush! hush!" said henry; "my dear sir, hush! do not indulge now in any invectives. flora, here are three letters; you will see that the one which is unopened is addressed to yourself. however, we wish you to read the whole three of them, and then to form your own free and unbiased opinion." flora looked as pale as a marble statue, when she took the letters into her hands. she let the two that were open fall on the table before her, while she eagerly broke the seal of that which was addressed to herself. [illustration] henry, with an instinctive delicacy, beckoned every one present to the window, so that flora had not the pain of feeling that any eyes were fixed upon her but those of her mother, who had just come into the room, while she was perusing those documents which told such a tale of heartless dissimulation. "my dear child," said mrs. bannerworth, "you are ill." "hush! mother--hush!" said flora, "let me know all." she read the whole of the letters through, and then, as the last one dropped from her grasp, she exclaimed,-"oh, god! oh, god! what is all that has occurred compared to this? charles--charles--charles!" "flora!" exclaimed henry, suddenly turning from the window. "flora, is this worthy of you?" "heaven now support me!" "is this worthy of the name you bear flora? i should have thought, and i did hope, that woman's pride would have supported you." "let me implore you," added marchdale, "to summon indignation to your aid, miss bannerworth." "charles--charles--charles!" she again exclaimed, as she wrung her hands despairingly. "flora, if anything could add a sting to my already irritated feelings," said henry, "this conduct of yours would." "henry--brother, what mean you? are you mad?" "are you, flora?" "god, i wish now that i was." "you have read those letters, and yet you call upon the name of him who wrote them with frantic tenderness." "yes, yes," she cried; "frantic tenderness is the word. it is with frantic tenderness i call upon his name, and ever will.--charles! charles!--dear charles!" "this surpasses all belief," said marchdale. "it is the frenzy of grief," added george; "but i did not expect it of her. flora--flora, think again." "think--think--the rush of thought distracts. whence came these letters?--where did you find these most disgraceful forgeries?" "forgeries!" exclaimed henry; and he staggered back, as if someone had struck him a blow. "yes, forgeries!" screamed flora. "what has become of charles holland? has he been murdered by some secret enemy, and then these most vile fabrications made up in his name? oh, charles, charles, are you lost to me for ever?" "good god!" said henry; "i did not think of that" "madness!--madness!" cried marchdale. "hold!" shouted the admiral. "let me speak to her." he pushed every one aside, and advanced to flora. he seized both her hands in his own, and in a tone of voice that was struggling with feeling, he cried,-"look at me, my dear; i'm an old man old enough to be your grandfather, so you needn't mind looking me steadily in the face. look at me, i want to ask you a question." flora raised her beautiful eyes, and looked the old weather-beaten admiral full in the face. oh! what a striking contrast did those two persons present to each other. that young and beautiful girl, with her small, delicate, childlike hands clasped, and completely hidden in the huge ones of the old sailor, the white, smooth skin contrasting wonderfully with his wrinkled, hardened features. "my dear," he cried, "you have read those--those d----d letters, my dear?" "i have, sir." "and what do you think of them?" "they were not written by charles holland, your nephew." a choking sensation seemed to come over the old man, and he tried to speak, but in vain. he shook the hands of the young girl violently, until he saw that he was hurting her, and then, before she could be aware of what he was about, he gave her a kiss on the cheek, as he cried,-"god bless you--god bless you! you are the sweetest, dearest little creature that ever was, or that ever will be, and i'm a d----d old fool, that's what i am. these letters were not written by my nephew, charles. he is incapable of writing them, and, d--n me, i shall take shame to myself as long as i live for ever thinking so." "dear sir," said flora, who somehow or another did not seem at all offended at the kiss which the old man had given her; "dear sir, how could you believe, for one moment, that they came from him? there has been some desperate villany on foot. where is he?--oh, find him, if he be yet alive. if they who have thus striven to steal from him that honour, which is the jewel of his heart, have murdered him, seek them out, sir, in the sacred name of justice, i implore you." "i will--i will. i don't renounce him; he is my nephew still--charles holland--my own dear sister's son; and you are the best girl, god bless you, that ever breathed. he loved you--he loves you still; and if he's above ground, poor fellow, he shall yet tell you himself he never saw those infamous letters." "you--you will seek for him?" sobbed flora, and the tears gushed from her eyes. "upon you, sir, who, as i do, feel assured of his innocence, i alone rely. if all the world say he is guilty, we will not think so." "i'm d----d if we do." henry had sat down by the table, and, with his hands clasped together, seemed in an agony of thought. he was now roused by a thump on the back by the admiral, who cried,-"what do you think, now, old fellow? d--n it, things look a little different now." "as god is my judge," said henry, holding up his hands, "i know not what to think, but my heart and feelings all go with you and with flora, in your opinion of the innocence of charles holland." "i knew you would say that, because you could not possibly help it, my dear boy. now we are all right again, and all we have got to do is to find out which way the enemy has gone, and then give chase to him." "mr. marchdale, what do you think of this new suggestion," said george to that gentleman. "pray, excuse me," was his reply; "i would much rather not be called upon to give an opinion." "why, what do you mean by that?" said the admiral. "precisely what i say, sir." "d--n me, we had a fellow once in the combined fleets, who never had an opinion till after something had happened, and then he always said that was just what he thought." "i was never in the combined, or any other fleet, sir," said marchdale, coldly. "who the devil said you were?" roared the admiral. marchdale merely hawed. "however," added the admiral, "i don't care, and never did, for anybody's opinion, when i know i am right. i'd back this dear girl here for opinions, and good feelings, and courage to express them, against all the world, i would, any day. if i was not the old hulk i am, i would take a cruise in any latitude under the sun, if it was only for the chance of meeting with just such another." "oh, lose no time!" said flora. "if charles is not to be found in the house, lose no time in searching for him, i pray you; seek him, wherever there is the remotest probability he may chance to be. do not let him think he is deserted." "not a bit of it," cried the admiral. "you make your mind easy, my dear. if he's above ground, we shall find him out, you may depend upon it. come along master henry, you and i will consider what had best be done in this uncommonly ugly matter." henry and george followed the admiral from the breakfast-room, leaving marchdale there, who looked serious and full of melancholy thought. it was quite clear that he considered flora had spoken from the generous warmth of her affection as regarded charles holland, and not from the convictions which reason would have enforced her to feel. when he was now alone with her and mrs. bannerworth, he spoke in a feeling and affectionate tone regarding the painful and inexplicable events which had transpired. chapter xxviii. mr. marchdale's exculpation of himself.--the search through the gardens.--the spot of the deadly struggle.--the mysterious paper. [illustration] it was, perhaps, very natural that, with her feelings towards charles holland, flora should shrink from every one who seemed to be of a directly contrary impression, and when mr. marchdale now spoke, she showed but little inclination to hear what he had to say in explanation. the genuine and unaffected manner, however, in which he spoke, could not but have its effect upon her, and she found herself compelled to listen, as well as, to a great extent, approve of the sentiments that fell from his lips. "flora," he said, "i beg that you will here, in the presence of your mother, give me a patient hearing. you fancy that, because i cannot join so glibly as the admiral in believing that these letters are forgeries, i must be your enemy." "those letters," said flora, "were not written by charles holland." "that is your opinion." "it is more than an opinion. he could not write them." "well, then, of course, if i felt inclined, which heaven alone knows i do not, i could not hope successfully to argue against such a conviction. but i do not wish to do so. all i want to impress upon you is, that i am not to be blamed for doubting his innocence; and, at the same time, i wish to assure you that no one in this house would feel more exquisite satisfaction than i in seeing it established." "i thank you for so much," said flora; "but as, to my mind, his innocence has never been doubted, it needs to me no establishing." "very good. you believe these letters forgeries?" "i do." "and that the disappearance of charles holland is enforced, and not of his own free will?" "i do." "then you may rely upon my unremitting exertions night and day to find him and any suggestion you can make, which is likely to aid in the search, shall, i pledge myself, be fully carried out." "i thank you, mr. marchdale." "my dear," said the mother, "rely on mr. marchdale." "i will rely on any one who believe charles holland innocent of writing those odious letters, mother--i rely upon the admiral. he will aid me heart and hand." "and so will mr. marchdale." "i am glad to hear it." "and yet doubt it, flora," said marchdale, dejectedly. "i am very sorry that such should be the case; i will not, however, trouble you any further, nor, give me leave to assure you, will i relax in my honest endeavours to clear up this mystery." so saying, mr. marchdale bowed, and left the room, apparently more vexed than he cared to express at the misconstruction which had been put upon his conduct and motives. he at once sought henry and the admiral, to whom he expressed his most earnest desire to aid in attempting to unravel the mysterious circumstances which had occurred. "this strongly-expressed opinion of flora," he remarked, "is of course amply sufficient to induce us to pause before we say one word more that shall in any way sound like a condemnation of mr. holland. heaven forbid that i should." "no," said the admiral; "don't." "i do not intend." "i would not advise anybody." "sir, if you use that as a threat--" "a threat?" "yes; i must say, it sounded marvellously like one." "oh, dear, no--quite a mistake. i consider that every man has a fair right to the enjoyment of his opinion. all i have to remark is, that i shall, after what has occurred, feel myself called upon to fight anybody who says those letters were written by my nephew." "indeed, sir!" "ah, indeed." "you will permit me to say such is a strange mode of allowing every one the free enjoyment of his opinion." "not at all." "whatever pains and penalties may be the result, admiral bell, of differing with so infallible authority as yourself, i shall do so whenever my judgment induces me." "you will?" "indeed i will." "very good. you know the consequences." "as to fighting you, i should refuse to do so." "refuse?" "yes; most certainly." "upon what ground?" "upon the ground that you were a madman." "come," now interposed henry, "let me hope that, for my sake as well as for flora's, this dispute will proceed no further." "i have not courted it," said marchdale. "i have much temper, but i am not a stick or a stone." "d----e, if i don't think," said the admiral, "you are a bit of both." "mr. henry bannerworth," said marchdale, "i am your guest, and but for the duty i feel in assisting in the search for mr. charles holland, i should at once leave your house." "you need not trouble yourself on my account," said the admiral; "if i find no clue to him in the neighbourhood for two or three days, i shall be off myself." "i am going," said henry, rising, "to search the garden and adjoining meadows; if you two gentlemen choose to come with me, i shall of course be happy of your company; if, however, you prefer remaining here to wrangle, you can do so." this had the effect, at all events, of putting a stop to the dispute for the present, and both the admiral and mr. marchdale accompanied henry on his search. that search was commenced immediately under the balcony of charles holland's window, from which the admiral had seen him emerge. there was nothing particular found there, or in the garden. admiral bell pointed out accurately the route he had seen charles take across the grass plot just before he himself left his chamber to seek henry. accordingly, this route was now taken, and it led to a low part of the garden wall, which any one of ordinary vigour could easily have surmounted. "my impression is," said the admiral, "that he got over here." "the ivy appears to be disturbed," remarked henry. "suppose we mark the spot, and then go round to it on the outer side?" suggested george. this was agreed to; for, although the young man might have chosen rather to clamber over the wall than go round, it was doubtful if the old admiral could accomplish such a feat. the distance round, however, was not great, and as they had cast over the wall a handful of flowers from the garden to mark the precise spot, it was easily discoverable. the moment they reached it, they were panic-stricken by the appearances which it presented. the grass was for some yards round about completely trodden up, and converted into mud. there were deep indentations of feet-marks in all directions, and such abundance of evidence that some most desperate struggle had recently taken place there, that the most sceptical person in the world could not have entertained any doubt upon the subject. henry was the first to break the silence with which they each regarded the broken ground. "this is conclusive to my mind," he said, with a deep sigh. "here has poor charles been attacked." "god keep him!" exclaimed marchdale, "and pardon me my doubts--i am now convinced." the old admiral gazed about him like one distracted. suddenly he cried-"they have murdered him. some fiends in the shape of men have murdered him, and heaven only knows for what." "it seems but too probable," said henry. "let us endeavour to trace the footsteps. oh! flora, flora, what terrible news this will be to you." "a horrible supposition comes across my mind," said george. "what if he met the vampyre?" "it may have been so," said marchdale, with a shudder. "it is a point which we should endeavour to ascertain, and i think we may do so." "how!" "by some inquiry as to whether sir francis varney was from home at midnight last night." "true; that might be done." "the question, suddenly put to one of his servants, would, most probably, be answered as a thing of course." "it would." "then that shall be decided upon. and now, my friends, since you have some of you thought me luke-warm in this business, i pledge myself that, should it be ascertained that varney was from home at midnight last evening, i will defy him personally, and meet him hand to hand." "nay, nay," said henry, "leave that course to younger hands." "why so?" "it more befits me to be his challenger." "no, henry. you are differently situated to what i am." "how so?" "remember, that i am in the world a lone man; without ties or connexions. if i lose my life, i compromise no one by my death; but you have a mother and a bereaved sister to look to who will deserve your care." "hilloa," cried the admiral, "what's this?" "what?" cried each, eagerly, and they pressed forward to where the admiral was stooping to the ground to pick up something which was nearly completely trodden into the grass. he with some difficulty raised it. it was a small slip of paper, on which was some writing, but it was so much covered with mud as not to be legible. "if this be washed," said henry, "i think we shall be able to read it clearly." "we can soon try that experiment," said george. "and as the footsteps, by some mysterious means, show themselves nowhere else but in this one particular spot, any further pursuit of inquiry about here appears useless." "then we will return to the house," said henry, "and wash the mud from this paper." "there is one important point," remarked marchdale, "which it appears to me we have all overlooked." "indeed!" "yes." "what may that be?" "it is this. is any one here sufficiently acquainted with the handwriting of mr. charles holland to come to an opinion upon the letters?" "i have some letters from him," said henry, "which we received while on the continent, and i dare say flora has likewise." "then they should be compared with the alleged forgeries." "i know his handwriting well," said the admiral. "the letters bear so strong a resemblance to it that they would deceive anybody." "then you may depend," remarked henry, "some most deep-laid and desperate plot is going on." "i begin," added marchdale, "to dread that such must be the case. what say you to claiming the assistance of the authorities, as well as offering a large reward for any information regarding mr. charles holland?" "no plan shall be left untried, you may depend." they had now reached the house, and henry having procured some clean water, carefully washed the paper which had been found among the trodden grass. when freed from the mixture of clay and mud which had obscured it, they made out the following words,-"--it be so well. at the next full moon seek a convenient spot, and it can be done. the signature is, to my apprehension, perfect. the money which i hold, in my opinion, is much more in amount than you imagine, must be ours; and as for--" here the paper was torn across, and no further words were visible upon it. mystery seemed now to be accumulating upon mystery; each one, as it showed itself darkly, seeming to bear some remote relation to what preceded it; and yet only confusing it the more. that this apparent scrap of a letter had dropped from some one's pocket during the fearful struggle, of which there were such ample evidences, was extremely probable; but what it related to, by whom it was written, or by whom dropped, were unfathomable mysteries. in fact, no one could give an opinion upon these matters at all; and after a further series of conjectures, it could only be decided, that unimportant as the scrap of paper appeared now to be, it should be preserved, in case it should, as there was a dim possibility that it might become a connecting link in some chain of evidence at another time. "and here we are," said henry, "completely at fault, and knowing not what to do." "well, it is a hard case," said the admiral, "that, with all the will in the world to be up and doing something, we are lying here like a fleet of ships in a calm, as idle as possible." "you perceive we have no evidence to connect sir francis varney with this affair, either nearly or remotely," said marchdale. "certainly not," replied henry. "but yet, i hope you will not lose sight of the suggestion i proposed, to the effect of ascertaining if he were from home last night." "but how is that to be carried out?" "boldly." "how boldly?" "by going at once, i should advise, to his house, and asking the first one of his domestics you may happen to see." "i will go over," cried george; "on such occasions as these one cannot act upon ceremony." he seized his hat, and without waiting for a word from any one approving or condemning his going, off he went. "if," said henry, "we find that varney has nothing to do with the matter, we are completely at fault." "completely," echoed marchdale. "in that case, admiral, i think we ought to defer to your feelings upon the subject, and do whatever you suggest should be done." "i shall offer a hundred pounds reward to any one who can and will bring any news of charles." "a hundred pounds is too much," said marchdale. "not at all; and while i am about it, since the amount is made a subject of discussion, i shall make it two hundred, and that may benefit some rascal who is not so well paid for keeping the secret as i will pay him for disclosing it." "perhaps you are right," said marchdale. "i know i am, as i always am." marchdale could not forbear a smile at the opinionated old man, who thought no one's opinion upon any subject at all equal to his own; but he made no remark, and only waited, as did henry, with evident anxiety for the return of george. the distance was not great, and george certainly performed his errand quickly, for he was back in less time than they had thought he could return in. the moment he came into the room, he said, without waiting for any inquiry to be made of him,-"we are at fault again. i am assured that sir francis varney never stirred from home after eight o'clock last evening." "d--n it, then," said the admiral, "let us give the devil his due. he could not have had any hand in this business." "certainly not." "from whom, george, did you get your information?" asked henry, in a desponding tone. "from, first of all, one of his servants, whom i met away from the house, and then from one whom i saw at the house." "there can be no mistake, then?" "certainly none. the servants answered me at once, and so frankly that i cannot doubt it." the door of the room was slowly opened, and flora came in. she looked almost the shadow of what she had been but a few weeks before. she was beautiful, but she almost realised the poet's description of one who had suffered much, and was sinking into an early grave, the victim of a broken heart:- "she was more beautiful than death, and yet as sad to look upon." her face was of a marble paleness, and as she clasped her hands, and glanced from face to face, to see if she could gather hope and consolation from the expression of any one, she might have been taken for some exquisite statue of despair. "have you found him?" she said. "have you found charles?" "flora, flora," said henry, as he approached her. "nay, answer me; have you found him? you went to seek him. dead or alive, have you found him?" "we have not, flora." "then i must seek him myself. none will search for him as i will search; i must myself seek him. 'tis true affection that can alone be successful in such a search." "believe me, dear flora, that all has been done which the shortness of the time that has elapsed would permit. further measures will now immediately be taken. rest assured, dear sister, that all will be done that the utmost zeal can suggest." "they have killed him! they have killed him!" she said, mournfully. "oh, god, they have killed him! i am not now mad, but the time will come when i must surely be maddened. the vampyre has killed charles holland--the dreadful vampyre!" "nay, now, flora, this is frenzy." "because he loved me has he been destroyed. i know it, i know it. the vampyre has doomed me to destruction. i am lost, and all who loved me will be involved in one common ruin on my account. leave me all of you to perish. if, for iniquities done in our family, some one must suffer to appease the divine vengeance, let that one be me, and only me." "hush, sister, hush!" cried henry. "i expected not this from you. the expressions you use are not your expressions. i know you better. there is abundance of divine mercy, but no divine vengeance. be calm, i pray you." "calm! calm!" "yes. make an exertion of that intellect we all know you to possess. it is too common a thing with human nature, when misfortune overtakes it, to imagine that such a state of things is specially arranged. we quarrel with providence because it does not interfere with some special miracle in our favour; forgetting that, being denizens of this earth, and members of a great social system; we must be subject occasionally to the accidents which will disturb its efficient working." "oh, brother, brother!" she exclaimed, as she dropped into a seat, "you have never loved." "indeed!" "no; you have never felt what it was to hold your being upon the breath of another. you can reason calmly, because you cannot know the extent of feeling you are vainly endeavouring to combat." "flora, you do me less than justice. all i wish to impress upon your mind is, that you are not in any way picked out by providence to be specially unhappy--that there is no perversion of nature on your account." "call you that hideous vampyre form that haunts me no perversion of ordinary nature?" "what is is natural," said marchdale. "cold reasoning to one who suffers as i suffer. i cannot argue with you; i can only know that i am most unhappy--most miserable." "but that will pass away, sister, and the sun of your happiness may smile again." "oh, if i could but hope!" "and wherefore should you deprive yourself of that poorest privilege of the most unhappy?" "because my heart tells me to despair." "tell it you won't, then," cried admiral bell. "if you had been at sea as long as i have, miss bannerworth, you would never despair of anything at all." "providence guarded you," said marchdale. "yes, that's true enough, i dare say, i was in a storm once off cape ushant, and it was only through providence, and cutting away the mainmast myself, that we succeeded in getting into port." "you have one hope," said marchdale to flora, as he looked in her wan face. "one hope?" "yes. recollect you have one hope." "what is that?" "you think that, by removing from this place, you may find that peace which is here denied you." "no, no, no." "indeed. i thought that such was your firm conviction." "it was; but circumstances have altered." "how?" "charles holland has disappeared here, and here must i remain to seek for him." "true he may have disappeared here," remarked marchdale; "and yet that may be no argument for supposing him still here." "where, then, is he?" "god knows how rejoiced i should be if i were able to answer your question. i must seek him, dead or alive! i must see him yet before i bid adieu to this world, which has now lost all its charms for me." "do not despair," said henry; "i will go to the town now at once, to make known our suspicions that he has met with some foul play. i will set every means in operation that i possibly can to discover him. mr. chillingworth will aid me, too; and i hope that not many days will elapse, flora, before some intelligence of a most satisfactory nature shall be brought to you on charles holland's account." "go, go, brother; go at once." "i go now at once." "shall i accompany you?" said marchdale. "no. remain here to keep watch over flora's safety while i am gone; i can alone do all that can be done." "and don't forget to offer the two hundred pounds reward," said the admiral, "to any one who can bring us news of charles, on which we can rely." "i will not." "surely--surely something must result from that," said flora, as she looked in the admiral's face, as if to gather encouragement in her dawning hopes from its expression. "of course it will, my dear," he said. "don't you be downhearted; you and i are of one mind in this affair, and of one mind we will keep. we won't give up our opinions for anybody." "our opinions," she said, "of the honour and honesty of charles holland. that is what we will adhere to." "of course we will." "ah, sir, it joys me, even in the midst of this, my affliction, to find one at least who is determined to do him full justice. we cannot find such contradictions in nature as that a mind, full of noble impulses, should stoop to such a sudden act of selfishness as those letters would attribute to charles holland. it cannot--cannot be." "you are right, my dear. and now, master henry, you be off, will you, if you please." "i am off now. farewell, flora, for a brief space." "farewell, brother; and heaven speed you on your errand." "amen to that," cried the admiral; "and now, my dear, if you have got half an hour to spare, just tuck your arm under mine, and take a walk with me in the garden, for i want to say something to you." "most willingly," said flora. "i would not advise you to stray far from the house, miss bannerworth," said marchdale. "nobody asked you for advice," said the admiral. "d----e, do you want to make out that i ain't capable of taking care of her?" "no, no; but--" "oh, nonsense! come along, my dear; and if all the vampyres and odd fish that were ever created were to come across our path, we would settle them somehow or another. come along, and don't listen to anybody's croaking." chapter xxix. a peep through an iron grating.--the lonely prisoner in his dungeon.--the mystery. [illustration] without forestalling the interest of our story, or recording a fact in its wrong place, we now call our readers' attention to a circumstance which may, at all events, afford some food for conjecture. some distance from the hall, which, from time immemorial, had been the home and the property of the bannerworth family, was an ancient ruin known by the name of the monks' hall. it was conjectured that this ruin was the remains of some one of those half monastic, half military buildings which, during the middle ages, were so common in almost every commanding situation in every county of england. at a period of history when the church arrogated to itself an amount of political power which the intelligence of the spirit of the age now denies to it, and when its members were quite ready to assert at any time the truth of their doctrines by the strong arm of power, such buildings as the one, the old grey ruins of which were situated near to bannerworth hall, were erected. ostensibly for religious purposes, but really as a stronghold for defence, as well as for aggression, this monks' hall, as it was called, partook quite as much of the character of a fortress, as of an ecclesiastical building. the ruins covered a considerable extent, of ground, but the only part which seemed successfully to have resisted the encroaches of time, at least to a considerable extent, was a long, hall in which the jolly monks no doubt feasted and caroused. adjoining to this hall, were the walls of other parts of the building, and at several places there were small, low, mysterious-looking doors that led, heaven knows where, into some intricacies and labyrinths beneath the building, which no one had, within the memory of man, been content to run the risk of losing himself in. [illustration] it was related that among these subterranean passages and arches there were pitfalls and pools of water; and whether such a statement was true or not, it certainly acted as a considerable damper upon the vigour of curiosity. this ruin was so well known in the neighbourhood, and had become from earliest childhood so familiar to the inhabitants of bannerworth hall, that one would as soon expect an old inhabitant of ludgate-hill to make some remark about st. paul's, as any of them to allude to the ruins of monks' hall. they never now thought of going near to it, for in infancy they had spoiled among its ruins, and it had become one of those familiar objects which, almost, from that very familiarity, cease to hold a place in the memories of those who know it so well. it is, however, to this ruin we would now conduct our readers, premising that what we have to say concerning it now, is not precisely in the form of a connected portion of our narrative. * * * * * it is evening--the evening of that first day of heart loneliness to poor flora bannerworth. the lingering rays of the setting sun are gilding the old ruins with a wondrous beauty. the edges of the decayed stones seem now to be tipped with gold, and as the rich golden refulgence of light gleams upon the painted glass which still adorned a large window of the hall, a flood of many-coloured beautiful light was cast within, making the old flag-stones, with which the interior was paved, look more like some rich tapestry, laid down to do honour to a monarch. so picturesque and so beautiful an aspect did the ancient ruin wear, that to one with a soul to appreciate the romantic and the beautiful, it would have amply repaid the fatigue of a long journey now to see it. and as the sun sank to rest, the gorgeous colours that it cast upon the mouldering wall, deepened from an appearance of burnished gold to a crimson hue, and from that again the colour changed to a shifting purple, mingling with the shadows of the evening, and so gradually fading away into absolute darkness. the place is as silent as the tomb--a silence far more solemn than could have existed, had there been no remains of a human habitation; because even these time-worn walls were suggestive of what once had been; and the wrapt stillness which now pervaded them brought with them a melancholy feeling for the past. there was not even the low hum of insect life to break the stillness of these ancient ruins. and now the last rays of the sun are gradually fading away. in a short time all will be darkness. a low gentle wind is getting up, and beginning slightly to stir the tall blades of grass that have shot up between some of the old stones. the silence is broken, awfully broken, by a sudden cry of despair; such a cry as might come from some imprisoned spirit, doomed to waste an age of horror in a tomb. and yet it was scarcely to be called a scream, and not all a groan. it might have come from some one on the moment of some dreadful sacrifice, when the judgment had not sufficient time to call courage to its aid, but involuntarily had induced that sound which might not be repeated. a few startled birds flew from odd holes and corners about the ruins, to seek some other place of rest. the owl hooted from a corner of what had once been a belfry, and a dreamy-looking bat flew out from a cranny and struck itself headlong against a projection. then all was still again. silence resumed its reign, and if there had been a mortal ear to drink in that sudden sound, the mind might well have doubted if fancy had not more to do with the matter than reality. from out a portion of the ruins that was enveloped in the deepest gloom, there now glides a figure. it is of gigantic height, and it moves along with a slow and measured tread. an ample mantle envelopes the form, which might well have been taken for the spirit of one of the monks who, centuries since, had made that place their home. it walked the whole length of the ample hall we have alluded to, and then, at the window from which had streamed the long flood of many coloured light, it paused. for more than ten minutes this mysterious looking figure there stood. at length there passed something on the outside of the window, that looked like the shadow of a human form. then the tall, mysterious, apparition-looking man turned, and sought a side entrance to the hall. then he paused, and, in about a minute, he was joined by another who must have been he who had so recently passed the stained glass window on the outer side. there was a friendly salutation between these two beings, and they walked to the centre of the hall, where they remained for some time in animated conversation. from the gestures they used, it was evident that the subject of their discourse was one of deep and absorbing interest to both. it was one, too, upon which, after a time, they seemed a little to differ, and more than once they each assumed attitudes of mutual defiance. this continued until the sun had so completely sunk, that twilight was beginning sensibly to wane, and then gradually the two men appeared to have come to a better understanding, and whatever might be the subject of their discourse, there was some positive result evidently arrived at now. they spoke in lower tones. they used less animated gestures than before; and, after a time, they both walked slowly down the hull towards the dark spot from whence the first tall figure had so mysteriously emerged. * * * * * there it a dungeon--damp and full of the most unwholesome exhalations--deep under ground it seems, and, in its excavations, it would appear as if some small land springs had been liberated, for the earthen floor was one continued extent of moisture. from the roof, too, came perpetually the dripping of water, which fell with sullen, startling splashes in the pool below. at one end, and near to the roof,--so near that to reach it, without the most efficient means from the inside, was a matter of positive impossibility--is a small iron grating, and not much larger than might be entirely obscured by any human face that might be close to it from the outside of the dungeon. that dreadful abode is tenanted. in one corner, on a heap of straw, which appears freshly to have been cast into the place, lies a hopeless prisoner. it is no great stretch of fancy to suppose, that it is from his lips came the sound of terror and of woe that had disturbed the repose of that lonely spot. the prisoner is lying on his back; a rude bandage round his head, on which were numerous spots of blood, would seem to indicate that he had suffered personal injury in some recent struggle. his eyes were open. they were fixed desparingly, perhaps unconsciously, upon that small grating which looked into the upper world. that grating slants upwards, and looks to the west, so that any one confined in that dreary dungeon might be tantalized, on a sweet summer's day, by seeing the sweet blue sky, and occasionally the white clouds flitting by in that freedom which he cannot hope for. the carol of a bird, too, might reach him there. alas! sad remembrance of life, and joy, and liberty. but now all is deepening gloom. the prisoner sees nothing--hears nothing; and the sky is not quite dark. that small grating looks like a strange light-patch in the dungeon wall. hark! some footstep sounds upon his ear. the creaking of a door follows--a gleam of light shines into the dungeon, and the tall mysterious-looking figure in the cloak stands before the occupant of that wretched place. then comes in the other man, and he carries in his hand writing materials. he stoops to the stone couch on which the prisoner lies, and offers him a pen, as he raises him partially from the miserable damp pallet. but there is no speculation in the eyes of that oppressed man. in vain the pen is repeatedly placed in his grasp, and a document of some length, written on parchment, spread out before him to sign. in vain is he held up now by both the men, who have thus mysteriously sought him in his dungeon; he has not power to do as they would wish him. the pen falls from his nerveless grasp, and, with a deep sigh, when they cease to hold him up, he falls heavily back upon the stone couch. then the two men looked at each other for about a minute silently; after which he who was the shorter of the two raised one hand, and, in a voice of such concentrated hatred and passion as was horrible to hear, he said,-"d--n!" the reply of the other was a laugh; and then he took the light from the floor, and motioned the one who seemed so little able to control his feelings of bitterness and disappointment to leave the place with him. with a haste and vehemence, then, which showed how much angered he was, the shorter man of the two now rolled up the parchment, and placed it in a breast-pocket of his coat. he cast a withering look of intense hatred on the form of the nearly-unconscious prisoner, and then prepared to follow the other. but when they reached the door of the dungeon, the taller man of the two paused, and appeared for a moment or two to be in deep thought; after which he handed the lamp he carried to his companion, and approached the pallet of the prisoner. he took from his pocket a small bottle, and, raising the head of the feeble and wounded man, he poured some portion of the contents into his mouth, and watched him swallow it. the other looked on in silence, and then they both slowly left the dreary dungeon. * * * the wind rose, and the night had deepened into the utmost darkness. the blackness of a night, unillumined by the moon, which would not now rise for some hours, was upon the ancient ruins. all was calm and still, and no one would have supposed that aught human was within those ancient, dreary looking walls. time will show who it was who lay in that unwholesome dungeon, as well as who were they who visited him so mysteriously, and retired again with feelings of such evident disappointment with the document it seemed of such importance, at least to one of them, to get that unconscious man to sign. chapter xxx. the visit of flora to the vampyre.--the offer.--the solemn asseveration. [illustration] admiral bell had, of course, nothing particular to communicate to flora in the walk he induced her to take with him in the gardens of bannerworth hall, but he could talk to her upon a subject which was sure to be a welcome one, namely, of charles holland. and not only could he talk to her of charles, but he was willing to talk of him in the style of enthusiastic commendation which assimilated best with her own feelings. no one but the honest old admiral, who was as violent in his likes and his dislikes as any one could possibly be, could just then have conversed with flora bannerworth to her satisfaction of charles holland. he expressed no doubts whatever concerning charles's faith, and to his mind, now that he had got that opinion firmly fixed in his mind, everybody that held a contrary one he at once denounced as a fool or a rogue. "never you mind, miss flora," he said; "you will find, i dare say, that all will come right eventually. d--n me! the only thing that provokes me in the whole business is, that i should have been such an old fool as for a moment to doubt charles." "you should have known him better, sir." "i should, my dear, but i was taken by surprise, you see, and that was wrong, too, for a man who has held a responsible command." "but the circumstances, dear sir, were of a nature to take every one by surprise." "they were, they were. but now, candidly speaking, and i know i can speak candidly to you; do you really think this varney is the vampyre?" "i do." "you do? well, then, somebody must tackle him, that's quite clear; we can't put up with his fancies always." "what can be done?" "ah, that i don't know, but something must be done, you know. he wants this place; heaven only knows why or wherefore he has taken such a fancy to it; but he has done so, that is quite clear. if it had a good sea view, i should not be so much surprised; but there's nothing of the sort, so it's no way at all better than any other shore-going stupid sort of house, that you can see nothing but land from." "oh, if my brother would but make some compromise with him to restore charles to us and take the house, we might yet be happy." "d--n it! then you still think that he has a hand in spiriting away charles?" "who else could do so?" "i'll be hanged if i know. i do feel tolerably sure, and i have good deal of reliance upon your opinion, my dear; i say, i do feel tolerably sure: but, if i was d----d sure, now, i'd soon have it out of him." "for my sake, admiral bell, i wish now to extract one promise from you." "say your say, my dear, and i'll promise you." "you will not then expose yourself to the danger of any personal conflict with that most dreadful man, whose powers of mischief we do not know, and therefore cannot well meet or appreciate." "whew! is that what you mean?" "yes; you will, i am sure, promise me so much." "why, my dear, you see the case is this. in affairs of fighting, the less ladies interfere the better." "nay, why so?" "because--because, you see, a lady has no reputation for courage to keep up. indeed, it's rather the other way, for we dislike a bold woman as much as we hold in contempt a cowardly man." "but if you grant to us females that in consequence of our affections, we are not courageous, you must likewise grant how much we are doomed to suffer from the dangers of those whom we esteem." "you would be the last person in the world to esteem a coward." "certainly. but there is more true courage often in not fighting than in entering into a contest." "you are right enough there, my dear." "under ordinary circumstances, i should not oppose your carrying out the dictates of your honour, but now, let me entreat you not to meet this dreadful man, if man he can be called, when you know not how unfair the contest may be." "unfair?" "yes. may he not have some means of preventing you from injuring him, and of overcoming you, which no mortal possesses?" "he may." "then the supposition of such a case ought to be sufficient ground for at once inducing you to abandon all idea of meeting with him." "my dear, i'll consider of this matter." "do so." "there is another thing, however, which now you will permit me to ask of you as a favour." "it is granted ere it is spoken." "very good. now you must not be offended with what i am going to say, because, however it may touch that very proper pride which you, and such as you, are always sure to possess, you are fortunately at all times able to call sufficient judgment to your aid to enable you to see what is really offensive and what is not." "you alarm me by such a preface." "do i? then here goes at once. your brother henry, poor fellow, has enough to do, has he not, to make all ends meet." a flush of excitement came over flora's cheek as the old admiral thus bluntly broached a subject of which she already knew the bitterness to such a spirit as her brother's. "you are silent," continued the old man; "by that i guess i am not wrong in my i supposition; indeed it is hardly a supposition at all, for master charles told me as much, and no doubt he had it from a correct quarter." "i cannot deny it, sir." "then don't. it ain't worth denying, my dear. poverty is no crime, but, like being born a frenchman, it's a d----d misfortune." flora could scarcely refuse a smile, as the nationality of the old admiral peeped out even in the midst of his most liberal and best feelings. "well," he continued, "i don't intend that he shall have so much trouble as he has had. the enemies of his king and his country shall free him from his embarrassments." "the enemies?" "yes; who else?" "you speak in riddles, sir." "do i? then i'll soon make the riddles plain. when i went to sea i was worth nothing--as poor as a ship's cat after the crew had been paid off for a month. well, i began fighting away as hard and fast as i could, and the more i fought, and the more hard knocks i gave and took, the more money i got." "indeed." "yes; prize after prize we hauled into port, and at last the french vessels wouldn't come out of their harbours." "what did you do then?" "what did we do then? why what was the most natural thing in the whole world for us to do, we did." "i cannot guess." "well, i am surprised at that. try again." "oh, yes; i can guess now. how could i have been so dull? you went and took them out." "to be sure we did--to be sure we did, my dear; that's how we managed them. and, do you see, at the end of the war i found myself with lots of prize money, all wrung from old england's enemies, and i intend that some of it shall find it's way to your brother's pocket; and you see that will bear out just what i said, that the enemies of his king and his country shall free him from his difficulties--don't you see?" "i see your noble generosity, admiral." "noble fiddlestick! now i have mentioned this matter to you, my dear, and i don't so much mind talking to you about such matters as i should to your brother, i want you to do me the favour of managing it all for me." "how, sir?" "why, just this way. you must find out how much money will free your brother just now from a parcel of botherations that beset him, and then i will give it to you, and you can hand it to him, you see, so i need not say anything about it; and if he speaks to me on the subject at all, i can put him down at once by saying, 'avast there, it's no business of mine.'" "and can you, dear admiral, imagine that i could conceal the generous source from where so much assistance came?" "of course; it will come from you. i take a fancy to make you a present of a sum of money; you do with it what you please--it's yours, and i have no right and no inclination to ask you what use you put it to." tears gushed from the eyes of flora as she tried to utter some word, but could not. the admiral swore rather fearfully, and pretended to wonder much what on earth she could be crying for. at length, after the first gush of feeling was over, she said,-"i cannot accept of so much generosity, sir--i dare not" "dare not!" "no; i should think meanly of myself were i to take advantage of the boundless munificence of your nature." "take advantage! i should like to see anybody take advantage of me, that's all." "i ought not to take the money of you. i will speak to my brother, and well i know how much he will appreciate the noble, generous offer, my dear sir." "well, settle it your own way, only remember i have a right to do what i like with my own money." "undoubtedly." "very good. then as that is undoubted, whatever i lend to him, mind i give to you, so it's as broad as it's long, as the dutchman said, when he looked at the new ship that was built for him, and you may as well take it yourself you see, and make no more fuss about it." "i will consider," said flora, with much emotion--"between this time and the same hour to-morrow i will consider, sir, and if you can find any words more expressive of heartfelt gratitude than others, pray imagine that i have used them with reference to my own feelings towards you for such an unexampled offer of friendship." "oh, bother--stuff." the admiral now at once changed the subject, and began to talk of charles--a most grateful theme to flora, as may well be supposed. he related to her many little particulars connected with him which all tended to place his character in a most amiable light, and as her ears drank in the words of commendation of him she loved, what sweeter music could there be to her than the voice of that old weather-beaten rough-spoken man. "the idea," he added, to a warm eulogium he had uttered concerning charles--"the idea that he could write those letters my dear, is quite absurd." "it is, indeed. oh, that we could know what had become of him!" "we shall know. i don't think but what he's alive. something seems to assure me that we shall some of these days look upon his face again." "i am rejoiced to hear you say so." "we will stir heaven and earth to find him. if he were killed, do you see, there would have been some traces of him now at hand; besides, he would have been left lying where the rascals attacked him." flora shuddered. "but don't you fret yourself. you may depend that the sweet little cherub that sits up aloft has looked after him." "i will hope so." "and now, my dear, master henry will soon be home, i am thinking, and as he has quite enough disagreeables on his own mind to be able to spare a few of them, you will take the earliest opportunity, i am sure, of acquainting him with the little matter we have been talking about, and let me know what he says." "i will--i will." "that's right. now, go in doors, for there's a cold air blowing here, and you are a delicate plant rather just now--go in and make yourself comfortable and easy. the worst storm must blow over at last." chapter xxxi. sir francis varney and his mysterious visitor.--the strange conference. sir francis varney is in what he calls his own apartment. it is night, and a dim and uncertain light from a candle which has been long neglected, only serves to render obscurity more perplexing. the room is a costly one. one replete with all the appliances of refinement and luxury which the spirit and the genius of the age could possibly supply him with, but there is upon his brow the marks of corroding care, and little does that most mysterious being seem to care for all the rich furnishing of that apartment in which he sits. his cadaverous-looking face is even paler and more death-like-looking than usual; and, if it can be conceived possible that such an one can feel largely interested in human affairs, to look at him, we could well suppose that some interest of no common magnitude was at stake. occasionally, too, he muttered some unconnected words, no doubt mentally filling up the gaps, which rendered the sentences incomplete, and being unconscious, perhaps, that he was giving audible utterance to any of his dark and secret meditations. at length he rose, and with an anxious expression of countenance, he went to the window, and looked out into the darkness of the night. all was still, and not an object was visible. it was that pitchy darkness without, which, for some hours, when the moon is late in lending her reflected beams, comes over the earth's surface. "it is near the hour," he muttered. "it is now very near the hour; surely he will come, and yet i know not why i should fear him, although i seem to tremble at the thought of his approach. he will surely come. once a year--only once does he visit me, and then 'tis but to take the price which he has compelled me to pay for that existence, which but for him had been long since terminated. sometimes i devoutly wish it were." with a shudder he returned to the seat he had so recently left, and there for some time he appeared to meditate in silence. suddenly now, a clock, which was in the hall of that mansion he had purchased, sounded the hour loudly. "the time has come," said sir francis. "the time has come. he will surely soon be here. hark! hark!" slowly and distinctly he counted the strokes of the clock, and, when they had ceased, he exclaimed, with sudden surprise-"eleven! but eleven! how have i been deceived. i thought the hour of midnight was at hand." he hastily consulted the watch he wore, and then he indeed found, that whatever he had been looking forward to with dread for some time past, as certain to ensue, at or about twelve o clock, had yet another hour in which to prey upon his imagination. "how could i have made so grievous an error?" he exclaimed. "another hour of suspense and wonder as to whether that man be among the living or the dead. i have thought of raising my hand against his life, but some strange mysterious feeling has always staid me; and i have let him come and go freely, while an opportunity might well have served me to put such a design into execution. he is old, too--very old, and yet he keeps death at a distance. he looked pale, but far from unwell or failing, when last i saw him. alas! a whole hour yet to wait. i would that this interview were over." that extremely well known and popular disease called the fidgets, now began, indeed, to torment sir francis varney. he could not sit--he could not walk, and, somehow or another, he never once seemed to imagine that from the wine cup he should experience any relief, although, upon a side table, there stood refreshments of that character. and thus some more time passed away, and he strove to cheat it of its weariness by thinking of a variety of subjects; but as the fates would have it, there seemed not one agreeable reminiscence in the mind of that most inexplicable man, and the more he plunged into the recesses of memory the more uneasy, not to say almost terrified, he looked and became. a shuddering nervousness came across him, and, for a few moments, he sat as if he were upon the point of fainting. by a vigorous effort, however, he shook this off, and then placing before him the watch, which now indicated about the quarter past eleven, he strove with a calmer aspect to wait the coming of him whose presence, when he did come, would really be a great terror, since the very thought beforehand produced so much hesitation and apparent dismay. in order too, if possible, then to further withdraw himself from a too painful consideration of those terrors, which in due time the reader will be acquainted with the cause of, he took up a book, and plunging at random into its contents, he amused his mind for a time with the following brief narrative:-the wind howled round the gable ends of bridport house in sudden and furious gusts, while the inmates sat by the fire-side, gazing in silence upon the blazing embers of the huge fire that shed a red and bright light all over the immense apartment in which they all sat. it was an ancient looking place, very large, end capable of containing a number of guests. several were present. an aged couple were seated in tall high straight-backed chairs. they were the owners of that lordly mansion, and near them sat two young maidens of surpassing beauty; they were dissimilar, and yet there was a slight likeness, but of totally different complexions. the one had tresses of raven black; eyebrows, eyelashes, and eyes were all of the same hue; she was a beautiful and proud-looking girl, her complexion clear, with the hue of health upon her cheeks, while a smile played around her lips. the glance of the eye was sufficient to thrill through the whole soul. the other maiden was altogether different; her complexion altogether fairer--her hair of sunny chestnut, and her beautiful hazel eyes were shaded by long brown eyelashes, while a playful smile also lit up her countenance. she was the younger of the two. the attention of the two young maidens had been directed to the words of the aged owner of the house, for he had been speaking a few moments before. there were several other persons present, and at some little distance were many of the domestics who were not denied the privilege of warmth and rest in the presence of their master. these were not the times, when, if servants sat down, they were deemed idle; but the daily task done, then the evening hour was spent by the fire-side. "the wind howls and moans," said an aged domestic, "in an awful manner. i never heard the like." "it seems as though some imprisoned spirit was waiting for the repose that had been denied on earth," said the old lady as she shifted her seat and gazed steadily on the fire. "ay," said her aged companion, "it is a windy night, and there will be a storm before long, or i'm mistaken." "it was just such a night as that my son henry left his home," said mrs. bradley, "just such another--only it had the addition of sleet and rain." the old man sighed at the mention of his son's name, a tear stood in the eyes of the maidens, while one looked silently at the other, and seemed to exchange glances. "i would that i might again see him before my body seeks its final home in the cold remorseless grave." "mother," said the fairest of the two maidens, "do not talk thus, let us hope that we yet may have many years of happiness together." "many, emma?" "yes, mamma, many." "do you know that i am very old, emma, very old indeed, considering what i have suffered, such a life of sorrow and ill health is at least equal to thirty years added to my life." "you may have deceived yourself, aunt," said the other maiden; "at all events, you cannot count upon life as certain, for the strongest often go first, while those who seem much more likely to fall, by care, as often live in peace and happiness." "but i lead no life of peace and happiness, while henry bradley is not here; besides, my life might be passed without me seeing him again." "it is now two years since he was here last," said the old man, "this night two years was the night on which he left." "this night two years?" "yes." "it was this night two years," said one of the servant men, "because old dame poutlet had twins on that night." "a memorable circumstance." "and one died at a twelvemonth old," said the man; "and she had a dream which foretold the event." "ay, ay." "yes, and moreover she's had the same dream again last wednesday was a week," said the man. "and lost the other twin?" "yes sir, this morning." "omens multiply," said the aged man; "i would that it would seem to indicate the return of henry to his home." "i wonder where he can have gone to, or what he could have done all this time; probably he may not be in the land of the living." "poor henry," said emma. "alas, poor boy! we may never see him again--it was a mistaken act of his, and yet he knew not otherwise how to act or escape his father's displeasure." "say no more--say no more upon that subject; i dare not listen to it. god knows i know quite enough," said mr. bradley; "i knew not he would have taken my words so to heart as he did." "why," said the old woman, "he thought you meant what you said." there was a long pause, during which all gazed at the blazing fire, seemingly wrapt in their own meditation. henry bradley, the son of the apparently aged couple, had left that day two years, and wherefore had he left the home of his childhood? wherefore had he, the heir to large estates, done this? he had dared to love without his father's leave, and had refused the offer his father made him of marrying a young lady whom he had chosen for him, but whom he could not love. it was as much a matter of surprise to the father that the son should refuse, as it was to the son that his father should contemplate such a match. "henry," said the father, "you have been thought of by me, i have made proposals for marrying you to the daughter of our neighbour, sir arthur onslow." "indeed, father!" "yes; i wish you to go there with me to see the young lady." "in the character of a suitor?" "yes," replied the father, "certainly; it's high time you were settled." "indeed, i would rather not go, father; i have no intention of marrying just yet. i do not desire to do so." this was an opposition that mr. bradley had not expected from his son, and which his imperious temper could ill brook, and with a darkened brow he said,-"it is not much, henry, that i trespass upon your obedience; but when i do so, i expect that you will obey me." "but, father, this matter affects me for my whole life." "that is why i have deliberated so long and carefully over it." "but it is not unreasonable that i should have a voice in the affair, father, since it may render me miserable." "you shall have a voice." "then i say no to the whole regulation," said henry, decisively. "if you do so you forfeit my protection, much more favour; but you had better consider over what you have said. forget it, and come with me." "i cannot." "you will not?" "no, father; i cannot do as you wish me; my mind is fully made up upon that matter." [illustration] "and so is mine. you either do as i would have you, or you leave the house, and seek your own living, and you are a beggar." "i should prefer being such," said henry, "than to marry any young lady, and be unable to love her." "that is not required." "no! i am astonished! not necessary to love the woman you marry!" "not at all; if you act justly towards her she ought to be grateful; and it is all that is requisite in the marriage state. gratitude will beget love, and love in one begets love in the other." "i will not argue with you, father, upon the matter. you are a better judge than i; you have had more experience." "i have." "and it would be useless to speak upon the subject; but of this i can speak--my own resolve--that i will not marry the lady in question." the son had all the stern resolve of the father, but he had also very good reasons for what he did. he loved, and was beloved in return; and hence he would not break his faith with her whom he loved. to have explained this to his father would have been to gain nothing except an accession of anger, and he would have made a new demand upon his (the son's) obedience, by ordering him to discard from his bosom the image that was there indelibly engraven. "you will not marry her whom i have chosen for your bride?" "i cannot." "do not talk to me of can and can't, when i speak of will and wont. it is useless to disguise the fact. you have your free will in the matter. i shall take no answer but yes or no." "then, no, father." "good, sir; and now we are strangers." with that mr. bradley turned abruptly from his son, and left him to himself. it was the first time they had any words of difference together, and it was sudden and soon terminated. henry bradley was indignant at what had happened; he did not think his father would have acted as he had done in this instance; but he was too much interested in the fate of another to hesitate for a moment. then came the consideration as to what he should do, now that he had arrived at such a climax. his first thoughts turned to his mother and sister. he could not leave the house without bidding them good-bye. he determined to see his mother, for his father had left the hall upon a visit. mrs. bradley and emma were alone when he entered their apartment, and to them he related all that had passed between himself and father. they besought him to stay, to remain there, or at least in the neighbourhood; but he was resolved to quit the place altogether for a time, as he could do nothing there, and he might chance to do something elsewhere. upon this, they got together all the money and such jewels as they could spare, which in all amounted to a considerable sum; then taking an affectionate leave of his mother and sister, henry left the hall--not before he had taken a long and affectionate farewell of one other who lived within those walls. this was no other than the raven-eyed maiden who sat by the fire side, and listened attentively to the conversation that was going on. she was his love--she, a poor cousin. for her sake he had braved all his father's anger, and attempted to seek his fortune abroad. this done, he quietly left the hall, without giving any one any intimation of where he was going. old mr. bradley, when he had said so much to his son, was highly incensed at what he deemed his obstinacy; and he thought the threat hanging over him would have had a good effect; but he was amazed when he discovered that henry had indeed left the hall, and he knew not whither. for some time he comforted himself with the assurance that he would, he must return, but, alas! he came not, and this was the second anniversary of that melancholy day, which no one more repented of and grieved for, than did poor mr. bradley. "surely, surely he will return, or let us know where he is," he said; "he cannot be in need, else he would have written to us for aid." "no, no," said mrs. bradley; "it is, i fear, because he has not written, that he is in want; he would never write if he was in poverty, lest he should cause us unhappiness at his fate. were he doing well, we should hear of it, for he would be proud of the result of his own unaided exertions." "well, well," said mr. bradley, "i can say no more; if i was hasty, so was he; but it is passed. i would forgive all the past, if i could but see him once again--once again!" "how the wind howls," added the aged man; "and it's getting worse and worse." "yes, and the snow is coming down now in style," said one of the servants, who brought in some fresh logs which were piled up on the fire, and he shook the white flakes off his clothes. "it will be a heavy fall before morning," said one of the men. "yes, it has been gathering for some days; it will be much warmer than it has been when it is all down." "so it will--so it will." at that moment there was a knocking at the gate, and the dogs burst into a dreadful uproar from their kennels. "go, robert," said mr. bradley, "and see who it is that knocks such a night as this; it is not fit or safe that a dog should be out in it." the man went out, and shortly returned, saying,-"so please you, sir, there is a traveller that has missed his way, and desires to know if he can obtain shelter here, or if any one can be found to guide him to the nearest inn." "bid him come in; we shall lose no warmth because there is one more before the fire." the stranger entered, and said,--"i have missed my way, and the snow comes down so thick and fast, and is whirled in such eddies, that i fear, by myself, i should fall into some drift, and perish before morning." "do not speak of it, sir," said mr. bradley; "such a night as this is a sufficient apology for the request you make, and an inducement to me to grant it most willingly." "thanks," replied the stranger; "the welcome is most seasonable." "be seated, sir; take your seat by the ingle; it is warm." the stranger seated himself, and seemed lost in reflection, as he gazed intently on the blazing logs. he was a robust man, with great whiskers and beard, and, to judge from his outward habiliments, he was a stout man. "have you travelled far?" "i have, sir." "you appear to belong to the army, if i mistake not?" "i do, sir." there was a pause; the stranger seemed not inclined to speak of himself much; but mr. bradley continued,-"have you come from foreign service, sir? i presume you have." "yes; i have not been in this country more than six days." "indeed; shall we have peace think you?" "i do so, and i hope it may be so, for the sake of many who desire to return to their native land, and to those they love best." mr. bradley heaved a deep sigh, which was echoed softly by all present, and the stranger looked from one to another, with a hasty glance, and then turned his gaze upon the fire. "may i ask, sir, if you have any person whom you regard in the army--any relative?" "alas! i have--perhaps, i ought to say i had a son. i know not, however, where he is gone." "oh! a runaway; i see." "oh, no; he left because there were some family differences, and now, i would, that he were once more here." "oh!" said the stranger, softly, "differences and mistakes will happen now and then, when least desired." at this moment, an old hound who had lain beside ellen mowbray, she who wore the coal-black tresses, lifted his head at the difference in sound that was noticed in the stranger's voice. he got up and slowly walked up to him, and began to smell around him, and, in another moment, he rushed at him with a cry of joy, and began to lick and caress him in the most extravagant manner. this was followed by a cry of joy in all present. "it is henry!" exclaimed ellen mowbray, rising and rushing into his arms. it was henry, and he threw off the several coats he had on, as well as the large beard he wore to disguise himself. the meeting was a happy one; there was not a more joyful house than that within many miles around. henry was restored to the arms of those who loved him, and, in a month, a wedding was celebrated between him and his cousin ellen. * * * * * sir francis varney glanced at his watch. it indicated but five minutes to twelve o'clock, and he sprang to his feet. even as he did so, a loud knocking at the principal entrance to his house awakened every echo within its walls. chapter xxxii. the thousand pounds.--the stranger's precautions. [illustration] varney moved not now, nor did he speak, but, like a statue, he stood, with his unearthly looking eyes rivetted upon the door of the apartment. in a few moments one of his servants came, and said-"sir, a person is here, who says he wants to see you. he desired me to say, that he had ridden far, and that moments were precious when the tide of life was ebbing fast." "yes! yes!" gasped varney; "admit him, i know him! bring him here? it is--an--old friend--of mine." he sank into a chair, and still he kept his eyes fixed upon that door through which his visitor must come. surely some secret of dreadful moment must be connected with him whom sir francis expected--dreaded--and yet dared not refuse to see. and now a footstep approaches--a slow and a solemn footstep--it pauses a moment at the door of the apartment, and then the servant flings it open, and a tall man enters. he is enveloped in the folds of a horseman's cloak, and there is the clank of spurs upon his heels as he walks into the room. varney rose again, but he said not a word and for a few moments they stood opposite each other in silence. the domestic has left the room, and the door is closed, so that there was nothing to prevent them from conversing; and, yet, silent they continued for some minutes. it seemed as if each was most anxious that the other should commence the conversation, first. and yet there was nothing so very remarkable in the appearance of that stranger which should entirely justify sir francis varney, in feeling so much alarm at his presence. he certainly was a man past the prime of life; and he looked like one who had battled much with misfortune, and as if time had not passed so lightly over his brow, but that it had left deep traces of its progress. the only thing positively bad about his countenance, was to be found in his eyes. there there was a most ungracious and sinister expression, a kind of lurking and suspicions look, as if he were always resolving in his mind some deep laid scheme, which might be sufficient to circumvent the whole of mankind. finding, probably, that varney would not speak first, he let his cloak fall more loosely about him, and in a low, deep tone, he said, "i presume i was expected?" "you were," said varney. "it is the day, and it is the hour." "you are right. i like to see you so mindful. you don't improve in looks since--" "hush--hush! no more of that; can we not meet without a dreadful allusion to the past! there needs nothing to remind me of it; and your presence here now shows that you are not forgetful. speak not of that fearful episode. let no words combine to place it in a tangible shape to human understanding. i cannot, dare not, hear you speak of that." "it is well," said the stranger; "as you please. let our interview be brief. you know my errand?" "i do. so fearful a drag upon limited means, is not likely to be readily forgotten." "oh, you are too ingenious--too full of well laid schemes, and to apt and ready in their execution, to feel, as any fearful drag, the conditions of our bargain. why do you look at me so earnestly?" "because," said varney--and he trembled as he spoke--"because each lineament of your countenance brings me back to the recollection of the only scene in life that made me shudder, and which i cannot think of, even with the indifference of contempt. i see it all before my mind's eye, coming in frightful panoramic array, those incidents, which even to dream of, are sufficient to drive the soul to madness; the dread of this annual visit, hangs upon me like a dark cloud upon my very heart; it sits like some foul incubus, destroying its vitality and dragging me, from day to day, nearer to that tomb, from whence not as before, i can emerge." "you have been among the dead?" said the stranger. "i have." "and yet are mortal." "yes," repeated varney, "yes, and yet am mortal." "it was i that plucked you back to that world, which, to judge from your appearance, has had since that eventful period but few charms for you. by my faith you look like--" "like what i am," interrupted varney. "this is a subject that once a year gets frightfully renewed between us. for weeks before your visit i am haunted by frightful recollections, and it takes me many weeks after you are gone, before i can restore myself to serenity. look at me; am i not an altered man?" "in faith you are," said the stranger "i have no wish to press upon you painful recollections. and yet 'tis strange to me that upon such a man as you, the event to which you allude should produce so terrible an impression." "i have passed through the agony of death," said varney, "and have again endured the torture--for it is such--of the re-union of the body and the soul; not having endured so much, not the faintest echo of such feelings can enter into your imagination." "there may be truth in that, and yet, like a fluttering moth round a flame, it seems to me, that when i do see you, you take a terrific kind of satisfaction in talking of the past." "that is strictly true," said varney; "the images with which my mind is filled are frightful. pent up do they remain for twelve long months. i can speak to you, and you only, without disguise, and thus does it seem to me that i get rid of the uneasy load of horrible imaginings. when you are gone, and have been gone a sufficient lapse of time, my slumbers are not haunted with frightful images--i regain a comparative peace, until the time slowly comes around again, when we are doomed to meet." "i understand you. you seem well lodged here?" "i have ever kept my word, and sent to you, telling you where i am." "you have, truly. i have no shadow of complaint to make against you. no one, could have more faithfully performed his bond than you have. i give you ample credit for all that, and long may you live still to perform your conditions." "i dare not deceive you, although to keep such faith i may be compelled to deceive a hundred others." "of that i cannot judge. fortune seems to smile upon you; you have not as yet disappointed me." "and will not now," said varney. "the gigantic and frightful penalty of disappointing you, stares me in the face. i dare not do so." he took from his pocket, as he spoke, a clasped book, from which he produced several bank notes, which he placed before the stranger. "a thousand pounds," he said; "that is the agreement." "it is to the very letter. i do not return to you a thousand thanks--we understand each other better than to waste time with idle compliment. indeed i will go quite as far as to say, truthfully, that did not my necessities require this amount from you, you should have the boon, for which you pay that price at a much cheaper rate." "enough! enough!" said varney. "it is strange, that your face should have been the last i saw, when the world closed upon me, and the first that met my eyes when i was again snatched back to life! do you pursue still your dreadful trade?" "yes," said the stranger, "for another year, and then, with such a moderate competence as fortune has assigned me, i retire, to make way for younger and abler spirits." "and then," said varney, "shall you still require of me such an amount as this?" "no; this is my last visit but one. i shall be just and liberal towards you. you are not old; and i have no wish to become the clog of your existence. as i have before told you, it is my necessity, and not my inclination, that sets the value upon the service i rendered you." "i understand you, and ought to thank you. and in reply to so much courtesy, be assured, that when i shudder at your presence, it is not that i regard you with horror, as an individual, but it is because the sight of you awakens mournfully the remembrance of the past." "it is clear to me," said the stranger; "and now i think we part with each other in a better spirit than we ever did before; and when we meet again, the remembrance that it is the last time, will clear away the gloom that i now find hanging over you." "it may! it may! with what an earnest gaze you still regard me!" "i do. it does appear to me most strange, that time should not have obliterated the effects which i thought would have ceased with their cause. you are no more the man that in my recollection you once were, than i am like a sporting child." "and i never shall be," said varney; "never--never again! this self-same look which the hand of death had placed upon me, i shall ever wear. i shudder at myself, and as i oft perceive the eye of idle curiosity fixed steadfastly upon me, i wonder in my inmost heart, if even the wildest guesser hits upon the cause why i am not like unto other men?" "no. of that you may depend there is no suspicion; but i will leave you now; we part such friends, as men situated as we are can be. once again shall we meet, and then farewell for ever." "do you leave england, then?" "i do. you know my situation in life. it is not one which offers me inducements to remain. in some other land, i shall win the respect and attention i may not hope for here. there my wealth will win many golden opinions; and casting, as best i may, the veil of forgetfulness over my former life, my declining years may yet be happy. this money, that i have had of you from time to time, has been more pleasantly earned than all beside. wrung, as it has been, from your fears, still have i taken it with less reproach. and now, farewell!" varney rang for a servant to show the stranger from the house, and without another word they parted. then, when he was alone, that mysterious owner of that costly home drew a long breath of apparently exquisite relief. "that is over!--that is over!" he said. "he shall have the other thousand pounds, perchance, sooner than he thinks. with all expedition i will send it to him. and then on that subject i shall be at peace. i shall have paid a large sum; but that which i purchased was to me priceless. it was my life!--it was my life itself! that possession which the world's wealth cannot restore! and shall i grudge these thousands, which have found their way into this man's hands? no! 'tis true, that existence, for me, has lost some of its most resplendent charms. 'tis true, that i have no earthly affections, and that shunning companionship with all, i am alike shunned by all; and yet, while the life-blood still will circulate within my shrunken veins, i cling to vitality." he passed into an inner room, and taking from a hook, on which it hung, a long, dark-coloured cloak, he enveloped his tall, unearthly figure within its folds. then, with his hat in his hand, he passed out of his house, and appeared to be taking his way towards bannerworth house. surely it must be guilt of no common die that could oppress a man so destitute of human sympathies as sir francis varney. the dreadful suspicions that hovered round him with respect to what he was, appeared to gather confirmation from every act of his existence. whether or not this man, to whom he felt bound to pay annually so large a sum, was in the secret, and knew him to be something more than earthly, we cannot at present declare; but it would seem from the tenor of their conversation as if such were the fact. perchance he had saved him from the corruption of the tomb, by placing out, on some sylvan spot, where the cold moonbeams fell, the apparently lifeless form, and now claimed so large a reward for such a service, and the necessary secrecy contingent upon it. we say this may be so, and yet again some more natural and rational explanation may unexpectedly present itself; and there may be yet a dark page in sir francis varney's life's volume, which will place him in a light of superadded terrors to our readers. time, and the now rapidly accumulating incidents of our tale, will soon tear aside the veil of mystery that now envelopes some of our _dramatis personae_. and let us hope that in the development of those incidents we shall be enabled to rescue the beautiful flora bannerworth from the despairing gloom that is around her. let us hope and even anticipate that we shall see her smile again; that the roseate hue of health will again revisit her cheeks, the light buoyancy of her step return, and that as before she may be the joy of all around her, dispensing and receiving happiness. and, he too, that gallant fearless lover, he whom no chance of time or tide could sever from the object of his fond affections, he who listened to nothing but the dictates of his heart's best feelings, let us indulge a hope that he will have a bright reward, and that the sunshine of a permanent felicity will only seem the brighter for the shadows that for a time have obscured its glory. chapter xxxiii. the strange interview.--the chase through the hall. [illustration] it was with the most melancholy aspect that anything human could well bear, that sir francis varney took his lonely walk, although perhaps in saying so much, probably we are instituting a comparison which circumstances scarcely empower us to do; for who shall say that that singular man, around whom a very atmosphere of mystery seemed to be perpetually increasing, was human? averse as we are to believe in the supernatural, or even to invest humanity with any preternatural powers, the more than singular facts and circumstances surrounding the existence and the acts of that man bring to the mind a kind of shuddering conviction, that if he be indeed really mortal he still must possess some powers beyond ordinary mortality, and be walking the earth for some unhallowed purposes, such as ordinary men with the ordinary attributes of human nature can scarcely guess at. silently and alone he took his way through that beautiful tract of country, comprehending such picturesque charms of hill and dale which lay between his home and bannerworth hall. he was evidently intent upon reaching the latter place by the shortest possible route, and in the darkness of that night, for the moon had not yet risen, he showed no slight acquaintance with the intricacies of that locality, that he was at all enabled to pursue so undeviatingly a tract as that which he took. he muttered frequently to himself low, indistinct words as he went, and chiefly did they seem to have reference to that strange interview he had so recently had with one who, from some combination of circumstances scarcely to be guessed at, evidently exercised a powerful control over him, and was enabled to make a demand upon his pecuniary resources of rather startling magnitude. and yet, from a stray word or two, which were pronounced more distinctly, he did not seem to be thinking in anger over that interview; but it would appear that it rather had recalled to his remembrance circumstances of a painful and a degrading nature, which time had not been able entirely to obliterate from his recollection. "yes, yes," he said, as he paused upon the margin of the wood, to the confines of which he, or what seemed to be he, had once been chased by marchdale and the bannerworths--"yes, the very sight of that man recalls all the frightful pageantry of a horrible tragedy, which i can never--never forget. never can it escape my memory, as a horrible, a terrific fact; but it is the sight of this man alone that can recall all its fearful minutiae to my mind, and paint to my imagination, in the most vivid colours, every, the least particular connected with that time of agony. these periodical visits much affect me. for months i dread them, and for months i am but slowly recovering from the shocks they give me. 'but once more,' he says--'but once more,' and then we shall not meet again. well, well; perchance before that time arrives, i may be able to possess myself of those resources which will enable me to forestall his visit, and so at least free myself from the pang of expecting him." he paused at the margin of the wood, and glanced in the direction of bannerworth hall. by the dim light which yet showed from out the light sky, he could discern the ancient gable ends, and turret-like windows; he could see the well laid out gardens, and the grove of stately firs that shaded it from the northern blasts, and, as he gazed, a strong emotion seemed to come over him, such as no one could have supposed would for one moment have possessed the frame of one so apparently unconnected with all human sympathies. "i know this spot well," he said, "and my appearance here on that eventful occasion, when the dread of my approach induced a crime only second to murder itself, was on such a night as this, when all was so still and calm around, and when he who, at the merest shadow of my presence, rather chose to rush on death than be assured it was myself. curses on the circumstances that so foiled me! i should have been most wealthy. i should have possessed the means of commanding the adulation of those who now hold me but cheaply; but still the time may come. i have a hope yet, and that greatness which i have ever panted for, that magician-like power over my kind, which the possession of ample means alone can give, may yet be mine." wrapping his cloak more closely around him, he strode forward with that long, noiseless step which was peculiar to him. mechanically he appeared to avoid those obstacles of hedge and ditch which impeded his pathway. surely he had come that road often, or he would not so easily have pursued his way. and now he stood by the edge of a plantation which in some measure protected from trespassers the more private gardens of the hall, and there he paused, as if a feeling of irresolution had come over him, or it might be, as indeed it seemed from his subsequent conduct, that he had come without any fixed intention, or if with a fixed intention, without any regular plan of carrying it into effect. did he again dream of intruding into any of the chambers of that mansion, with the ghastly aspect of that terrible creation with which, in the minds of its inhabitants, he seemed to be but too closely identified? he was pale, attenuated, and trembled. could it be that so soon it had become necessary to renew the life-blood in his veins in the awful manner which it is supposed the vampyre brood are compelled to protract their miserable existence? it might be so, and that he was even now reflecting upon how once more he could kindle the fire of madness in the brain of that beautiful girl, who he had already made so irretrievably wretched. he leant against an aged tree, and his strange, lustrous-looking eyes seemed to collect every wandering scintillation of light that was around, and to shine with preternatural intensity. "i must, i will," he said, "be master of bannerworth hall. it must come to that. i have set an existence upon its possession, and i will have it; and then, if with my own hands i displace it brick by brick and stone by stone, i will discover that hidden secret which no one but myself now dreams of. it shall be done by force or fraud, by love or by despair, i care not which; the end shall sanctify all means. ay, even if i wade through blood to my desire, i say it shall be done." there was a holy and a still calmness about the night much at variance with the storm of angry passion that appeared to be momentarily gathering power in the breast of that fearful man. not the least sound came from bannerworth hall, and it was only occasionally that from afar off on the night air there came the bark of some watchdog, or the low of distant cattle. all else was mute save when the deep sepulchral tones of that man, if man he was, gave an impulse to the soft air around him. with a strolling movement as if he were careless if he proceeded in that direction or not, he still went onward toward the house, and now he stood by that little summer-house once so sweet and so dear a retreat, in which the heart-stricken flora had held her interview with him whom she loved with a devotion unknown to meaner minds. this spot scarcely commanded any view of the house, for so enclosed was it among evergreens and blooming flowers, that it seemed like a very wilderness of nature, upon which, with liberal hand, she had showered down in wild luxuriance her wildest floral beauties. in and around that spot the night air was loaded with sweets. the mingled perfume of many flowers made that place seem a very paradise. but oh, how sadly at variance with that beauty and contentedness of nature was he who stood amidst such beauty! all incapable as he was of appreciating its tenderness, or of gathering the faintest moral from its glory. "why am i here?" he said. "here, without fixed design or stability of purpose, like some miser who has hidden his own hoards so deeply within the bowels of the earth he cannot hope that he shall ever again be able to bring them to the light of day. i hover around this spot which i feel--which i know--contains my treasure, though i cannot lay my hands upon it, or exult in its glistening beauty." even as he spoke he cowered down like some guilty thing, for he heard a faint footstep upon the garden path. so light, so fragile was the step, that, in the light of day, the very hum of summer insects would have drowned the noise; but he heard it, that man of crime--of unholy and awful impulses. he heard it, and he shrunk down among the shrubs and flowers till he was hidden completely from observation amid a world of fragrant essences. was it some one stealthily in that place even as he was, unwelcome or unknown? or was it one who had observed him intrude upon the privacy of those now unhappy precincts, and who was coming to deal upon him that death which, vampyre though he might be, he was yet susceptible of from mortal hands? the footstep advanced, and lower down he shrunk until his coward-heart beat against the very earth itself. he knew that he was unarmed, a circumstance rare with him, and only to be accounted for by the disturbance of his mind consequent upon the visit of that strange man to his house, whose presence had awakened so many conflicting emotions. nearer and nearer still came that light footstep, and his deep-seated fears would not let him perceive that it was not the step of caution or of treachery, but owed its lightness to the natural grace and freedom of movement of its owner. the moon must have arisen, although obscured by clouds, through which it cast but a dim radiance, for the night had certainly grown lighter; so that although there were no strong shadows cast, a more diffused brightness was about all things, and their outlines looked not so dancing, and confused the one with the other. he strained his eyes in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and then his fears for his personal safety vanished, for he saw it was a female form that was slowly advancing towards him. his first impulse was to rise, for with the transient glimpse he got of it, he knew that it must be flora bannerworth; but a second thought, probably one of intense curiosity to know what could possibly have brought her to such a spot at such a time, restrained him, and he was quiet. but if the surprise of sir francis varney was great to see flora bannerworth at such a time in such a place, we have no doubt, that with the knowledge which our readers have of her, their astonishment would more than fully equal his; and when we come to consider, that since that eventful period when the sanctity of her chamber had been so violated by that fearful midnight visitant, it must appear somewhat strange that she could gather courage sufficient to wander forth alone at such an hour. had she no dread of meeting that unearthly being? did the possibility that she might fall into his ruthless grasp, not come across her mind with a shuddering consciousness of its probability? had she no reflection that each step she took, was taking her further and further from those who would aid her in all extremities? it would seem not, for she walked onward, unheeding, and apparently unthinking of the presence, possible or probable, of that bane of her existence. but let us look at her again. how strange and spectral-like she moves along; there seems no speculation in her countenance, but with a strange and gliding step, she walks like some dim shadow of the past in that ancient garden. she is very pale, and on her brow there is the stamp of suffering; her dress is a morning robe, she holds it lightly round her, and thus she moves forward towards that summer-house which probably to her was sanctified by having witnessed those vows of pure affection, which came from the lips of charles holland, about whose fate there now hung so great a mystery. has madness really seized upon the brain of that beautiful girl? has the strong intellect really sunk beneath the oppressions to which it has been subjected? does she now walk forth with a disordered intellect, the queen of some fantastic realm, viewing the material world with eyes that are not of earth; shunning perhaps that which she should have sought, and, perchance, in her frenzy, seeking that which in a happier frame of mind she would have shunned. [illustration] such might have been the impression of any one who had looked upon her for a moment, and who knew the disastrous scenes through which she had so recently passed; but we can spare our readers the pangs of such a supposition. we have bespoken their love for flora bannerworth, and we are certain that she has it; therefore would we spare them, even for a few brief moments, from imagining that cruel destiny had done its worst, and that the fine and beautiful spirit we have so much commended had lost its power of rational reflection. no; thank heaven, such is not the case. flora bannerworth is not mad, but under the strong influence of some eccentric dream, which has pictured to her mind images which have no home but in the airy realms of imagination. she has wandered forth from her chamber to that sacred spot where she had met him she loved, and heard the noblest declaration of truth and constancy that ever flowed from human lips. yes, she is sleeping; but, with a precision such as the somnambulist so strangely exerts, she trod the well-known paths slowly, but surely, toward that summer's bower, where her dreams had not told her lay crouching that most hideous spectre of her imagination, sir francis varney. he who stood between her and her heart's best joy; he who had destroyed all hope of happiness, and who had converted her dearest affections into only so many causes of greater disquietude than the blessings they should have been to her. oh! could she have imagined but for one moment that he was there, with what an eagerness of terror would she have flown back again to the shelter of those walls, where at least was to be found some protection from the fearful vampyre's embrace, and where she would be within hail of friendly hearts, who would stand boldly between her and every thought of harm. but she knew it not, and onwards she went until the very hem of her garment touched the face of sir francis varney. and he was terrified--he dared not move--he dared not speak! the idea that she had died, and that this was her spirit, come to wreak some terrible vengeance upon him, for a time possessed him, and so paralysed with fear was he, that he could neither move nor speak. it had been well if, during that trance of indecision in which his coward heart placed him, flora had left the place, and again sought her home; but unhappily such an impulse came not over her; she sat upon that rustic seat, where she had reposed when charles had clasped her to his heart, and through her very dream the remembrance of that pure affection came across her, and in the tenderest and most melodious accents, she said,-"charles! charles! and do you love me still? no--no; you have not forsaken me. save me, save me from the vampyre!" she shuddered, and sir francis varney heard her weeping. "fool that i am," he muttered, "to be so terrified. she sleeps. this is one of the phases which a disordered imagination oft puts on. she sleeps, and perchance this may be an opportunity of further increasing the dread of my visitation, which shall make bannerworth hall far too terrible a dwelling-place for her; and well i know, if she goes, they will all go. it will become a deserted house, and that is what i want. a house, too, with such an evil reputation, that none but myself, who have created that reputation, will venture within its walls:--a house, which superstition will point out as the abode of evil spirits;--a house, as it were, by general opinion, ceded to the vampyre. yes, it shall be my own; fit dwelling-place for a while for me. i have sworn it shall be mine, and i will keep my oath, little such as i have to do with vows." he rose, and moved slowly to the narrow entrance of the summer-house; a movement he could make, without at all disturbing flora, for the rustic seat, on which she sat, was at its further extremity. and there he stood, the upper part of his gaunt and hideous form clearly defined upon the now much lighter sky, so that if flora bannerworth had not been in that trance of sleep in which she really was, one glance upward would let her see the hideous companion she had, in that once much-loved spot--a spot hitherto sacred to the best and noblest feelings, but now doomed for ever to be associated with that terrific spectre of despair. but she was in no state to see so terrible a sight. her hands were over her face, and she was weeping still. "surely, he loves me," she whispered; "he has said he loved me, and he does not speak in vain. he loves me still, and i shall again look upon his face, a heaven to me! charles! charles! you will come again? surely, they sin against the divinity of love, who would tell me that you love me not!" "ha!" muttered varney, "this passion is her first, and takes a strong hold on her young heart--she loves him--but what are human affections to me? i have no right to count myself in the great muster-roll of humanity. i look not like an inhabitant of the earth, and yet am on it. i love no one, expect no love from any one, but i will make humanity a slave to me; and the lip-service of them who hate me in their hearts, shall be as pleasant jingling music to my ear, as if it were quite sincere! i will speak to this girl; she is not mad--perchance she may be." there was a diabolical look of concentrated hatred upon varney's face, as he now advanced two paces towards the beautiful flora. chapter xxxiv. the threat.--its consequences.--the rescue, and sir francis varney's danger. [illustration] sir francis varney now paused again, and he seemed for a few moments to gloat over the helpless condition of her whom he had so determined to make his victim; there was no look of pity in his face, no one touch of human kindness could be found in the whole expression of those diabolical features; and if he delayed making the attempt to strike terror into the heart of that unhappy, but beautiful being, it could not be from any relenting feeling, but simply, that he wished for a few moments to indulge his imagination with the idea of perfecting his villany more effectually. alas! and they who would have flown to her rescue,--they, who for her would have chanced all accidents, ay, even life itself, were sleeping, and knew not of the loved one's danger. she was alone, and far enough from the house, to be driven to that tottering verge where sanity ends, and the dream of madness, with all its terrors, commences. but still she slept--if that half-waking sleep could indeed be considered as any thing akin to ordinary slumber--still she slept, and called mournfully upon her lover's name; and in tender, beseeching accents, that should have melted even the stubbornest hearts, did she express her soul's conviction that he loved her still. the very repetition of the name of charles holland seemed to be galling to sir francis varney. he made a gesture of impatience, as she again uttered it, and then, stepping forward, he stood within a pace of where she sat, and in a fearfully distinct voice he said,-"flora bannerworth, awake! awake! and look upon me, although the sight blast and drive you to despair. awake! awake!" it was not the sound of the voice which aroused her from that strange slumber. it is said that those who sleep in that eccentric manner, are insensible to sounds, but that the lightest touch will arouse them in an instant; and so it was in this case, for sir francis varney, as he spoke, laid upon the hand of flora two of his cold, corpse-like looking fingers. a shriek burst from her lips, and although the confusion of her memory and conceptions was immense, yet she was awake, and the somnambulistic trance had left her. "help, help!" she cried. "gracious heavens! where am i?" varney spoke not, but he spread out his long, thin arms in such a manner that he seemed almost to encircle her, while he touched her not, so that escape became a matter of impossibility, and to attempt to do so, must have been to have thrown herself into his hideous embrace. she could obtain but a single view of the face and figure of him who opposed her progress, but, slight as that view was, it more than sufficed. the very extremity of fear came across her, and she sat like one paralysed; the only evidence of existence she gave consisting in the words,-"the vampyre--the vampyre!" "yes," said varney, "the vampyre. you know me, flora bannerworth--varney, the vampyre; your midnight guest at that feast of blood. i am the vampyre. look upon me well; shrink not from my gaze. you will do well not to shun me, but to speak to me in such a shape that i may learn to love you." flora shook as in a convulsion, and she looked as white as any marble statue. "this is horrible!" she said. "why does not heaven grant me the death i pray for?" "hold!" said varney. "dress not up in the false colours of the imagination that which in itself is sufficiently terrific to need none of the allurements of romance. flora bannerworth, you are persecuted--persecuted by me, the vampyre. it is my fate to persecute you; for there are laws to the invisible as well as the visible creation that force even such a being as i am to play my part in the great drama of existence. i am a vampyre; the sustenance that supports this frame must be drawn from the life-blood of others." "oh, horror--horror!" "but most i do affect the young and beautiful. it is from the veins of such as thou art, flora bannerworth, that i would seek the sustenance i'm compelled to obtain for my own exhausted energies. but never yet, in all my long career--a career extending over centuries of time--never yet have i felt the soft sensation of human pity till i looked on thee, exquisite piece of excellence. even at the moment when the reviving fluid from the gushing fountain of your veins was warming at my heart, i pitied and i loved you. oh, flora! even i can now feel the pang of being what i am!" there was a something in the tone, a touch of sadness in the manner, and a deep sincerity in these words, that in some measure disabused flora of her fears. she sobbed hysterically, and a gush of tears came to her relief, as, in almost inarticulate accents, she said,-"may the great god forgive even you!" "i have need of such a prayer," exclaimed varney--"heaven knows i have need of such a prayer. may it ascend on the wings of the night air to the throne of heaven. may it be softly whispered by ministering angels to the ear of divinity. god knows i have need of such a prayer!" "to hear you speak in such a strain," said flora, "calms the excited fancy, and strips even your horrible presence of some of its maddening influence." "hush," said the vampire, "you must hear more--you must know more ere you speak of the matters that have of late exercised an influence of terror over you." "but how came i here?" said flora, "tell me that. by what more than earthly power have you brought me to this spot? if i am to listen to you, why should it not be at some more likely time and place?" "i have powers," said varney, assuming from flora's words, that she would believe such arrogance--"i have powers which suffice to bend many purposes to my will--powers incidental to my position, and therefore is it i have brought you here to listen to that which should make you happier than you are." "i will attend," said flora. "i do not shudder now; there's an icy coldness through my veins, but it is the night air--speak, i will attend you." "i will. flora bannerworth, i am one who has witnessed time's mutations on man and on his works, and i have pitied neither; i have seen the fall of empires, and sighed not that high reaching ambition was toppled to the dust. i have seen the grave close over the young and the beautiful--those whom i have doomed by my insatiable thirst for human blood to death, long ere the usual span of life was past, but i never loved till now." "can such a being as you," said flora "be susceptible of such an earthly passion?" "and wherefore not?" "love is either too much of heaven, or too much of earth to find a home with thee." "no, flora, no! it may be that the feeling is born of pity. i will save you--i will save you from a continuance of the horrors that are assailing you." "oh! then may heaven have mercy in your hour of need!" "amen!" "may you even yet know peace and joy above." "it is a faint and straggling hope--but if achieved, it will be through the interposition of such a spirit as thine, flora, which has already exercised so benign an influence upon my tortured soul, as to produce the wish within my heart, to do a least one unselfish action." "that wish," said flora, "shall be father to the deed. heaven has boundless mercy yet." "for thy sweet sake, i will believe so much, flora bannerworth; it is a condition with my hateful race, that if we can find one human heart to love us, we are free. if, in the face of heaven, you will consent to be mine, you will snatch me from a continuance of my frightful doom, and for your pure sake, and on your merits, shall i yet know heavenly happiness. will you be mine?" a cloud swept from off the face of the moon, and a slant ray fell upon the hideous features of the vampire. he looked as if just rescued from some charnel-house, and endowed for a space with vitality to destroy all beauty and harmony in nature, and drive some benighted soul to madness. "no, no, no!" shrieked flora, "never!" "enough," said varney, "i am answered. it was a bad proposal. i am a vampyre still." "spare me! spare me!" "blood!" flora sank upon her knees, and uplifted her hands to heaven. "mercy, mercy!" she said. "blood!" said varney, and she saw his hideous, fang-like teeth. "blood! flora bannerworth, the vampyre's motto. i have asked you to love me, and you will not--the penalty be yours." "no, no!" said flora. "can it be possible that even you, who have already spoken with judgment and precision, can be so unjust? you must feel that, in all respects, i have been a victim, most gratuitously--a sufferer, while there existed no just cause that i should suffer; one who has been tortured, not from personal fault, selfishness, lapse of integrity, or honourable feelings, but because you have found it necessary, for the prolongation of your terrific existence, to attack me as you have done. by what plea of honour, honesty, or justice, can i be blamed for not embracing an alternative which is beyond all human control?--i cannot love you." "then be content to suffer. flora bannerworth, will you not, even for a time, to save yourself and to save me, become mine?" "horrible proposition!" "then am i doomed yet, perhaps, for many a cycle of years, to spread misery and desolation around me; and yet i love you with a feeling which has in it more of gratefulness and unselfishness than ever yet found a home within my breast. i would fain have you, although you cannot save me; there may yet be a chance, which shall enable you to escape from the persecution of my presence." "oh! glorious chance!" said flora. "which way can it come? tell me how i may embrace it, and such grateful feelings as a heart-stricken mourner can offer to him who has rescued her from her deep affliction, shall yet be yours." "hear me, then, flora bannerworth, while i state to you some particulars of mysterious existence, of such beings as myself, which never yet have been breathed to mortal ears." flora looked intently at him, and listened, while, with a serious earnestness of manner, he detailed to her something of the physiology of the singular class of beings which the concurrence of all circumstances tended to make him appear. "flora," he said, "it is not that i am so enamoured of an existence to be prolonged only by such frightful means, which induces me to become a terror to you or to others. believe me, that if my victims, those whom my insatiable thirst for blood make wretched, suffer much, i, the vampyre, am not without my moments of unutterable agony. but it is a mysterious law of our nature, that as the period approaches when the exhausted energies of life require a new support from the warm, gushing fountain of another's veins, the strong desire to live grows upon us, until, in a paroxysm of wild insanity, which will recognise no obstacles, human or divine, we seek a victim." "a fearful state!" said flora. "it is so; and, when the dreadful repast is over, then again the pulse beats healthfully, and the wasted energies of a strange kind of vitality are restored to us, we become calm again, but with that calmness comes all the horror, all the agony of reflection, and we suffer far more than tongue can tell." "you have my pity," said flora; "even you have my pity." "i might well demand it, if such a feeling held a place within your breast. i might well demand your pity, flora bannerworth, for never crawled an abject wretch upon the earth's rotundity, so pitiable as i." "go on, go on." "i will, and with such brief conclusions as i may. having once attacked any human being, we feel a strange, but terribly impulsive desire again to seek that person for more blood. but i love you, flora; the small amount of sensibility that still lingers about my preternatural existence, acknowledges in you a pure and better spirit. i would fain save you." "oh! tell me how i may escape the terrible infliction." "that can only be done by flight. leave this place, i implore you! leave it as quickly as the movement may be made. linger not--cast not one regretful look behind you on your ancient home. i shall remain in this locality for years. let me lose sight of you, i will not pursue you; but, by force of circumstances, i am myself compelled to linger here. flight is the only means by which you may avoid a doom as terrific as that which i endure." "but tell me," said flora, after a moment's pause, during which she appeared to be endeavouring to gather courage to ask some fearful question; "tell me if it be true that those who have once endured the terrific attack of a vampyre, become themselves, after death, one of that dread race?" "it is by such means," said varney, "that the frightful brood increases; but time and circumstances must aid the development of the new and horrible existence. you, however, are safe." "safe! oh! say that word again." "yes, safe; not once or twice will the vampyre's attack have sufficient influence on your mortal frame, as to induce a susceptibility on your part to become coexistent with such as he. the attacks must be often repeated, and the termination of mortal existence must be a consequence essential, and direct from those attacks, before such a result may be anticipated." "yes, yes; i understand." "if you were to continue my victim from year to year, the energies of life would slowly waste away, and, till like some faint taper's gleam, consuming more sustenance than it received, the veriest accident would extinguish your existence, and then, flora bannerworth, you might become a vampyre." "oh! horrible! most horrible!" "if by chance, or by design, the least glimpse of the cold moonbeams rested on your apparently lifeless remains, you would rise again and be one of us--a terror to yourself and a desolation to all around." "oh! i will fly from here," said flora. "the hope of escape from so terrific and dreadful a doom shall urge me onward; if flight can save me--flight from bannerworth hall, i will pause not until continents and oceans divide us." "it is well. i'm able now thus calmly to reason with you. a few short months more and i shall feel the languor of death creeping over me, and then will come that mad excitement of the brain, which, were you hidden behind triple doors of steel, would tempt me again to seek your chamber--again to seize you in my full embrace--again to draw from your veins the means of prolonged life--again to convulse your very soul with terror." "i need no incentives," said flora, with a shudder, "in the shape of descriptions of the past, to urge me on." "you will fly from bannerworth hall?" "yes, yes!" said flora, "it shall be so; its very chambers now are hideous with the recollection of scenes enacted in them. i will urge my brothers, my mother, all to leave, and in some distant clime we will find security and shelter. there even we will learn to think of you with more of sorrow than of anger--more pity than reproach--more curiosity than loathing." "be it so," said the vampyre; and he clasped his hands, as if with a thankfulness that he had done so much towards restoring peace at least to one, who, in consequence of his acts, had felt such exquisite despair. "be it so; and even i will hope that the feelings which have induced so desolated and so isolated a being as myself to endeavour to bring peace to one human heart, will plead for me, trumpet-tongued, to heaven!" "it will--it will," said flora. "do you think so?" "i do; and i will pray that the thought may turn to certainty in such a cause." the vampyre appeared to be much affected; and then he added,-"flora, you know that this spot has been the scene of a catastrophe fearful to look back upon, in the annals of your family?" "it has," said flora. "i know to what you allude; 'tis a matter of common knowledge to all--a sad theme to me, and one i would not court." "nor would i oppress you with it. your father, here, on this very spot, committed that desperate act which brought him uncalled for to the judgment seat of god. i have a strange, wild curiosity upon such subjects. will you, in return for the good that i have tried to do you, gratify it?" "i know not what you mean," said flora. "to be more explicit, then, do you remember the day on which your father breathed his last?" "too well--too well." "did you see him or converse with him shortly before that desperate act was committed?" "no; he shut himself up for some time in a solitary chamber." "ha! what chamber?" "the one in which i slept myself on the night--" "yes, yes; the one with the portrait--that speaking portrait--the eyes of which seem to challenge an intruder as he enters the apartment." "the same." "for hours shut up there!" added varney, musingly; "and from thence he wandered to the garden, where, in this summer-house, he breathed his last?" "it was so." "then, flora, ere i bid you adieu--" these words were scarcely uttered, when there was a quick, hasty footstep, and henry bannerworth appeared behind varney, in the very entrance of the summer-house. "now," he cried, "for revenge! now, foul being, blot upon the earth's surface, horrible imitation of humanity, if mortal arm can do aught against you, you shall die!" a shriek came from the lips of flora, and flinging herself past varney, who stepped aside, she clung to her brother, who made an unavailing pass with his sword at the vampyre. it was a critical moment; and had the presence of mind of varney deserted him in the least, unarmed as he was, he must have fallen beneath the weapon of henry. to spring, however, up the seat which flora had vacated, and to dash out some of the flimsy and rotten wood-work at the back of the summer-house by the propulsive power of his whole frame, was the work of a moment; and before henry could free himself from the clinging embrace of flora, varney, the vampyre was gone, and there was no greater chance of his capture than on a former occasion, when he was pursued in vain from the hall to the wood, in the intricacies of which he was so entirely lost. chapter xxxv. the explanation.--marchdale's advice.--the projected removal, and the admiral's anger. [illustration] this extremely sudden movement on the part of varney was certainly as unexpected as it was decisive. henry had imagined, that by taking possession of the only entrance to the summer-house, he must come into personal conflict with the being who had worked so much evil for him and his; and that he should so suddenly have created for himself another mode of exit, certainly never occurred to him. "for heaven's sake, flora," he said, "unhand me; this is a time for action." "but, henry, henry, hear me." "presently, presently, dear flora; i will yet make another effort to arrest the headlong flight of varney." he shook her off, perhaps with not more roughness than was necessary to induce her to forego her grasp of him, but in a manner that fully showed he intended to be free; and then he sprang through the same aperture whence varney had disappeared, just as george and mr. marchdale arrived at the door of the summer-house. it was nearly morning, so that the fields were brightening up with the faint radiance of the coming day; and when henry reached a point which he knew commanded an extensive view, he paused, and ran his eye eagerly along the landscape, with a hope of discovering some trace of the fugitive. such, however, was not the case; he saw nothing, heard nothing of sir francis varney; and then he turned, and called loudly to george to join him, and was immediately replied to by his brother's presence, accompanied by marchdale. before, however, they could exchange a word, a rattling discharge of fire-arms took place from one of the windows, and they heard the admiral, in a loud voice, shouting,-"broadside to broadside! give it them again, jack! hit them between wind and water!" then there was another rattling discharge, and henry exclaimed,-"what is the meaning of that firing?" "it comes from the admiral's room," said marchdale. "on my life, i think the old man must be mad. he has some six or eight pistols ranged in a row along the window-sill, and all loaded, so that by the aid of a match they can be pretty well discharged as a volley, which he considers the only proper means of firing upon the vampyre." "it is so," replied george; "and, no doubt, hearing an alarm, he has commenced operations by firing into the enemy." "well, well," said henry; "he must have his way. i have pursued varney thus far, and that he has again retreated to the wood, i cannot doubt. between this and the full light of day, let us at least make an effort to discover his place of retreat. we know the locality as well as he can possibly, and i propose now that we commence an active search." "come on, then," said marchdale. "we are all armed; and i, for one, shall feel no hesitation in taking the life, if it be possible to do so, of that strange being." "of that possibility you doubt?" said george, as they hurried on across the meadows. "indeed i do, and with reason too. i'm certain that when i fired at him before i hit him; and besides, flora must have shot him upon the occasion when we were absent, and she used your pistols henry, to defend herself and her mother." "it would seem so," said henry; "and disregarding all present circumstances, if i do meet him, i will put to the proof whether he be mortal or not." the distance was not great, and they soon reached the margin of the wood; they then separated agreeing to meet within it, at a well-spring, familiar to them all: previous to which each was to make his best endeavour to discover if any one was hidden among the bush-wood or in the hollows of the ancient trees they should encounter on their line of march. the fact was, that henry finding that he was likely to pass an exceedingly disturbed, restless night, through agitation of spirits, had, after tossing to and fro on his couch for many hours, wisely at length risen, and determined to walk abroad in the gardens belonging to the mansion, in preference to continuing in such a state of fever and anxiety, as he was in, in his own chamber. since the vampyre's dreadful visit, it had been the custom of both the brothers, occasionally, to tap at the chamber door of flora, who, at her own request, now that she had changed her room, and dispensed with any one sitting up with her, wished occasionally to be communicated with by some member of the family. henry, then, after rapidly dressing, as he passed the door of her bedroom, was about to tap at it, when to his surprise he found it open, and upon hastily entering it he observed that the bed was empty, and a hasty glance round the apartment convinced him that flora was not there. alarm took possession of him, and hastily arming himself, he roused marchdale and george, but without waiting for them to be ready to accompany him, he sought the garden, to search it thoroughly in case she should be anywhere there concealed. thus it was he had come upon the conference so strangely and so unexpectedly held between varney and flora in the summer-house. with what occurred upon that discovery the readers are acquainted. flora had promised george that she would return immediately to the house, but when, in compliance with the call of henry, george and marchdale had left her alone, she felt so agitated and faint that she began to cling to the trellis work of the little building for a few moments before she could gather strength to reach the mansion. two or three minutes might thus have elapsed, and flora was in such a state of mental bewilderment with all that had occurred, that she could scarce believe it real, when suddenly a slight sound attracted her attention, and through the gap which had been made in the wall of the summer-house, with an appearance of perfect composure, again appeared sir francis varney. "flora," he said, quietly resuming the discourse which had been broken off, "i am quite convinced now that you will be much the happier for the interview." "gracious heaven!" said flora, "whence have you come from?" "i have never left," said varney. "but i saw you fly from this spot." "you did; but it was only to another immediately outside the summer house. i had no idea of breaking off our conference so abruptly." "have you anything to add to what you have already stated?" "absolutely nothing, unless you have a question to propose to me--i should have thought you had, flora. is there no other circumstance weighing heavily upon your mind, as well as the dreadful visitation i have subjected you to?" "yes," said flora. "what has become of charles holland?" "listen. do not discard all hope; when you are far from here you will meet with him again." "but he has left me." "and yet he will be able, when you again encounter him, so far to extenuate his seeming perfidy, that you shall hold him as untouched in honour as when first he whispered to you that he loved you." "oh, joy! joy!" said flora; "by that assurance you have robbed misfortune of its sting, and richly compensated me for all that i have suffered." "adieu!" said the vampyre. "i shall now proceed to my own home by a different route to that taken by those who would kill me." "but after this," said flora, "there shall be no danger; you shall be held harmless, and our departure from bannerworth hall shall be so quick, that you will soon be released from all apprehension of vengeance from my brother, and i shall taste again of that happiness which i thought had fled from me for ever." "farewell," said the vampire; and folding his cloak closely around him, he strode from the summer-house, soon disappearing from her sight behind the shrubs and ample vegetation with which that garden abounded. flora sunk upon her knees, and uttered a brief, but heartfelt thanksgiving to heaven for this happy change in her destiny. the hue of health faintly again visited her cheeks, and as she now, with a feeling of more energy and strength than she had been capable of exerting for many days, walked towards the house, she felt all that delightful sensation which the mind experiences when it is shaking off the trammels of some serious evil which it delights now to find that the imagination has attired in far worse colours than the facts deserved. it is scarcely necessary, after this, to say that the search in the wood for sir francis varney was an unproductive one, and that the morning dawned upon the labours of the brother and of mr. marchdale, without their having discovered the least indication of the presence of varney. again puzzled and confounded, they stood on the margin of the wood, and looked sadly towards the brightening windows of bannerworth hall, which were now reflecting with a golden radiance the slant rays of the morning sun. "foiled again," remarked henry, with a gesture of impatience; "foiled again, and as completely as before. i declare that i will fight this man, let our friend the admiral say what he will against such a measure i will meet him in mortal combat; he shall consummate his triumph over our whole family by my death, or i will rid the world and ourselves of so frightful a character." "let us hope," said marchdale, "that some other course may be adopted, which shall put an end to these proceedings." "that," exclaimed henry, "is to hope against all probability; what other course can be pursued? be this varney man or devil, he has evidently marked us for his prey." [illustration] "indeed, it would seem so," remarked george; "but yet he shall find that we will not fall so easily; he shall discover that if poor flora's gentle spirit has been crushed by these frightful circumstances, we are of a sterner mould." "he shall," said henry; "i for one will dedicate my life to this matter. i will know no more rest than is necessary to recruit my frame, until i have succeeded in overcoming this monster; i will seek no pleasure here, and will banish from my mind, all else that may interfere with that one fixed pursuit. he or i must fall." "well spoken," said marchdale; "and yet i hope that circumstances may occur to prevent such a necessity of action, and that probably you will yet see that it will be wise and prudent to adopt a milder and a safer course." "no, marchdale, you cannot feel as we feel. you look on more as a spectator, sympathising with the afflictions of either, than feeling the full sting of those afflictions yourself." "do i not feel acutely for you? i'm a lonely man in the world, and i have taught myself now to centre my affections in your family; my recollections of early years assist me in so doing. believe me, both of you, that i am no idle spectator of your griefs, but that i share them fully. if i advise you to be peaceful, and to endeavour by the gentlest means possible to accomplish your aims, it is not that i would counsel you cowardice; but having seen so much more of the world than either of you have had time or opportunity of seeing, i do not look so enthusiastically upon matters, but, with a cooler, calmer judgment, i do not say a better, i proffer to you my counsel." "we thank you," said henry; "but this is a matter in which action seems specially called for. it is not to be borne that a whole family is to be oppressed by such a fiend in human shape as that varney." "let me," said marchdale, "counsel you to submit to flora's decision in this business; let her wishes constitute the rules of action. she is the greatest sufferer, and the one most deeply interested in the termination of this fearful business. moreover she has judgment and decision of character--she will advise you rightly, be assured." "that she would advise us honourably," said henry, "and that we should feel every disposition in the world to defer to her wishes our proposition, is not to be doubted; but little shall be done without her counsel and sanction. let us now proceed homeward, for i am most anxious to ascertain how it came about that she and sir francis varney were together in that summer-house at so strange an hour." they all three walked together towards the house, conversing in a similar strain as they went. chapter xxxvi. the consultation.--the duel and its results. [illustration] independent of this interview which flora had had with the much dreaded sir francis varney, the circumstances in which she and all who were dear to her, happened at that moment to be placed, certainly required an amount of consideration, which could not be too soon bestowed. by a combination of disagreeables, everything that could possibly occur to disturb the peace of the family seemed to have taken place at once; like macbeth's, their troubles had truly come in battalions, and now that the serenity of their domestic position was destroyed, minor evils and annoyances which that very serenity had enabled them to hold at arm's-length became gigantic, and added much to their distress. the small income, which, when all was happiness, health and peace, was made to constitute a comfortable household, was now totally inadequate to do so--the power to economise and to make the most of a little, had flown along with that contentedness of spirit which the harmony of circumstances alone could produce. it was not to be supposed that poor mrs. bannerworth could now, as she had formerly done, when her mind was free from anxiety, attend to those domestic matters which make up the comforts of a family--distracted at the situation of her daughter, and bewildered by the rapid succession of troublesome events which so short a period of time had given birth to, she fell into an inert state of mind as different as anything could possibly be, from her former active existence. it has likewise been seen how the very domestics fled from bannerworth hall in dismay, rather than remain beneath the same roof with a family believed to be subject to the visitations of so awful a being as a vampyre. among the class who occupy positions of servitude, certainly there might have been found some, who, with feelings and understandings above such considerations, would have clung sympathetically to that family in distress, which they had known under a happier aspect; but it had not been the good fortune of the bannerworths to have such as these about them; hence selfishness had its way, and they were deserted. it was not likely, then, that strangers would willingly accept service in a family so situated, without some powerful impulse in the shape of a higher pecuniary consideration, as was completely out of the power of the bannerworths to offer. thus was it, then, that most cruelly, at the very time that they had most need of assistance and of sympathy, this unfortunate family almost became isolated from their kind; and, apart from every other consideration, it would have been almost impossible for them to continue inhabitants of the hall, with anything like comfort, or advantage. and then, although the disappearance of charles holland no longer awakened those feelings of indignation at his supposed perfidy which were first produced by that event; still, view it in which way they might, it was a severe blow of fate, and after it, they one and all found themselves still less able to contend against the sea of troubles that surrounded them. the reader, too, will not have failed to remark that there was about the whole of the family that pride of independence which induced them to shrink from living upon extraneous aid; and hence, although they felt and felt truly, that when admiral bell, in his frank manner, offered them pecuniary assistance, that it was no idle compliment, yet with a sensitiveness such as they might well be expected to feel, they held back, and asked each other what prospect there was of emerging from such a state of things, and if it were justifiable to commence a life of dependence, the end of which was not evident or tangible. notwithstanding, too, the noble confidence of flora in her lover, and notwithstanding that confidence had been echoed by her brothers, there would at times obtrude into the minds of the latter, a feeling of the possibility, that after all they might be mistaken; and charles holland might, from some sudden impulse, fancying his future happiness was all at stake, have withdrawn himself from the hall, and really written the letters attributed to him. we say this only obtruded itself occasionally, for all their real feelings and aspirations were the other way, although mr. marchdale, they could perceive, had his doubts, and they could not but confess that he was more likely to view the matter calmly and dispassionately than they. in fact, the very hesitation with which he spoke upon the subject, convinced them of his doubt; for they attributed that hesitation to a fear of giving them pain, or of wounding the prejudices of admiral bell, with whom he had already had words so nearly approaching to a quarrel. henry's visit to mr. chillingworth was not likely to be productive of any results beyond those of a conjectural character. all that that gentleman could do was to express a willingness to be directed by them in any way, rather than suggest any course of conduct himself upon circumstances which he could not be expected to judge of as they who were on the spot, and had witnessed their actual occurrence. and now we will suppose that the reader is enabled with us to look into one of the principal rooms of bannerworth hall. it is evening, and some candles are shedding a sickly light on the ample proportions of the once handsome apartment. at solemn consultation the whole of the family are assembled. as well as the admiral, mr. chillingworth, and marchdale, jack pringle, too, walked in, by the sufferance of his master, as if he considered he had a perfect right to do so. the occasion of the meeting had been a communication which flora had made concerning her most singular and deeply interesting interview with the vampyre. the details of this interview had produced a deep effect upon the whole of the family. flora was there, and she looked better, calmer, and more collected than she had done for some days past. no doubt the interview she had had with varney in the summer-house in the garden had dispelled a host of imaginary terrors with which she had surrounded him, although it had confirmed her fully that he and he only was the dreadful being who had caused her so much misery. that interview had tended to show her that about him there was yet something human, and that there was not a danger of her being hunted down from place to place by so horrible an existence. such a feeling as this was, of course, a source of deep consolation; and with a firmer voice, and more of her old spirit of cheerfulness about her than she had lately exhibited, she again detailed the particulars of the interview to all who had assembled, concluding by saying,-"and this has given me hope of happier days. if it be a delusion, it is a happy one; and now that but a frightful veil of mystery still hangs over the fate of charles holland, i how gladly would i bid adieu to this place, and all that has made it terrible. i could almost pity sir francis varney, rather than condemn him." "that may be true," said henry, "to a certain extent, sister; but we never can forget the amount of misery he has brought upon us. it is no slight thing to be forced from our old and much-loved home, even if such proceeding does succeed in freeing us from his persecutions." "but, my young friend," said marchdale, "you must recollect, that through life it is continually the lot of humanity to be endeavouring to fly from great evils to those which do not present themselves to the mind in so bad an aspect. it is something, surely, to alleviate affliction, if we cannot entirely remove it." "that is true," said mr. chillingworth, "to a considerable extent, but then it takes too much for granted to please me." "how so, sir?" "why, certainly, to remove from bannerworth hall is a much less evil than to remain at bannerworth hall, and be haunted by a vampyre; but then that proposition takes for granted that vampyre business, which i will never grant. i repeat, again and again, it is contrary to all experience, to philosophy, and to all the laws of ordinary nature." "facts are stubborn things," said marchdale. "apparently," remarked mr. chillingworth. "well, sir; and here we have the fact of a vampyre." "the presumed fact. one swallow don't make a summer, mr. marchdale." "this is waste of time," said henry--"of course, the amount of evidence that will suffice to bring conviction to one man's mind will fail in doing so to another. the question is, what are we to do?" all eyes were turned upon flora, as if this question was more particularly addressed to her, and it behoved her, above all others, to answer it. she did so; and in a firm, clear voice, she said,-"i will discover the fate of charles holland, and then leave the hall." "the fate of charles holland!" said marchdale. "why, really, unless that young gentleman chooses to be communicative himself upon so interesting a subject, we may be a long while discovering his fate. i know that it is not a romantic view to take of the question, to suppose simply that he wrote the three letters found upon his dressing-table, and then decamped; but to my mind, it savours most wonderfully of matter-of-fact. i now speak more freely than i have otherwise done, for i am now upon the eve of my departure. i have no wish to remain here, and breed dissension in any family, or to run a tilt against anybody's prejudices." here he looked at admiral bell. "i leave this house to-night." "you're a d----d lubberly thief," said the admiral; "the sooner you leave it the better. why, you bad-looking son of a gun, what do you mean? i thought we'd had enough of that." "i fully expected this abuse," said marchdale. "did you expect that?" said the admiral, as he snatched up an inkstand, and threw at marchdale, hitting him a hard knock on the chin, and bespattering its contents on his breast. "now i'll give you satisfaction, you lubber. d--me, if you ain't a second jones, and enough to sink the ship. shiver my timbers if i sha'n't say something strong presently." "i really," said henry, "must protest, admiral bell, against this conduct." "protest and be d----d." "mr. marchdale may be right, sir, or he may be wrong, it's a matter of opinion." "oh, never mind," said marchdale; "i look upon this old nautical ruffian as something between a fool and a madman. if he were a younger man i should chastise him upon the spot; but as it is i live in hopes yet of getting him into some comfortable lunatic asylum." "me into an asylum!" shouted the admiral. "jack, did you hear that?" "ay, ay, sir." "farewell all of you," said marchdale; "my best wishes be with this family. i cannot remain under this roof to be so insulted." "a good riddance," cried the admiral. "i'd rather sail round the world with a shipload of vampyres than with such a humbugging son of a gun as you are. d----e, you're worse than a lawyer." "nay, nay," cried they, "mr. marchdale, stay." "stay, stay," cried george, and mrs. bannerworth, likewise, said stay; but at the moment flora stepped forward, and in a clear voice she said,-"no, let him go, he doubts charles holland; let all go who doubt charles holland. mr. marchdale, heaven forgive you this injustice you are doing. we may never meet again. farewell, sir!" these words were spoken in so decided a tone, that no one contradicted them. marchdale cast a strange kind of look round upon the family circle, and in another instant he was gone. "huzza!" shouted jack pringle; "that's one good job." henry looked rather resentful, which the admiral could not but observe, and so, less with the devil-may-care manner in which he usually spoke, the old man addressed him. "hark ye, mr. henry bannerworth, you ain't best pleased with me, and in that case i don't know that i shall stay to trouble you any longer, as for your friend who has left you, sooner or later you'll find him out--i tell you there's no good in that fellow. do you think i've been cruizing about for a matter of sixty years, and don't know an honest man when i see him. but never mind, i'm going on a voyage of discovery for my nephew, and you can do as you like." "heaven only knows, admiral bell," said henry, "who is right and who is wrong. i do much regret that you have quarrelled with mr. marchdale; but what is done can't be undone." "do not leave us," said flora; "let me beg of you, admiral bell, not to leave us; for my sake remain here, for to you i can speak freely and with confidence, of charles, when probably i can do so to no one else. you knew him well and have a confidence in him, which no one else can aspire to. i pray you, therefore, to stay with us." "only on one condition," said the admiral. "name it--name it! "you think of letting the hall?" "yes, yes." "let me have it, then, and let me pay a few years in advance. if you don't, i'm d----d if i stay another night in the place. you must give me immediate possession, too, and stay here as my guests until you suit yourselves elsewhere. those are my terms and conditions. say yes, and all's right; say no, and i'm off like a round shot from a carronade. d----me, that's the thing, jack, isn't it?" "ay, ay, sir." there was a silence of some few moments after this extraordinary offer had been made, and then they spoke, saying,-"admiral bell, your generous offer, and the feelings which dictated it, are by far too transparent for us to affect not to understand them. your actions, admiral--" "oh, bother my actions! what are they to you? come, now, i consider myself master of the house, d--n you! i invite you all to dinner, or supper, or to whatever meal comes next. mrs. bannerworth, will you oblige me, as i'm an old fool in family affairs, by buying what's wanted for me and my guests? there's the money, ma'am. come along, jack, we'll take a look over our new house. what do you think of it?" "wants some sheathing, sir, here and there." "very like; but, however, it will do well enough for us; we're in port, you know. come along." "ay, ay, sir." and off went the admiral and jack, after leaving a twenty pound note in mrs. bannerworth's lap. chapter xxxvii. sir francis varney's separate opponents.--the interposition of flora. [illustration] the old admiral so completely overcame the family of the bannerworths by his generosity and evident single-mindedness of his behaviour, that although not one, except flora, approved of his conduct towards mr. marchdale, yet they could not help liking him; and had they been placed in a position to choose which of the two they would have had remain with them, the admiral or marchdale, there can be no question they would have made choice of the former. still, however, it was not pleasant to find a man like marchdale virtually driven from the house, because he presumed to differ in opinion upon a very doubtful matter with another of its inmates. but as it was the nature of the bannerworth family always to incline to the most generous view of subjects, the frank, hearty confidence of the old admiral in charles holland pleased them better than the calm and serious doubting of marchdale. his ruse of hiring the house of them, and paying the rent in advance, for the purpose of placing ample funds in their hands for any contingency, was not the less amiable because it was so easily seen through; and they could not make up their minds to hurt the feelings of the old man by the rejection of his generous offer. when he had left, this subject was canvassed among them, and it was agreed that he should have his own way in the matter for the present, although they hoped to hear something from marchdale, which should make his departure appear less abrupt and uncomfortable to the whole of the family. during the course of this conversation, it was made known to flora with more distinctness than under any other circumstances it would have been, that george holland had been on the eve of fighting a duel with sir francis varney, previous to his mysterious disappearance. when she became fully aware of this fact, to her mind it seemed materially to add to the suspicions previously to then entertained, that foul means had been used in order to put charles out of the way. "who knows," she said, "that this varney may not shrink with the greatest terror from a conflict with any human being, and feeling one was inevitable with charles holland, unless interrupted by some vigorous act of his own, he or some myrmidons of his may have taken charles's life!" "i do not think, flora," said henry, "that he would have ventured upon so desperate an act; i cannot well believe such a thing possible. but fear not; he will find, if he have really committed any such atrocity, that it will not save him." these words of henry, though it made no impression at the time upon flora, beyond what they carried upon their surface, they really, however, as concerned henry himself, implied a settled resolution, which he immediately set about reducing to practice. when the conference broke up, night, as it still was, he, without saying anything to any one, took his hat and cloak, and left the hall, proceeding by the nearest practicable route to the residence of sir francis varney, where he arrived without any interruption of any character. varney was at first denied to him, but before he could leave the house, a servant came down the great staircase, to say it was a mistake; and that sir francis was at home, and would be happy to see him. he was ushered into the same apartment where sir francis varney had before received his visitors; and there sat the now declared vampyre, looking pale and ghastly by the dim light which burned in the apartment, and, indeed, more like some spectre of the tomb, than one of the great family of man. "be seated, sir," said varney; "although my eyes have seldom the pleasure of beholding you within these walls, be assured you are a honoured guest." "sir francis varney," said henry, "i came not here to bandy compliments with you; i have none to pay to you, nor do i wish to hear any of them from your lips." "an excellent sentiment, young man," said varney, "and well delivered. may i presume, then, without infringing too far upon your extreme courtesy, to inquire, to what circumstances i am indebted for your visit?" "to one, sir francis, that i believe you are better acquainted with than you will have the candour to admit." "indeed, sir," said varney, coldly; "you measure my candour, probably, by a standard of your own; in which case i fear, i may be no gainer; and yet that may be of itself a circumstance that should afford little food for surprise, but proceed, sir--since we have so few compliments to stand between us and our purpose, we shall in all due time arrive at it." "yes, in due time, sir francis varney, and that due time has arrived. know you anything of my friend, mr. charles holland?" said henry, in marked accents; and he gazed on sir francis varney with earnestness, that seemed to say not even a look should escape his observation. varney, however, returned the gaze as steadily, but coldly, as he replied in his measured accents,-"i have heard of the young gentleman." "and seen him?" "and seen him too, as you, mr. bannerworth, must be well aware. surely you have not come all this way, merely to make such an inquiry; but, sir, you are welcome to the answer." henry had something of a struggle to keep down the rising anger, at these cool taunts of varney; but he succeeded--and then he said,-"i suspect charles holland, sir francis varney, has met with unfair treatment, and that he has been unfairly dealt with, for an unworthy purpose." "undoubtedly," said varney, "if the gentleman you allude to, has been unfairly dealt with, it was for a foul purpose; for no good or generous object, my young sir, could be so obtained--you acknowledge so much, i doubt not?" "i do, sir francis varney; and hence the purpose of my visit here--for this reason i apply to you--" "a singular object, supported by a singular reason. i cannot see the connection, young sir; pray proceed to enlighten me upon this matter, and when you have done that, may i presume upon your consideration, to inquire in what way i can be of any service to you?" "sir francis," said henry, his anger raising his tones--"this will not serve you--i have come to exact an account of how you have disposed of my friend; and i will have it." "gently, my good sir; you are aware i know nothing of your friend; his motions are his own; and as to what i have done with him; my only answer is, that he would permit me to do nothing with him, had i been so inclined to have taken the liberty." "you are suspected, sir francis varney, of having made an attempt upon the life or liberty of charles holland; you, in fact, are suspected of being his murderer--and, so help me heaven! if i have not justice, i will have vengeance!" "young sir, your words are of grave import, and ought to be coolly considered before they are uttered. with regard to justice and vengeance, mr. bannerworth, you may have both; but i tell you, of charles holland, or what has become of him, i know nothing. but wherefore do you come to so unlikely a quarter to learn something of an individual of whom i know nothing?" "because charles holland was to have fought a duel with you: but before that had time to take place, he has suddenly become missing. i suspect that you are the author of his disappearance, because you fear an encounter with a mortal man." "mr. bannerworth, permit me to say, in my own defence, that i do not fear any man, however foolish he may be; and wisdom is not an attribute i find, from experience in all men, of your friend. however, you must be dreaming, sir--a kind of vivid insanity has taken possession of your mind, which distorts--" "sir francis varney!" exclaimed henry, now perfectly uncontrollable. "sir," said varney, as he filled up the pause, "proceed; i am all attention. you do me honour." "if," resumed henry, "such was your object in putting mr. holland aside, by becoming personally or by proxy an assassin, you are mistaken in supposing you have accomplished your object." "go on, sir," said sir francis varney, in a bland and sweet tone; "i am all attention; pray proceed." "you have failed; for i now here, on this spot, defy you to mortal combat. coward, assassin as you are, i challenge you to fight." "you don't mean on the carpet here?" said varney, deliberately. "no, sir; but beneath the canopy of heaven, in the light of the day. and then, sir francis, we shall see who will shrink from the conflict." "it is remarkably good, mr. bannerworth, and, begging your pardon, for i do not wish to give any offence, my honoured sir, it would rehearse before an audience; in short, sir, it is highly dramatic." "you shrink from the combat, do you? now, indeed, i know you." "young man--young man," said sir francis, calmly, and shaking his head very deliberately, and the shadows passed across his pale face, "you know me not, if you think sir francis varney shrinks from any man, much less one like yourself." "you are a coward, and worse, if you refuse my challenge." "i do not refuse it; i accept it," said varney, calmly, and in a dignified manner; and then, with a sneer, he added,--"you are well acquainted with the mode in which gentlemen generally manage these matters, mr. bannerworth, and perhaps i am somewhat confined in my knowledge in the ways of the world, because you are your own principal and second. in all my experience, i never met with a similar case." "the circumstances under which it is given are as unexampled, and will excuse the mode of the challenge," said henry, with much warmth. "singular coincidence--the challenge and mode of it is most singular! they are well matched in that respect. singular, did i say? the more i think of it, mr. bannerworth, the more i am inclined to think this positively odd." "early to-morrow, sir francis, you shall hear from me." "in that case, you will not arrange preliminaries now? well, well; it is very unusual for the principals themselves to do so; and yet, excuse my freedom, i presumed, as you had so far deserted the beaten track, that i had no idea how far you might be disposed to lead the same route." "i have said all i intended to say, sir francis varney; we shall see each other again." "i may not detain you, i presume, to taste aught in the way of refreshment?" henry made no reply, but turned towards the door, without even making an attempt to return the grave and formal bow that sir francis varney made as he saw him about to quit the apartment; for henry saw that his pale features were lighted up with a sarcastic smile, most disagreeable to look upon as well as irritating to henry bannerworth. he now quitted sir francis varney's abode, being let out by a servant who had been rung for for that purpose by his master. henry walked homeward, satisfied that he had now done all that he could under the circumstances. "i will send chillingworth to him in the morning, and then i shall see what all this will end in. he must meet me, and then charles holland, if not discovered, shall be, at least, revenged." there was another person in bannerworth hall who had formed a similar resolution. that person was a very different sort of person to henry bannerworth, though quite as estimable in his way. this was no other than the old admiral. it was singular that two such very different persons should deem the same steps necessary, and both keep the secret from each other; but so it was, and, after some internal swearing, he determined upon challenging varney in person. "i'd send jack pringle, but the swab would settle the matter as shortly as if a youngster was making an entry in a log, and heard the boatswain's whistle summoning the hands to a mess, and feared he would lose his grog. "d--n my quarters! but sir francis varney, as he styles himself, sha'n't make any way against old admiral bell. he's as tough as a hawser, and just the sort of blade for a vampyre to come athwart. i'll pitch him end-long, and make a plank of him afore long. cus my windpipe! what a long, lanky swab he is, with teeth fit to unpick a splice; but let me alone, i'll see if i can't make a hull of his carcass, vampyre or no vampyre. "my nevy, charles holland, can't be allowed to cut away without nobody's leave or licence. no, no; i'll not stand that anyhow. 'never desert a messmate in the time of need,' is the first maxim of a seaman, and i ain't the one as 'll do so." thus self-communing, the old admiral marched along until he came to sir francis varney's house, at the gate of which he gave the bell what he called a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether, that set it ringing with a fury, the like of which had never certainly been heard by the household. a minute or two scarcely elapsed before the domestics hurried to answer so urgent a summons; and when the gate was opened, the servant who answered it inquired his business. "what's that to you, snob? is your master, sir francis varney, in? because, if he be, let him know old admiral bell wants to speak to him. d'ye hear?" "yes, sir," replied the servant, who had paused a few moments to examine the individual who gave this odd kind of address. in another minute word was brought to him that sir francis varney would be very happy to see admiral bell. "ay, ay," he muttered; "just as the devil likes to meet with holy water, or as i like any water save salt water." he was speedily introduced to sir francis varney, who was seated in the same posture as he had been left by henry bannerworth not many minutes before. "admiral bell," said sir francis, rising, and bowing to that individual in the most polite, calm, and dignified manner imaginable, "permit me to express the honour i feel at this unexpected visit." "none of your gammon." "will you be seated. allow me to offer you such refreshments as this poor house affords." "d--n all this! you know, sir francis, i don't want none o' this palaver. it's for all the world like a frenchman, when you are going to give him a broadside; he makes grimaces, throws dust in your eyes, and tries to stab you in the back. oh, no! none of that for me." "i should say not, admiral bell. i should not like it myself, and i dare say you are a man of too much experience not to perceive when you are or are not imposed upon." "well, what is that to you? d--n me, i didn't come here to talk to you about myself." "then may i presume upon your courtesy so far as to beg that you will enlighten me upon the object of your visit!" "yes; in pretty quick time. just tell me where you have stowed away my nephew, charles holland?" "really, i--" "hold your slack, will you, and hear me out; if he's living, let him out, and i'll say no more about it; that's liberal, you know; it ain't terms everybody would offer you." "i must, in truth, admit they are not; and, moreover, they quite surprise even me, and i have learned not to be surprised at almost anything." "well, will you give him up alive? but, hark ye, you mustn't have made very queer fish of him, do ye see?" "i hear you," said sir francis, with a bland smile, passing one hand gently over the other, and showing his front teeth in a peculiar manner; "but i really cannot comprehend all this; but i may say, generally, that mr. holland is no acquaintance of mine, and i have no sort of knowledge where he may be." "that won't do for me," said the admiral, positively, shaking his head. "i am particularly sorry, admiral bell, that it will not, seeing that i have nothing else to say." "i see how it is; you've put him out of the way, and i'm d----d if you shan't bring him to life, whole and sound, or i'll know the reason why." "with that i have already furnished you, admiral bell," quietly rejoined varney; "anything more on that head is out of my power, though my willingness to oblige a person of such consideration as yourself, is very great; but, permit me to add, this is a very strange and odd communication from one gentleman to another. you have lost a relative, who has, very probably, taken some offence, or some notion into his head, of which nobody but himself knows anything, and you come to one yet more unlikely to know anything of him, than even yourself. "gammon again, now, sir francis varney, or blarney." "varney, if you please, admiral bell; i was christened varney." "christened, eh?" "yes, christened--were you not christened? if not, i dare say you understand the ceremony well enough." [illustration] "i should think i did; but, as for christening, a--" "go on, sir." "a vampyre! why i should as soon think of reading the burial service of a pig." "very possible; but what has all this to do with your visit to me?" "this much, you lubber. now, d--n my carcass from head to stern, if i don't call you out." "well, admiral bell," slid varney, mildly, "in that case, i suppose i must come out; but why do you insist that i have any knowledge of your nephew, mr. charles holland?" "you were to have fought a duel with him, and now he's gone." "i am here," said varney. "ay," said the admiral, "that's as plain as a purser's shirt upon a handspike; but that's the very reason why my nevey ain't here, and that's all about it." "and that's marvellous little, so far as the sense is concerned," said varney, without the movement of a muscle. "it is said that people of your class don't like fighting mortal men; now you have disposed of him, lest he should dispose of you." "that is explicit, but it is to no purpose, since the gentleman in question hasn't placed himself at my disposal." "then, d----e, i will; fish, flesh, or fowl, i don't care; all's one to admiral bell. come fair or fowl, i'm a tar for all men; a seaman ever ready to face a foe, so here goes, you lubberly moon manufactured calf." "i hear, admiral, but it is scarcely civil, to say the least of it; however, as you are somewhat eccentric, and do not, i dare say, mean all your words imply, i am quite willing to make every allowance." "i don't want any allowance; d--n you and your allowance, too; nothing but allowance of grog, and a pretty good allowance, too, will do for me, and tell you, sir francis varney," said the admiral, with much wrath, "that you are a d----d lubberly hound, and i'll fight you; yes, i'm ready to hammer away, or with anything from a pop-gun to a ship's gun; you don't come over me with your gammon, i tell you. you've murdered charles holland because you couldn't face him--that's the truth of it." "with the other part of your speech, admiral bell, allow me to say, you have mixed up a serious accusation--one i cannot permit to pass lightly." "will you or not fight?" "oh, yes; i shall be happy to serve you any way that i can. i hope this will be an answer to your accusation, also." "that's settled, then." "why, i am not captious, admiral bell, but it is not generally usual for the principals to settle the preliminaries themselves; doubtless you, in your career of fame and glory, know something of the manner in which gentlemen demean themselves on these occasions." "oh, d--n you! yes, i'll send some one to do all this. yes, yes, jack pringle will be the man, though jack ain't a holiday, shore-going, smooth-spoken swab, but as good a seaman as ever trod deck or handled a boarding-pike." "any friend of yours," said varney, blandly, "will be received and treated as such upon an errand of such consequence; and now our conference has, i presume, concluded." "yes, yes, i've done--d----e, no--yes--no. i will keel-haul you but i'll know something of my neavy, charles holland." "good day, admiral bell." as varney spoke, he placed his hand upon the bell which he had near him, to summon an attendant to conduct the admiral out. the latter, who had said a vast deal more than he ever intended, left the room in a great rage, protesting to himself that he would amply avenge his nephew, charles holland. he proceeded homeward, considerably vexed and annoyed that he had been treated with so much calmness, and all knowledge of his nephew denied. when he got back, he quarrelled heartily with jack pringle--made it up--drank grog--quarrelled--made it up, and finished with grog again--until he went to bed swearing he should like to fire a broadside at the whole of the french army, and annihilate it at once. with this wish, he fell asleep. early next morning, henry bannerworth sought mr. chillingworth, and having found him, he said in a serious tone,-"mr. chillingworth, i have rather a serious favour to ask you, and one which you may hesitate in granting." "it must be very serious indeed," said mr. chillingworth, "that i should hesitate to grant it to you; but pray inform me what it is that you deem so serious?" "sir francis varney and i must have a meeting," said henry. "have you really determined upon such a course?" said mr. chillingworth; "you know the character of your adversary?" "that is all settled,--i have given a challenge, and he has accepted it; so all other considerations verge themselves into one--and that is the when, where, and how." "i see," said mr. chillingworth. "well, since it cannot be helped on your part, i will do what is requisite for you--do you wish anything to be done or insisted on in particular in this affair." "nothing with regard to sir francis varney that i may not leave to your discretion. i feel convinced that he is the assassin of charles holland, whom he feared to fight in duel." "then there remains but little else to do, but to arrange preliminaries, i believe. are you prepared on every other point?" "i am--you will see that i am the challenger, and that he must now fight. what accident may turn up to save him, i fear not, but sure i am, that he will endeavour to take every advantage that may arise, and so escape the encounter." "and what do you imagine he will do now he has accepted your challenge?" said mr. chillingworth; "one would imagine he could not very well escape." "no--but he accepted the challenge which charles holland sent him--a duel was inevitable, and it seems to me to be a necessary consequence that he disappeared from amongst us, for mr. holland would never have shrunk from the encounter." "there can be no sort of suspicion about that," remarked chillingworth; "but allow me to advise you that you take care of yourself, and keep a watchful eye upon every one--do not be seen out alone." "i fear not." "nay, the gentleman who has disappeared was, i am sure, fearless enough; but yet that has not saved him. i would not advise you to be fearful, only watchful; you have now an event awaiting upon you, which it is well you should go through with, unless circumstances should so turn out, that it is needless; therefore i say, when you have the suspicions you do entertain of this man's conduct, beware, be cautious, and vigilant." "i will do so--in the mean time, i trust myself confidently in your hands--you know all that is necessary." "this affair is quite a secret from all of the family?" "most certainly so, and will remain so--i shall be at the hall." "and there i will see you--but be careful not to be drawn into any adventure of any kind--it is best to be on the safe side under all circumstances." "i will be especially careful, be assured, but farewell; see sir francis varney as early as you can, and let the meeting be as early as you can, and thus diminish the chance of accident." "that i will attend to. farewell for the present." mr. chillingworth immediately set about the conducting of the affair thus confided to him; and that no time might be lost, he determined to set out at once for sir francis varney's residence. "things with regard to this family seem to have gone on wild of late," thought mr. chillingworth; "this may bring affairs to a conclusion, though i had much rather they had come to some other. my life for it, there is a juggle or a mystery somewhere; i will do this, and then we shall see what will come of it; if this sir francis varney meets him--and at this moment i can see no reason why he should not do so--it will tend much to deprive him of the mystery about him; but if, on the other hand, he refuse--but then that's all improbable, because he has agreed to do so. i fear, however, that such a man as varney is a dreadful enemy to encounter--he is cool and unruffled--and that gives him all the advantage in such affairs; but henry's nerves are not bad, though shaken by these untowards events; but time will show--i would it were all over." with these thoughts and feelings strangely intermixed, mr. chillingworth set forward for sir francis varney's house. * * * * * admiral bell slept soundly enough though, towards morning, he fell into a strange dream, and thought he was yard arm and yard arm with a strange fish--something of the mermaid species. "well," exclaimed the admiral, after a customary benediction of his eyes and limbs, "what's to come next? may i be spliced to a shark if i understand what this is all about. i had some grog last night, but then grog, d'y'see, is--is--a seaman's native element, as the newspapers say, though i never read 'em now, it's such a plague." he lay quiet for a short time, considering in his own mind what was best to be done, and what was the proper course to pursue, and why he should dream. "hilloa, hilloa, hil--loa! jack a-hoy! a-hoy!" shouted the admiral, as a sudden recollection of his challenge came across his memory; "jack pringle a-hoy? d--n you, where are you?--you're never at hand when you are wanted. oh, you lubber,--a-hoy!" "a-hoy!" shouted a voice, as the door opened, and jack thrust his head in; "what cheer, messmate? what ship is this?" "oh, you lubberly--" the door was shut in a minute, and jack pringle disappeared. "hilloa, jack pringle, you don't mean to say you'll desert your colours, do you, you dumb dog?" "who says i'll desert the ship as she's sea-worthy!" "then why do you go away?" "because i won't be called lubberly. i'm as good a man as ever swabbed a deck, and don't care who says to the contrary. i'll stick to the ship as long as she's seaworthy," said jack. "well, come here, and just listen to the log, and be d----d to you." "what's the orders now, admiral?" said jack, "though, as we are paid off--" "there, take that, will you?" said admiral bell, as he flung a pillow at jack, being the only thing in the shape of a missile within reach. jack ducked, and the pillow produced a clatter in the washhand-stand among the crockery, as jack said,-"there's a mutiny in the ship, and hark how the cargo clatters; will you have it back again?" "come, will you? i've been dreaming, jack." "dreaming! what's that?" "thinking of something when you are asleep, you swab." "ha, ha, ha!" laughed jack; "never did such a thing in my life--ha, ha, ha! what's the matter now?" "i'll tell you what's the matter. jack pringle, you are becoming mutinous, and i won't have it; if you don't hold your jaw and draw in your slacks, i'll have another second." "another second! what's in the wind, now?" said jack. "is this the dream?" "if ever i dream when i'm alongside a strange craft, then it is a dream; but old admiral bell ain't the man to sleep when there's any work to be done." "that's uncommon true," said jack, turning a quid. "well, then, i'm going to fight." "fight!" exclaimed jack. "avast, there, i don't see where's the enemy--none o' that gammon; jack pringle can fight, too, and will lay alongside his admiral, but he don't see the enemy anywhere." "you don't understand these things, so i'll tell you. i have had a bit of talk with sir francis varney, and i am going to fight him." "what the _wamphigher_?" remarked jack, parenthetically. "yes." "well, then," resumed jack, "then we shall see another blaze, at least afore we die; but he's an odd fish--one of davy jones's sort." "i don't care about that; he may be anything he likes; but admiral bell ain't a-going to have his nephew burned and eaten, and sucked like i don't know what, by a vampyre, or by any other confounded land-shark." "in course," said jack, "we ain't a-going to put up with nothing of that sort, and if so be as how he has put him out of the way, why it's our duty to send him after him, and square the board." "that's the thing, jack; now you know you must go to sir francis varney and tell him you come from me." "i don't care if i goes on my own account," said jack. "that won't do; i've challenged him and i must fight him." "in course you will," returned jack, "and, if he blows you away, why i'll take your place, and have a blaze myself." the admiral gave a look at jack of great admiration, and then said,-"you are a d----d good seaman, jack, but he's a knight, and might say no to that, but do you go to him, and tell him that you come from me to settle the when and the where this duel is to be fought." "single fight?" said jack. "yes; consent to any thing that is fair," said the admiral, "but let it be as soon as you can. now, do you understand what i have said?" "yes, to be sure; i ain't lived all these years without knowing your lingo." "then go at once; and don't let the honour of admiral bell and old england suffer, jack. i'm his man, you know, at any price." "never fear," said jack; "you shall fight him, at any rate. i'll go and see he don't back out, the warmint." "then go along, jack; and mind don't you go blazing away like a fire ship, and letting everybody know what's going on, or it'll be stopped." "i'll not spoil sport," said jack, as he left the room, to go at once to sir francis varney, charged with the conducting of the important cartel of the admiral. jack made the best of his way with becoming gravity and expedition until he reached the gate of the admiral's enemy. jack rang loudly at the gate; there seemed, if one might judge by his countenance, a something on his mind, that jack was almost another man. the gate was opened by the servant, who inquired what he wanted there. "the wamphigher." "who?" "the wamphigher." the servant frowned, and was about to say something uncivil to jack, who winked at him very hard, and then said,-"oh, may be you don't know him, or won't know him by that name: i wants to see sir francis varney." "he's at home," said the servant; "who are you?" "show me up, then. i'm jack pringle, and i'm come from admiral bell; i'm the admiral's friend, you see, so none of your black looks." the servant seemed amazed, as well as rather daunted, at jack's address; he showed him, however, into the hall, where mr. chillingworth had just that moment arrived, and was waiting for an interview with varney. chapter xxxviii. marchdale's offer.--the consultation at bannerworth hall.--the morning of the duel. [illustration] mr. chillingworth was much annoyed to see jack pringle in the hall, and jack was somewhat surprised at seeing mr. chillingworth there at that time in the rooming; they had but little time to indulge in their mutual astonishment, for a servant came to announce that sir francis varney would see them both. without saying anything to the servant or each other, they ascended the staircase, and were shown into the apartment where sir francis varney received them. "gentlemen," said sir francis, in his usual bland tone, "you are welcome." "sir francis," said mr. chillingworth, "i have come upon matters of some importance; may i crave a separate audience?" "and i too," said jack pringle; "i come as the friend of admiral bell, i want a private audience; but, stay, i don't care a rope's end who knows who i am, or what i come about; say you are ready to name time and place, and i'm as dumb as a figure-head; that is saying something, at all events; and now i'm done." "why, gentlemen," said sir francis, with a quiet smile, "as you have both come upon the same errand, and as there may arise a controversy upon the point of precedence, you had better be both present, as i must arrange this matter myself upon due inquiry." "i do not exactly understand this," said mr. chillingworth; "do you, mr. pringle? perhaps you can enlighten me?" "it," said jack, "as how you came here upon the same errand as i, and i as you, why we both come about fighting sir francis varney." "yes," said sir francis; "what mr. pringle says, is, i believe correct to a letter. i have a challenge from both your principals, and am ready to give you both the satisfaction you desire, provided the first encounter will permit me the honour of joining in the second. you, mr. pringle, are aware of the chances of war?" "i should say so," said jack, with a wink and a nod of a familiar character. "i've seen a few of them." "will you proceed to make the necessary agreement between you both, gentlemen? my affection for the one equals fully the good will i bear the other, and i cannot give a preference in so delicate a matter; proceed gentlemen." mr. chillingworth looked at jack, and jack pringle looked at mr. chillingworth, and then the former said,-"well, the admiral means fighting, and i am come to settle the necessaries; pray let me know what are your terms, mr. what-d'ye-call'em." "i am agreeable to anything that is at all reasonable--pistols, i presume?" "sir francis varney," said mr. chillingworth, "i cannot consent to carry on this office, unless you can appoint a friend who will settle these matters with us--myself, at least." "and i too," said jack pringle; "we don't want to bear down an enemy. admiral bell ain't the man to do that, and if he were, i'm not the man to back him in doing what isn't fair or right; but he won't do it." "but, gentlemen, this must not be; mr. henry bannerworth must not be disappointed, and admiral bell must not be disappointed. moreover, i have accepted the two cartels, and i am ready and willing to fight;--one at a time, i presume?" "sir francis, after what you have said, i must take upon myself, on the part of mr. henry bannerworth, to decline meeting you, if you cannot name a friend with whom i can arrange this affair." "ah!" said jack pringle, "that's right enough. i recollect very well when jack mizeu fought tom foremast, they had their seconds. admiral bell can't do anything in the dark. no, no, d----e! all must be above board." "gentlemen," said sir francis varney, "you see the dilemma i am in. your principals have both challenged me. i am ready to fight any one, or both of them, as the case may be. distinctly understand that; because it is a notion of theirs that i will not do so, or that i shrink from them; but i am a stranger in this neighbourhood, and have no one whom i could call upon to relinquish so much, as they run the risk of doing by attending me to the field." "then your acquaintances are no friends, d----e!" said jack pringle, spitting through his teeth into the bars of a beautifully polished grate. "i'd stick to anybody--the devil himself, leave alone a vampyre--if so be as how i had been his friends and drunk grog from the same can. they are a set of lubbers." "i have not been here long enough to form any such friendships, mr. chillingworth; but can confidently rely upon your honour and that of your principal, and will freely and fairly meet him." "but, sir francis, you forget the fact, in transacting, myself for mr. bannerworth, and this person or admiral bell, we do match, and have our own characters at stake; nay more, our lives and fortunes. these may be small; but they are everything to us. allow me to say, on my own behalf, that i will not permit my principal to meet you unless you can name a second, as is usual with gentlemen on such occasions." "i regret, while i declare to you my entire willingness to meet you, that i cannot comply through utter inability to do so, with your request. let this go forth to the world as i have stated it, and let it be an answer to any aspersions that may be uttered as to my unwillingness to fight." there was a pause of some moments. mr. chillingworth was resolved that, come of it what would, he would not permit henry to fight, unless sir francis varney himself should appoint a friend, and then they could meet upon equal terms. jack pringle whistled, and spit, and chewed and turned his quid--hitched up his trousers, and looked wistfully from one to the other, as he said,-"so then it's likely to be no fight at all, sir francis what's-o'-name?" "it seems like it, mr. pringle," replied varney, with a meaning smile; "unless you can be more complaisant towards myself, and kind towards the admiral." "why, not exactly that," said jack; "it's a pity to stop a good play in the beginning, just because some little thing is wrong in the tackling." "perhaps your skill and genius may enable us to find some medium course that we may pursue with pleasure and profit. what say you, mr. pringle?" "all i know about genius, as you call it is the flying dutchman, or some such odd out of the way fish. but, as i said, i am not one to spoil sport, nor more is the admiral. oh, no, we is all true men and good." "i believe it," said varney, bowing politely. "you needn't keep your figure-head on the move; i can see you just as well. howsoever, as i was saying, i don't like to spoil sport, and sooner than both parties should be disappointed, my principal shall become your second, sir francis." "what, admiral bell?" exclaimed varney, lifting his eyebrows with surprise. "what, charles holland's uncle!" exclaimed mr. chillingworth, in accents of amazement. "and why not?" said jack, with great gravity. "i will pledge my word--jack pringle's word--that admiral bell shall be second to sir francis varney, during his scrimmage with mr. henry bannerworth. that will let the matter go on; there can be no back-out then, eh?" continued jack pringle, with a knowing nod at chillingworth as he spoke. "that will, i hope, remove your scruples, mr. chillingworth," said varney, with a courteous smile. "but will admiral bell do this?" "his second says so, and has, i daresay, influence enough with him to induce that person to act in conformity with his promise." "in course he will. do you think he would be the man to hang back? oh, no; he would be the last to leave jack pringle in the lurch--no. depend upon it, sir francis, he'll be as sure to do what i say, as i have said it." "after that assurance, i cannot doubt it," said sir francis varney; "this act of kindness will, indeed, lay me under a deep and lasting obligation to admiral bell, which i fear i shall never be able to pay." "you need not trouble yourself about that," said jack pringle; "the admiral will credit all, and you can pay off old scores when his turn comes in the field." "i will not forget," said varney; "he deserves every consideration; but now, mr. chillingworth, i presume that we may come to some understanding respecting this meeting, which you were so kind as to do me the honour of seeking." "i cannot object to its taking place. i shall be most happy to meet your second in the field, and will arrange with him." "i imagine that, under the circumstances, that it will be barely necessary to go to that length of ceremony. future interviews can be arranged later; name the time and place, and after that we can settle all the rest on the ground." "yes," said jack; "it will be time enough, surely, to see the admiral when we are upon the ground. i'll warrant the old buffer is a true brick as ever was: there's no flinching about him." "i am satisfied," said varney. "and i also," said chillingworth; "but, understand, sir francis, any default for seconds makes the meeting a blank." "i will not doubt mr. pringle's honour so much as to believe it possible." "i'm d----d," said jack, "if you ain't a trump-card, and no mistake; it's a great pity as you is a wamphigher." "the time, mr. chillingworth?" "to-morrow, at seven o'clock," replied that gentleman. "the place, sir?" "the best place that i can think of is a level meadow half-way between here and bannerworth hall; but that is your privilege, sir francis varney." "i waive it, and am much obliged to you for the choice of the spot; it seems of the best character imaginable. i will be punctual." "i think we have nothing further to arrange now," said mr. chillingworth. "you will meet with admiral bell." "certainly. i believe there is nothing more to be done; this affair is very satisfactorily arranged, and much better than i anticipated." "good morning, sir francis," said mr. chillingworth. "good morning." "adieu," said sir francis, with a courteous salutation. "good day, mr. pringle, and commend me to the admiral, whose services will be of infinite value to me." "don't mention it," said jack; "the admiral's the man as'd lend any body a helping hand in case of distress like the present; and i'll pledge my word--jack pringle's too, as that he'll do what's right, and give up his turn to mr. henry bannerworth; cause you see he can have his turn arterwards, you know--it's only waiting awhile." "that's all," said sir francis. jack pringle made a sea bow and took his leave, as he followed mr. chillingworth, and they both left the house together, to return to bannerworth hall. "well," said mr. chillingworth, "i am glad that sir francis varney has got over the difficulty of having no seconds; for it would not be proper or safe to meet a man without a friend for him." "it ain't the right thing," said jack hitching up his trousers; "but i was afeard as how he would back out, and that would be just the wrong thing for the admiral; he'd go raving mad." they had got but very few paces from sir francis varney's house, when they were joined by marchdale. "ah," he said, as he came up, "i see you have been to sir francis varney's, if i may judge from the direction whence you're coming, and your proximity." "yes, we have," said mr. chillingworth. "i thought you had left these parts?" "i had intended to do so," replied marchdale; "but second thoughts are sometimes best, you know." "certainly." "i have so much friendship for the family at the hall, that notwithstanding i am compelled to be absent from the mansion itself, yet i cannot quit the neighbourhood while there are circumstances of such a character hanging about them. i will remain, and see if there be not something arising, in which i may be useful to them in some matter." "it is very disinterested of you; you will remain here for some time, i suppose?" "yes, undoubtedly; unless, as i do not anticipate, i should see any occasion to quit my present quarters." "i tell you what it is," said jack pringle; "if you had been here half-an-hour earlier you could have seconded the wamphigher." "seconded!" "yes, we're here to challenge." "a double challenge?" "yes; but in confiding this matter to you, mr. marchdale, you will make no use of it to the exploding of this affair. by so doing you will seriously damage the honour of mr. henry bannerworth." "i will not, you may rely upon it; but mr. chillingworth, do i not see you in the character of a second?" "you do, sir." "to mr. henry?" "the same, sir." "have you reflected upon the probable consequences of such an act, should any serious mischief occur?" "what i have undertaken, mr. marchdale, i will go through with; the consequences i have duly considered, and yet you see me in the character of mr. henry bannerworth's friend." "i am happy to see you as such, and i do not think henry could find a better. but this is beside the question. what induced me to make the remark was this,--had i been at the hall, you will admit that henry bannerworth would have chosen myself, without any disparagement to you, mr. chillingworth." "well sir, what then?" "why i am a single man, i can live, reside and go any where; one country will suit me as well as another. i shall suffer no loss, but as for you, you will be ruined in every particular; for if you go in the character of a second, you will not be excused; for all the penalties incurred your profession of a surgeon will not excuse you." "i see all that, sir." "what i propose is, that you should accompany the parties to the field, but in your own proper character of surgeon, and permit me to take that of second to mr. bannerworth." "this cannot be done, unless by mr. henry bannerworth's consent," said mr. chillingworth. "then i will accompany you to bannerworth hall, and see mr. henry, whom i will request to permit me to do what i have mentioned to you." mr. chillingworth could not but admit the reasonableness of this proposal, and it was agreed they should return to bannerworth hall in company. here they arrived in a very short time after, and entered together. "and now," said mr. chillingworth, "i will go and bring our two principals, who will be as much astonished to find themselves engaged in the same quarrel, as i was to find myself sent on a similar errand to sir francis with our friend mr. john pringle." "oh, not john--jack pringle, you mean," said that individual. chillingworth now went in search of henry, and sent him to the apartment where mr. marchdale was with jack pringle, and then he found the admiral waiting the return of jack with impatience. "admiral!" he said, "i perceive you are unwell this morning." "unwell be d----d," said the admiral, starting up with surprise. "who ever heard that old admiral bell looked ill just afore he was going into action? i say it's a scandalous lie." "admiral, admiral, i didn't say you were ill; only you looked ill--a--a little nervous, or so. rather pale, eh? is it not so?" "confound you, do you think i want to be physicked? i tell you, i have not a little but a great inclination to give you a good keelhauling. i don't want a doctor just yet." "but it may not be so long, you know, admiral; but there is jack pringle a-waiting you below. will you go to him? there is a particular reason; he has something to communicate from sir francis varney, i believe." the admiral gave a look of some amazement at mr. chillingworth, and then he said, muttering to himself,-"if jack pringle should have betrayed me--but, no; he could not do that, he is too true. i'm sure of jack; and how did that son of a gallipot hint about the odd fish i sent jack to?" filled with a dubious kind of belief which he had about something he had heard of jack pringle, he entered the room, where he met marchdale, jack pringle, and henry bannerworth. immediately afterwards, mr. chillingworth entered the apartment. "i have," said he, "been to sir francis varney, and there had an interview with him, and with mr. pringle; when i found we were both intent upon the same object, namely, an encounter with the knight by our principals." "eh?" said the admiral. "what!" exclaimed henry; "had he challenged you, admiral?" "challenged me!" exclaimed admiral bell, with a round oath. "i--however--since it comes to this, i must admit i challenged him." "that's what i did," said henry bannerworth, after a moment's thought; "and i perceive we have both fallen into the same line of conduct." "that is the fact," said mr. chillingworth. "both mr. pringle and i went there to settle the preliminaries, and we found an insurmountable bar to any meeting taking place at all." "he wouldn't fight, then?" exclaimed henry. "i see it all now." "not fight!" said admiral bell, with a sort of melancholy disappointment. "d--n the cowardly rascal! tell me, jack pringle, what did the long horse-marine-looking slab say to it? he told me he would fight. why he ought to be made to stand sentry over the wind." "you challenged him in person, too, i suppose?" said henry. "yes, confound him! i went there last night." "and i too." "it seems to me," said marchdale, "that this affair has been not indiscretely conducted; but somewhat unusually and strangely, to say the least of it." "you see," said chillingworth, "sir francis was willing to fight both henry and the admiral, as he told us." "yes," said jack; "he told us he would fight us both, if so be as his light was not doused in the first brush." "that was all that was wanted," said the admiral. "we could expect no more." "but then he desired to meet you without any second; but, of course, i would not accede to this proposal. the responsibility was too great and too unequally borne by the parties engaged in the rencontre." "decidedly," said henry; "but it is unfortunate--very unfortunate." "very," said the admiral--"very. what a rascally thing it is there ain't another rogue in the country to keep him in countenance." [illustration] "i thought it was a pity to spoil sport," said jack pringle. "it was a pity a good intention should be spoiled, and i promised the wamphigher that if as how he would fight, you should second him, and you'd meet him to do so." "eh! who? i!" exclaimed the admiral in some perplexity. "yes; that is the truth," said mr. chillingworth. "mr pringle said you would do so, and he then and there pledged his word that you should meet him on the ground and second him." "yes," said jack "you must do it. i knew you would not spoil sport, and that there had better be a fight than no fight. i believe you'd sooner see a scrimmage than none, and so it's all arranged." "very well," said the admiral, "i only wish mr. henry bannerworth had been his second; i think i was entitled to the first meeting." "no," said jack, "you warn't, for mr. chillingworth was there first; first come first served, you know." "well, well, i mustn't grumble at another man's luck; mine'll come in turn; but it had better be so than a disappointment altogether; i'll be second to this sir francis varney; he shall have fair play, as i'm an admiral; but, d----e he shall fight--yes, yes, he shall fight." "and to this conclusion i would come," said henry, "i wish him to fight; now i will take care that he shall not have any opportunity of putting me on one side quietly." "there is one thing," observed marchdale, "that i wished to propose. after what has passed, i should not have returned, had i not some presentiment that something was going forward in which i could be useful to my friend." "oh!" said the admiral, with a huge twist of his countenance. "what i was about to say was this,--mr. chillingworth has much to lose as he is situated, and i nothing as i am placed. i am chained down to no spot of earth. i am above following a profession--my means, i mean, place me above the necessity. now, henry, allow me to be your second in this affair; allow mr. chillingworth to attend in his professional capacity; he may be of service--of great service to one of the principals; whereas, if he go in any other capacity, he will inevitably have his own safety to consult." "that is most unquestionably true," said henry, "and, to my mind, the best plan that can be proposed. what say you, admiral bell, will you act with mr. marchdale in this affair?" "oh, i!--yes--certainly--i don't care. mr. marchdale is mr. marchdale, i believe, and that's all i care about. if we quarrel to-day, and have anything to do to-morrow, in course, to-morrow i can put off my quarrel for next day; it will keep,--that's all i have to say at present." "then this is a final arrangement?" said mr. chillingworth. "it is." "but, mr. bannerworth, in resigning my character of second to mr. marchdale, i only do so because it appears and seems to be the opinion of all present that i can be much better employed in another capacity." "certainly, mr. chillingworth; and i cannot but feel that i am under the same obligations to you for the readiness and zeal with which you have acted." "i have done what i have done," said chillingworth, "because i believed it was my duty to do so." "mr. chillingworth has undoubtedly acted most friendly and efficiently in this affair," said marchdale; "and he does not relinquish the part for the purpose of escaping a friendly deed, but to perform one in which he may act in a capacity that no one else can." "that is true," said the admiral. "and now," said chillingworth, "you are to meet to-morrow morning in the meadow at the bottom of the valley, half way between here and sir francis varney's house, at seven o'clock in the morning." more conversation passed among them, and it was agreed that they should meet early the next morning, and that, of course, the affair should be kept a secret. marchdale for that night should remain in the house, and the admiral should appear as if little or nothing was the matter; and he and jack pringle retired, to talk over in private all the arrangements. henry bannerworth and marchdale also retired, and mr. chillingworth, after a time, retired, promising to be with them in time for the meeting next morning. much of that day was spent by henry bannerworth in his own apartment, in writing documents and letters of one kind and another; but at night he had not finished, for he had been compelled to be about, and in flora's presence, to prevent anything from being suspected. marchdale was much with him, and in secret examined the arms, ammunition, and bullets, and saw all was right for the next morning; and when he had done, he said,-"now, henry, you must permit me to insist that you take some hours' repose, else you will scarcely be as you ought to be." "very good," said henry. "i have just finished, and can take your advice." after many thoughts and reflections, henry bannerworth fell into a deep sleep, and slept several hours in calmness and quietude, and at an early hour he awoke, and saw marchdale sitting by him. "is it time, marchdale? i have not overslept myself, have i?" "no; time enough--time enough," said marchdale. "i should have let you sleep longer, but i should have awakened you in good time." it was now the grey light of morning, and henry arose and began to prepare for the encounter. marchdale stole to admiral bell's chamber, but he and jack pringle were ready. few words were spoken, and those few were in a whisper, and the whole party left the hall in as noiseless a manner as possible. it was a mild morning, and yet it was cold at that time of the morning, just as day is beginning to dawn in the east. there was, however, ample time to reach the rendezvous. it was a curious party that which was now proceeding towards the spot appointed for the duel, the result of which might have so important an effect on the interests of those who were to be engaged in it. it would be difficult for us to analyse the different and conflicting emotions that filled the breasts of the various individuals composing that party--the hopes and fears--the doubts and surmises that were given utterance to; though we are compelled to acknowledge that though to henry, the character of the man he was going to meet in mortal fight was of a most ambiguous and undefined nature, and though no one could imagine the means he might be endowed with for protection against the arms of man--henry, as we said, strode firmly forward with unflinching resolution. his heart was set on recovering the happiness of his sister, and he would not falter. so far, then, we may consider that at length proceedings of a hostile character were so far clearly and fairly arranged between henry bannerworth and that most mysterious being who certainly, from some cause or another, had betrayed no inclination to meet an opponent in that manner which is sanctioned, bad as it is, by the usages of society. but whether his motive was one of cowardice or mercy, remained yet to be seen. it might be that he feared himself receiving some mortal injury, which would at once put a stop to that preternatural career of existence which he affected to shudder at, and yet evidently took considerable pains to prolong. upon the other hand, it is just possible that some consciousness of invulnerability on his own part, or of great power to injure his antagonist, might be the cause why he had held back so long from fighting the duel, and placed so many obstacles in the way of the usual necessary arrangements incidental to such occasions. now, however, there would seem to be no possible means of escape. sir francis varney must fight or fly, for he was surrounded by too many opponents. to be sure he might have appealed to the civil authorities to protect him, and to sanction him in his refusal to commit what undoubtedly is a legal offence; but then there cannot be a question that the whole of the circumstances would come out, and meet the public eye--the result of which would be, his acquisition of a reputation as unenviable as it would be universal. it had so happened, that the peculiar position of the bannerworth family kept their acquaintance within extremely narrow limits, and greatly indisposed them to set themselves up as marks for peculiar observation. once holding, as they had, a proud position in the county, and being looked upon quite as magnates of the land, they did not now court the prying eye of curiosity to look upon their poverty; but rather with a gloomy melancholy they lived apart, and repelled the advances of society by a cold reserve, which few could break through. had this family suffered in any noble cause, or had the misfortunes which had come over them, and robbed their ancestral house of its lustre, been an unavoidable dispensation of providence, they would have borne the hard position with a different aspect; but it must be remembered, that to the faults, the vices, and the criminality of some of their race, was to be attributed their present depressed state. it has been seen during the progress of our tale, that its action has been tolerably confined to bannerworth hall, its adjacent meadows, and the seat of sir francis varney; the only person at any distance, knowing anything of the circumstances, or feeling any interest in them, being mr. chillingworth, the surgeon, who, from personal feeling, as well as from professional habit, was not likely to make a family's affairs a subject of gossip. a change, however, was at hand--a change of a most startling and alarming character to varney--one which he might expect, yet not be well prepared for. this period of serenity was to pass away, and he was to become most alarmingly popular. we will not, however, anticipate, but proceed at once to detail as briefly as may be the hostile meeting. it would appear that varney, now that he had once consented to the definitive arrangements of a duel, shrunk not in any way from carrying them out, nor in the slightest attempted to retard arrangements which might be fatal to himself. the early morning was one of those cloudy ones so frequently occurring in our fickle climate, when the cleverest weather prophet would find it difficult to predict what the next hour might produce. there was a kind of dim gloominess over all objects; and as there were no bright lights, there were no deep shadows--the consequence of which was a sureness of effect over the landscape, that robbed it of many of its usual beauties. such was the state of things when marchdale accompanied henry and admiral bell from bannerworth hall across the garden in the direction of the hilly wood, close to which was the spot intended for the scene of encounter. jack pringle came on at a lazy pace behind with his hands in his pockets, and looking as unconcerned as if he had just come out for a morning's stroll, and scarcely knew whether he saw what was going on or not. the curious contortion into which he twisted his countenance, and the different odd-looking lumps that appeared in it from time to time, may be accounted for by a quid of unusual size, which he seemed to be masticating with a relish quite horrifying to one unused to so barbarous a luxury. the admiral had strictly enjoined him not to interfere on pain of being considered a lubber and no seaman for the remainder of his existence--threatened penalties which, of course, had their own weight with jack, and accordingly he came just, to see the row in as quiet a way as possible, perhaps not without a hope, that something might turn up in the shape of a _causus belli_, that might justify him in adopting a threatening attitude towards somebody. "now, master henry," said the admiral, "none of your palaver to me as we go along, recollect i don't belong to your party, you know. i've stood friend to two or three fellows in my time; but if anybody had said to me, 'admiral bell, the next time you go out on a quiet little shooting party, it will be as second to a vampyre,' i'd have said 'you're a liar' howsomever, d--me, here you goes, and what i mean to say is this, mr henry, that i'd second even a frenchman rather than he shouldn't fight when he's asked" "that's liberal of you," said henry, "at all event" "i believe you it is," said the admiral, "so mind if you don't hit him, i'm not a-going to tell you how--all you've got to do, is to fire low; but that's no business of mine. shiver my timbers, i oughtn't to tell you, but d--n you, hit him if you can." "admiral," said henry, "i can hardly think you are even preserving a neutrality in the matter, putting aside my own partisanship as regards your own man." "oh, hang him. i'm not going to let him creep out of the thing on such a shabby pretence. i can tell you. i think i ought to have gone to his house this morning; only, as i said i never would cross his threshold again, i won't." "i wonder if he'll come," said mr marchdale to henry. "after all, you know he may take to flight, and shun an encounter which, it is evident, he has entered into but tardily." "i hope not," said henry, "and yet i must own that your supposition has several times crossed my mind. if, however, he do not meet me, he never can appear at all in the country, and we should, at least, be rid of him, and all his troublesome importunities concerning the hall. i would not allow that man, on any account, to cross the threshold of my house, as its tenant or its owner." "why, it ain't usual," said the admiral, "to let ones house to two people at once, unless you seem quite to forget that i've taken yours. i may as well remind you of it." "hurra" said jack pringle, at this moment. "what's the matter with you? who told you to hurra?" "enemy in the offing," said jack, "three or four pints to the sou-west." "so he is, by jove! dodging about among the trees. come, now, this vampyre's a decenter fellow than i thought him. he means, after all, to let us have a pop at him." they had now reached so close to the spot, that sir francis varney, who, to all appearance, had been waiting, emerged from among the trees, rolled up in his dismal-looking cloak, and, if possible, looking longer and thinner than ever he had looked before. his face wore a singular cadaverous looking aspect. his very lips were white and there was a curious, pinkish-looking circle round each of his eyes, that imparted to his whole countenance a most uninviting appearance. he turned his eyes from one to the other of those who were advancing towards him, until he saw the admiral, upon which he gave such a grim and horrible smile, that the old man exclaimed,-"i say, jack, you lubber, there's a face for a figure head." "ay, ay, sir." "did you ever see such a d----d grin as that in your life, in any latitude?" "ay, ay, sir." "you did you swab." "i should think so." "it's a lie, and you know it." "very good," said jack, "don't you recollect when that ere iron bullet walked over your head, leaving a nice little nick, all the way off bergen-ap-zoom, that was the time--blessed if you didn't give just such a grin as that." "i didn't, you rascal." "and i say you did." "mutiny, by god!" "go to blazes!" how far this contention might have gone, having now reached its culminating point, had the admiral and jack been alone, it is hard to say; but as it was, henry and marchdale interfered, and so the quarrel was patched up for the moment, in order to give place to more important affairs. varney seemed to think, that after the smiling welcome he had given to his second, he had done quite enough; for there he stood, tall, and gaunt, and motionless, if we may except an occasional singular movement of the mouth, and a clap together of his teeth, at times, which was enough to make anybody jump to hear. "for heaven's sake," said marchdale, "do not let us trifle at such a moment as this. mr. pringle, you really had no business here." "mr. who?" said jack. "pringle, i believe, is your name?" returned marchdale. "it were; but blowed if ever i was called mister before." the admiral walked up to sir francis varney, and gave him a nod that looked much more like one of defiance than of salutation, to which the vampyre replied by a low, courtly bow. "oh, bother!" muttered the old admiral. "if i was to double up my backbone like that, i should never get it down straight again. well, all's right; you've come; that's all you could do, i suppose." "i am here," said varney, "and therefore it becomes a work of supererogation to remark that i've come." "oh! does it? i never bolted a dictionary, and, therefore, i don't know exactly what you mean." "step aside with me a moment, admiral bell, and i will tell you what you are to do with me after i am shot, if such should be my fate." "do with you! d----d if i'll do anything with you." "i don't expect you will regret me; you will eat." "eat!" "yes, and drink as usual, no doubt, notwithstanding being witness to the decease of a fellow-creature." "belay there; don't call yourself a fellow-creature of mine; i ain't a vampyre." "but there's no knowing what you may be; and now listen to my instructions; for as you're my second, you cannot very well refuse to me a few friendly offices. rain is falling. step beneath this ancient tree, and i will talk to you." chapter xxxix. the storm and the fight.-the admiral's repudiation of his principal. [illustration] "well," said the admiral, when they were fairly under the tree, upon the leaves of which the pattering rain might be heard falling: "well--what is it?" "if your young friend, mr. bannerworth, should chance to send a pistol-bullet through any portion of my anatomy, prejudicial to the prolongation of my existence, you will be so good as not to interfere with anything i may have about me, or to make any disturbance whatever." "you may depend i sha'n't." "just take the matter perfectly easy--as a thing of course." "oh! i mean d----d easy." "ha! what a delightful thing is friendship! there is a little knoll or mound of earth midway between here and the hall. do you happen to know it? there is one solitary tree glowing near its summit--an oriental looking tree, of the fir tribe, which, fan-like, spreads its deep green leaves; across the azure sky." "oh! bother it; it's a d----d old tree, growing upon a little bit of a hill, i suppose you mean?" "precisely; only much more poetically expressed. the moon rises at a quarter past four to-night, or rather to-morrow, morning." "does it?" "yes; and if i should happen to be killed, you will have me removed gently to this mound of earth, and there laid beneath this tree, with my face upwards; and take care that it is done before the moon rises. you can watch that no one interferes." "a likely job. what the deuce do you take me for? i tell you what it is, mr. vampyre, or varney, or whatever's your name, if you should chance to be hit, where-ever you chance to fall, there you'll lie." "how very unkind." "uncommon, ain't it?" "well, well, since that is your determination, i must take care of myself in another way. i can do so, and i will." "take care of yourself how you like, for all i care; i've come here to second you, and to see that, on the honour of a seaman, if you are put out of the world, it's done in a proper manner, that's all i have to do with you--now you know." sir francis varney looked after him with a strange kind of smile, as he walked away to make the necessary preparation with marchdale for the immediate commencement of the contest. these were simple and brief. it was agreed that twelve paces should be measured out, six each way, from a fixed point; one six to be paced by the admiral, and the other by marchdale; then they were to draw lots, to see at which end of this imaginary line varney was to be placed; after this the signal for firing was to be one, two, three--fire! a few minutes sufficed to complete these arrangements; the ground was measured in the manner we have stated, and the combatants placed in their respective positions, sir francis varney occupying the same spot where he had at first stood, namely, that nearest to the little wood, and to his own residence. it is impossible that under such circumstances the bravest and the calmest of mankind could fail to feel some slight degree of tremour or uneasiness; and, although we can fairly claim for henry bannerworth that he was as truly courageous as any right feeling christian man could wish to be, yet when it was possible that he stood within, as it were, a hair's breadth of eternity, a strange world of sensation and emotions found a home in his heart, and he could not look altogether undaunted on that future which might, for all he knew to the contrary, be so close at hand, as far as he was concerned. it was not that he feared death, but that he looked with a decent gravity upon so grave a change as that from this world to the next, and hence was it that his face was pale, and that he looked all the emotion which he really felt. this was the aspect and the bearing of a brave but not a reckless man; while sir francis varney, on the other hand, seemed, now that he had fairly engaged in the duel, to look upon it and its attendant circumstances with a kind of smirking satisfaction, as if he were far more amused than personally interested. this was certainly the more extraordinary after the manner in which he had tried to evade the fight, and, at all events, was quite a sufficient proof that cowardice had not been his actuating motive in so doing. the admiral, who stood on a level with him, could not see the sort of expression he wore, or, probably, he would have been far from well pleased; but the others did, and they found something inexpressibly disagreeable in the smirking kind of satisfaction with which the vampyre seemed to regard now the proceedings. "confound him," whispered marchdale to henry, "one would think he was quite delighted, instead, as we had imagined him, not well pleased, at these proceedings; look how he grins." "it is no matter," said henry; "let him wear what aspect he may, it is the same to me; and, as heaven is my judge, i here declare, if i did not think myself justified in so doing, i would not raise my hand against this man." "there can be no shadow of a doubt regarding your justification. have at him, and heaven protect you." "amen!" the admiral was to give the word to fire, and now he and marshal having stepped sufficiently on one side to be out of all possible danger from any stray shot, he commenced repeating the signal,-"are you ready, gentlemen?--once." they looked sternly at each other, and each grasped his pistol. "twice!" sir francis varney smiled and looked around him, as if the affair were one of the most common-place description. "thrice!" varney seemed to be studying the sky rather than attending to the duel. "fire!" said the admiral, and one report only struck upon the ear. it was that from henry's pistol. all eyes were turned upon sir francis varney, who had evidently reserved his fire, for what purpose could not be devised, except a murderous one, the taking of a more steady aim at henry. sir francis, however, seemed in no hurry, but smiled significantly, and gradually raised the point of his weapon. "did you hear the word, sir francis? i gave it loud enough, i am sure. i never spoke plainer in my life; did i ever, jack?" "yes, often," said jack pringle; "what's the use of your asking such yarns as them? you know you have done so often enough when you wanted grog." "you d----d rascal, i'll--i'll have your back scored, i will." "so you will, when you are afloat again, which you never will be--you're paid off, that's certain." "you lubberly lout, you ain't a seaman; a seaman would never mutiny against his admiral; howsomever, do you hear, sir francis, i'll give the matter up, if you don't pay some attention to me." henry looked steadily at varney, expecting every moment to feel his bullet. mr. marchdale hastily exclaimed that this was not according to usage. sir francis varney took no notice, but went on elevating his weapon; when it was perpendicular to the earth he fired in the air. "i had not anticipated this," said marchdale, as he walked to henry. "i thought he was taking a more deadly aim." "and i," said henry. "ay, you have escaped, henry; let me congratulate you." "not so fast; we may fire again." "i can afford to do that," he said, with a smile. "you should have fired, sir, according to custom," said the admiral; "this is not the proper thing." "what, fire at your friend?" "oh, that's all very well! you are my friend for a time, vampyre as you are, and i intend you shall fire." "if mr. henry bannerworth demands another fire, i have no objection to it, and will fire at him; but as it is i shall not do so, indeed, it would be quite useless for him to do so--to point mortal weapons at me is mere child's play, they will not hurt me." "the devil they won't," said the admiral. "why, look you here," said sir francis varney, stepping forward and placing his hand to his neckerchief; "look you here; if mr. henry bannerworth should demand another fire, he may do so with the same bullet." "the same bullet!" said marchdale, stepping forward--"the same bullet! how is this?" "my eyes," said jack; "who'd a thought it; there's a go! wouldn't he do for a dummy--to lead a forlorn hope, or to put among the boarders?" "here," said sir francis, handing a bullet to henry bannerworth--"here is the bullet you shot at me." henry looked at it--it was blackened by powder; and then marchdale seized it and tried it in the pistol, but found the bullet fitted henry's weapon. "by heavens, it is so!" he exclaimed, stepping back and looking at varney from top to toe in horror and amazement. "d----e," said the admiral, "if i understand this. why jack pringle, you dog, here's a strange fish." "on, no! there's plenty on 'um in some countries." "will you insist upon another fire, or may i consider you satisfied?" "i shall object," said marchdale. "henry, this affair must go no further; it would be madness--worse than madness, to fight upon such terms." "so say i," said the admiral. "i will not have anything to do with you, sir francis. i'll not be your second any longer. i didn't bargain for such a game as this. you might as well fight with the man in brass armour, at the lord mayor's show, or the champion at a coronation." "oh!" said jack pringle; "a man may as well fire at the back of a halligator as a wamphigher." "this must be considered as having been concluded," said mr. marchdale. "no!" said henry. "and wherefore not?" "because i have not received his fire." "heaven forbid you should." "i may not with honour quit the ground without another fire." "under ordinary circumstances there might be some shadow of an excuse for your demand; but as it is there is none. you have neither honour nor credit to gain by such an encounter, and, certainly, you can gain no object." "how are we to decide this affair? am i considered absolved from the accusation under which i lay, of cowardice?" inquired sir francis varney, with a cold smile. "why, as for that," said the admiral, "i should as soon expect credit for fighting behind a wall, as with a man that i couldn't hit any more than the moon." "henry; let me implore you to quit this scene; it can do no good." at this moment, a noise, as of human voices, was heard at a distance; this caused a momentary pause, and, the whole party stood still and listened. the murmurs and shouts that now arose in the distance were indistinct and confused. "what can all this mean?" said marchdale; "there is something very strange about it. i cannot imagine a cause for so unusual an occurrence." "nor i," said sir francis varney, looking suspiciously at henry bannerworth. "upon my honour i know neither what is the cause nor the nature of the sounds themselves." "then we can easily see what is the matter from yonder hillock," said the admiral; "and there's jack pringle, he's up there already. what's he telegraphing about in that manner, i wonder?" the fact was, jack pringle, hearing the riot, had thought that if he got to the neighbouring eminence he might possibly ascertain what it was that was the cause of what he termed the "row," and had succeeded in some degree. there were a number of people of all kinds coming out from the village, apparently armed, and shouting. jack pringle hitched up his trousers and swore, then took off his hat and began to shout to the admiral, as he said,-"d----e, they are too late to spoil the sport. hilloa! hurrah!" "what's all that about, jack?" inquired the admiral, as he came puffing along. "what's the squall about?" "only a few horse-marines and bumboat-women, that have been startled like a company of penguins." "oh! my eyes! wouldn't a whole broadside set 'em flying, jack?" "ay; just as them frenchmen that you murdered on board the big thunderer, as you called it." "i murder them, you rascal?" "yes; there was about five hundred of them killed." "they were only shot." "they were killed, only your conscience tells you it's uncomfortable." "you rascal--you villain! you ought to be keel-hauled and well payed." "ay; you're payed, and paid off as an old hulk." "d----e--you--you--oh! i wish i had you on board ship, i'd make your lubberly carcass like a union jack, full of red and blue stripes." "oh! it's all very well; but if you don't take to your heels, you'll have all the old women in the village a whacking on you, that's all i have to say about it. you'd better port your helm and about ship, or you'll be keel-hauled." "d--n your--" "what's the matter?" inquired marchdale, as he arrived. "what's the cause of all the noise we have heard?" said sir francis; "has some village festival spontaneously burst forth among the rustics of this place?" "i cannot tell the cause of it," said henry bannerworth; "but they seem to me to be coming towards this place." "indeed!" "i think so too," said marchdale. "with what object?" inquired sir francis varney. "no peaceable one," observed henry; "for, as far i can observe, they struck across the country, as though they would enclose something, or intercept somebody." "indeed! but why come here?" "if i knew that i could have at once told the cause." "and they appear armed with a variety of odd weapons," observed sir francis; "they mean an attack upon some one! who is that man with them? he seems to be deprecating their coming." "that appears to be mr. chillingworth," said henry; "i think that is he." "yes," observed the admiral; "i think i know the build of that craft; he's been in our society before. i always know a ship as soon as i see it." "does you, though?" said jack. "yea; what do you mean, eh? let me hear what you've got to say against your captain and your admiral, you mutinous dog; you tell me, i say." "so i will; you thought you were fighting a big ship in a fog, and fired a dozen broadsides or so, and it was only the flying dutchman, or the devil." "you infernal dog--" "well, you know it was; it might a been our own shadow for all i can tell. indeed, i think it was." "you think!" "yes." "that's mutiny; i'll have no more to do with you, jack pringle; you're no seaman, and have no respect for your officer. now sheer off, or i'll cut your yards." "why, as for my yards, i'll square 'em presently if i like, you old swab; but as for leaving you, very well; you have said so, and you shall be accommodated, d----e; however, it was not so when your nob was nearly rove through with a boarding pike; it wasn't 'i'll have no more to do with jack pringle' then, it was more t'other." "well, then, why be so mutinous?" "because you aggrawates me." the cries of the mob became more distinct as they drew nearer to the party, who began to evince some uneasiness as to their object. "surely," said marchdale, "mr. chillingworth has not named anything respecting the duel that has taken place." "no, no." "but he was to have been here this morning," said the admiral. "i understood he was to be here in his own character of a surgeon, and yet i have not seen him; have any of you?" "no," said henry. "then here he comes in the character of conservator of the public peace," said varney, coldly; "however, i believe that his errand will be useless since the affair is, i presume, concluded." "down with the vampyre!" "eh!" said the admiral, "eh, what's that, eh? what did they say?" "if you'll listen they'll tell you soon enough, i'll warrant." "may be they will, and yet i'd like to know now." sir francis varney looked significantly at marchdale, and then waited with downcast eyes for the repetition of the words. "down with the vampyre!" resounded on all sides from the people who came rapidly towards them, and converging towards a centre. "burn, destroy, and kill the vampyre! no vampyre; burn him out; down with him; kill him!" [illustration] then came mr. chillingworth's voice, who, with much earnestness, endeavoured to exhort them to moderation, and to refrain from violence. sir francis varney became very pale agitated; he immediately turned, and taking the least notice, he made for the wood, which lay between him and his own house, leaving the people in the greatest agitation. mr. marchdale was not unmoved at this occurrence, but stood his ground with henry bannerworth, the admiral, and jack pringle, until the mob came very near to them, shouting, and uttering cries of vengeance, and death of all imaginable kinds that it was possible to conceive, against the unpopular vampyre. pending the arrival of these infuriated persons, we will, in a few words, state how it was that so suddenly a set of circumstances arose productive of an amount of personal danger to varney, such as, up to that time, had seemed not at all likely to occur. we have before stated there was but one person out of the family of the bannerworths who was able to say anything of a positive character concerning the singular and inexplicable proceedings at the hall; and that that person was mr. chillingworth, an individual not at all likely to become garrulous upon the subject. but, alas! the best of men have their weaknesses, and we much regret to say that mr. chillingworth so far in this instance forgot that admirable discretion which commonly belonged to him, as to be the cause of the popular tumult which had now readied such a height. in a moment of thoughtlessness and confidence, he told his wife. yes, this really clever man, from whom one would not have expected such a piece of horrible indiscretion, actually told his wife all about the vampyre. but such is human nature; combined with an amount of firmness and reasoning power, that one would have thought to be invulnerable safeguards, we find some weakness which astonishes all calculation. such was this of mr. chillingworth's. it is true, he cautioned the lady to be secret, and pointed to her the danger of making varney the vampyre a theme for gossip; but he might as well have whispered to a hurricane to be so good as not to go on blowing so, as request mrs. chillingworth to keep a secret. of course she burst into the usual fervent declarations of "who was she to tell? was she a person who went about telling things? when did she see anybody? not she, once in a blue moon;" and then, when mr. chillingworth went out, like the king of otaheite, she invited the neighbours round about to come to take some tea. under solemn promises of secrecy, sixteen ladies that evening were made acquainted with the full and interesting particulars of the attack of the vampyre on flora bannerworth, and all the evidence inculpating sir francis varney as the blood-thirsty individual. when the mind comes to consider that these sixteen ladies multiplied their information by about four-and-twenty each, we become quite lost in a sea of arithmetic, and feel compelled to sum up the whole by a candid assumption that in four-and-twenty hours not an individual in the whole town was ignorant of the circumstances. on the morning before the projected duel, there was an unusual commotion in the streets. people were conversing together in little knots, and using rather violent gesticulations. poor mr. chillingworth! he alone was ignorant of the causes of the popular commotion, and so he went to bed wondering that an unusual bustle pervaded the little market town, but not at all guessing its origin. somehow or another, however, the populace, who had determined to make a demonstration on the following morning against the vampyre, thought it highly necessary first to pay some sort of compliment to mr. chillingworth, and, accordingly, at an early hour, a great mob assembled outside his house, and gave three terrific applauding shouts, which roused him most unpleasantly from his sleep; and induced the greatest astonishment at the cause of such a tumult. oh, that artful mrs. chillingworth! too well she knew what was the matter; yet she pretended to be so oblivious upon the subject. "good god!" cried mr. chillingworth, as he started up in bed, "what's all that?" "all what?" said his wife. "all what! do you mean to say you heard nothing?" "well, i think i did hear a little sort of something." "a little sort of something? it shook the house." "well, well; never mind. go to sleep again; it's no business of ours." "yes; but it may be, though. it's all very well to say 'go to sleep.' that happens to be a thing i can't do. there's something amiss." "well, what's that to you?" "perhaps nothing; but, perhaps, everything." mr. chillingworth sprang from his bed, and began dressing, a process which he executed with considerable rapidity, and in which he was much accelerated by two or three supplementary shouts from the people below. then, in a temporary lull, a loud voice shouted,-"down with the vampyre--down with the vampyre!" the truth in an instant burst over the mind of mr. chillingworth; and, turning to his wife, he exclaimed,-"i understand it now. you've been gossipping about sir francis varney, and have caused all this tumult." "i gossip! well, i never! lay it on me; it's sure to be my fault. i might have known that beforehand. i always am." "but you must have spoken of it." "who have i got to speak to about it?" "did you, or did you not?" "who should i tell?" mr. chillingworth was dressed, and he hastened down and entered the street with great desperation. he had a hope that he might be enabled to disperse the crowd, and yet be in time to keep his appointment at the duel. his appearance was hailed with another shout, for it was considered, of course, that he had come to join in the attack upon sir francis varney. he found assembled a much more considerable mob than he had imagined, and to his alarm he found many armed with all sorts of weapons of offence. "hurrah!" cried a great lumpy-looking fellow, who seemed half mad with the prospect of a disturbance. "hurrah! here's the doctor, he'll tell us all about it as we go along. come on." "for heaven's sake," said mr. chillingworth, "stop; what are you about to do all of you?" "burn the vampyre--burn the vampyre!" "hold--hold! this is folly. let me implore you all to return to your homes, or you will get into serious trouble on this subject." this was a piece of advice not at all likely to be adopted; and when the mob found that mr. chillingworth was not disposed to encourage and countenance it in its violence, it gave another loud shout of defiance, and moved off through the long straggling streets of the town in a direction towards sir francis varney's house. it is true that what were called the authorities of the town had become alarmed, and were stirring, but they found themselves in such a frightful minority, that it became out of the question for them to interfere with any effect to stop the lawless proceedings of the rioters, so that the infuriated populace had it all their own way, and in a straggling, disorderly-looking kind of procession they moved off, vowing vengeance as they went against varney the vampyre. hopeless as mr. chillingworth thought it was to interfere with any degree of effect in the proceedings of the mob, he still could not reconcile it to himself to be absent from a scene which he now felt certain had been produced by his own imprudence, so he went on with the crowd, endeavouring, as he did so, by every argument that could be suggested to him to induce them to abstain from the acts of violence they contemplated. he had a hope, too, that when they reached sir francis varney's, finding him not within, as probably would be the case, as by that time he would have started to meet henry bannerworth on the ground, to fight the duel, he might induce the mob to return and forego their meditated violence. and thus was it that, urged on by a multitude of persons, the unhappy surgeon was expiating, both in mind and person, the serious mistakes he had committed in trusting a secret to his wife. let it not be supposed that we for one moment wish to lay down a general principle as regards the confiding secrets to ladies, because from the beginning of the world it has become notorious how well they keep them, and with what admirable discretion, tact, and forethought this fairest portion of humanity conduct themselves. we know how few mrs. chillingworths there are in the world, and have but to regret that our friend the doctor should, in his matrimonial adventure, have met with such a specimen. chapter xl. the popular riot.--sir francis varney's danger.--the suggestion and its results. [illustration] such, then, were the circumstances which at once altered the whole aspect of the affairs, and, from private and domestic causes of very deep annoyance, led to public results of a character which seemed likely to involve the whole country-side in the greatest possible confusion. but while we blame mr. chillingworth for being so indiscreet as to communicate the secret of such a person as varney the vampyre to his wife, we trust in a short time to be enabled to show that he made as much reparation as it was possible to make for the mischief he had unintentionally committed. and now as he struggled onward--apparently onward--first and foremost among the rioters, he was really doing all in his power to quell that tumult which superstition and dread had raised. human nature truly delights in the marvellous, and in proportion as a knowledge of the natural phenomena of nature is restricted, and unbridled imagination allowed to give the rein to fathomless conjecture, we shall find an eagerness likewise to believe the marvellous to be the truth. that dim and uncertain condition concerning vampyres, originating probably as it had done in germany, had spread itself slowly, but insidiously, throughout the whole of the civilized world. in no country and in no clime is there not something which bears a kind of family relationship to the veritable vampyre of which sir francis varney appeared to be so choice a specimen. the _ghoul_ of eastern nations is but the same being, altered to suit habits and localities; and the _sema_ of the scandinavians is but the vampyre of a more primitive race, and a personification of that morbid imagination which has once fancied the probability of the dead walking again among the living, with all the frightful insignia of corruption and the grave about them. although not popular in england, still there had been tales told of such midnight visitants, so that mrs. chillingworth, when she had imparted the information which she had obtained, had already some rough material to work upon in the minds of her auditors, and therefore there was no great difficulty in very soon establishing the fact. under such circumstances, ignorant people always do what they have heard has been done by some one else before them and in an incredibly short space of time the propriety of catching sir francis varney, depriving him of his vampyre-like existence, and driving a stake through his body, became not at all a questionable proposition. alas, poor mr. chillingworth! as well might he have attempted king canute's task of stemming the waves of the ocean as that of attempting to stop the crowd from proceeding to sir francis varney's house. his very presence was a sort of confirmation of the whole affair. in vain he gesticulated, in vain he begged and prayed that they would go back, and in vain he declared that full and ample justice should be done upon the vampyre, provided popular clamour spared him, and he was left to more deliberate judgment. those who were foremost in the throng paid no attention to these remonstrances while those who were more distant heard them not, and, for all they knew, he might be urging the crowd on to violence, instead of deprecating it. thus, then, this disorderly rabble soon reached the house of sir francis varney and loudly demanded of his terrified servant where he was to be found. the knocking at the hall door was prodigious, and, with a laudable desire, doubtless, of saving time, the moment one was done amusing himself with the ponderous knocker, another seized it; so that until the door was flung open by some of the bewildered and terrified men, there was no cessation whatever of the furious demands for admittance. "varney the vampyre--varney the vampyre!" cried a hundred voices. "death to the vampyre! where is he? bring him out. varney the vampyre!" the servants were too terrified to speak for some moments, as they saw such a tumultuous assemblage seeking their master, while so singular a name was applied to him. at length, one more bold than the rest contrived to stammer out,-"my good people, sir francis varney is not at home. he took an early breakfast, and has been out nearly an hour." the mob paused a moment in indecision, and then one of the foremost cried,-"who'd suppose they'd own he was at home? he's hiding somewhere of course; let's pull him out." "ah, pull him out--pull him out!" cried many voices. a rush was made into the hall and in a very few minutes its chambers were ransacked, and all its hidden places carefully searched, with the hope of discovering the hidden form of sir francis varney. the servants felt that, with their inefficient strength, to oppose the proceedings of an assemblage which seemed to be unchecked by all sort of law or reason, would be madness; they therefore only looked on, with wonder and dismay, satisfied certainly in their own minds that sir francis would not be found, and indulging in much conjecture as to what would be the result of such violent and unexpected proceedings. mr. chillingworth hoped that time was being gained, and that some sort of indication of what was going on would reach the unhappy object of popular detestation sufficiently early to enable him to provide for his own safety. he knew he was breaking his own engagement to be present at the duel between henry bannerworth and sir francis varney, and, as that thought recurred to him, he dreaded that his professional services might be required on one side or the other; for he knew, or fancied he knew, that mutual hatred dictated the contest; and he thought that if ever a duel had taken place which was likely to be attended with some disastrous result, that was surely the one. but how could he leave, watched and surrounded as he was by an infuriated multitude--how could he hope but that his footsteps would be dogged, or that the slightest attempt of his to convey a warning to sir francis varney, would not be the means of bringing down upon his head the very danger he sought to shield him from. in this state of uncertainty, then, did our medical man remain, a prey to the bitterest reflections, and full of the direst apprehensions, without having the slightest power of himself to alter so disastrous a train of circumstances. dissatisfied with their non-success, the crowd twice searched the house of sir francis varney, from the attics to the basement; and then, and not till then, did they begin reluctantly to believe that the servants must have spoken the truth. "he's in the town somewhere," cried one. "let's go back to the town." it is strange how suddenly any mob will obey any impulse, and this perfectly groundless supposition was sufficient to turn their steps back again in the direction whence they came, and they had actually, in a straggling sort of column, reached halfway towards the town, when they encountered a boy, whose professional pursuit consisted in tending sheep very early of a morning, and who at once informed them that he had seen sir francis varney in the wood, half way between bannerworth hall and his own home. this event at once turned the whole tide again, and with renewed clamours, carrying mr. chillingworth along with them, they now rapidly neared the real spot, where, probably, had they turned a little earlier, they would have viewed the object of their suspicion and hatred. but, as we have already recorded, the advancing throng was seen by the parties on the ground, where the duel could scarcely have been said to have been fought; and then had sir francis varney dashed into the wood, which was so opportunely at hand to afford him a shelter from his enemies, and from the intricacies of which--well acquainted with them as he doubtless was,--he had every chance of eluding their pursuit. the whole affair was a great surprise to henry and his friends, when they saw such a string of people advancing, with such shouts and imprecations; they could not, for the life of them, imagine what could have excited such a turn out among the ordinarily industrious and quiet inhabitants of a town, remarkable rather for the quietude and steadiness of its population, than for any violent outbreaks of popular feeling. "what can mr. chillingworth be about," said henry, "to bring such a mob here? has he taken leave of his senses?" "nay," said marchdale; "look again; he seems to be trying to keep them back, although ineffectually, for they will not be stayed." "d----e," said the admiral, "here's a gang of pirates; we shall be boarded and carried before we know where we are, jack." "ay ay, sir," said jack. "and is that all you've got to say, you lubber, when you see your admiral in danger? you'd better go and make terms with the enemy at once." "really, this is serious," said henry; "they shout for varney. can mr. chillingworth have been so mad as to adopt this means of stopping the duel?" "impossible," said marchdale; "if that had been his intention, he could have done so quietly, through the medium of the civil authorities." "hang me!" exclaimed the admiral, "if there are any civil authorities; they talk of smashing somebody. what do they say, jack? i don't hear quite so well as i used." "you always was a little deaf," said jack. "what?" "a little deaf, i say." "why, you lubberly lying swab, how dare you say so?" "because you was." "you slave-going scoundrel!" "for heaven's sake, do not quarrel at such a time as this!" said henry; "we shall be surrounded in a moment. come, mr. marchdale, let you and i visit these people, and ascertain what it is that has so much excited their indignation." "agreed," said marchdale; and they both stepped forward at a rapid pace, to meet the advancing throng. the crowd which had now approached to within a short distance of the expectant little party, was of a most motley description, and its appearance, under many circumstances, would cause considerable risibility. men and women were mixed indiscriminately together, and in the shouting, the latter, if such a thing were possible, exceeded the former, both in discordance and energy. every individual composing that mob carried some weapon calculated for defence, such as flails, scythes, sickles, bludgeons, &c., and this mode of arming caused them to wear a most formidable appearance; while the passion that superstition had called up was strongly depicted in their inflamed features. their fury, too, had been excited by their disappointment, and it was with concentrated rage that they now pressed onward. the calm and steady advance of henry and mr. marchdale to meet the advancing throng, seemed to have the effect of retarding their progress a little, and they came to a parley at a hedge, which separated them from the meadow in which the duel had been fought. "you seem to be advancing towards us," said henry. "do you seek me or any of my friends; and if so, upon what errand? mr. chillingworth, for heaven's sake, explain what is the cause of all this assault. you seem to be at the head of it." "seem to be," said mr. chillingworth, "without being so. you are not sought, nor any of your friends?" "who, then?" "sir francis varney," was the immediate reply. "indeed! and what has he done to excite popular indignation? of private wrong i can accuse him; but i desire no crowd to take up my cause, or to avenge my quarrels." "mr. bannerworth, it has become known, through my indiscretion, that sir francis varney is suspected of being a vampyre." "is this so?" "hurrah!" shouted the mob. "down with the vampyre! hurrah! where is he? down with him!" "drive a stake through him," said a woman; "it's the only way, and the humanest. you've only to take a hedge stake and sharpen it a bit at one end, and char it a little in the fire so as there mayt'n't be no splinters to hurt, and then poke it through his stomach." the mob gave a great shout at this humane piece of advice, and it was some time before henry could make himself heard at all, even to those who were nearest to him. when he did succeed in so doing, he cried, with a loud voice,-"hear me, all of you. it is quite needless for me to inquire how you became possessed of the information that a dreadful suspicion hangs over the person of sir francis varney; but if, in consequence of hearing such news, you fancy this public demonstration will be agreeable to me, or likely to relieve those who are nearest or dearest to me from the state of misery and apprehension into which they have fallen, you are much mistaken." "hear him, hear him!" cried mr. marchdale; "he speaks both wisdom and truth." "if anything," pursued henry, "could add to the annoyance of vexation and misery we have suffered, it would assuredly be the being made subjects of every-day gossip, and every-day clamour." "you hear him?" said mr. marchdale. "yes, we does," said a man; "but we comes out to catch a vampyre, for all that." "oh, to be sure," said the humane woman; "nobody's feelings is nothing to us. are we to be woke up in the night with vampyres sucking our bloods while we've got a stake in the country?" "hurrah!" shouted everybody. "down with the vampyre! where is he?" "you are wrong. i assure you, you are all wrong," said mr. chillingworth, imploringly; "there is no vampyre here, you see. sir francis varney has not only escaped, but he will take the law of all of you." this was an argument which appeared to stagger a few, but the bolder spirits pushed them on, and a suggestion to search the wood having been made by some one who was more cunning than his neighbours, that measure was at once proceeded with, and executed in a systematic manner, which made those who knew it to be the hiding-place of sir francis varney tremble for his safety. it was with a strange mixture of feeling that henry bannerworth waited the result of the search for the man who but a few minutes before had been opposed to him in a contest of life or death. the destruction of sir francis varney would certainly have been an effectual means of preventing him from continuing to be the incubus he then was upon the bannerworth family; and yet the generous nature of henry shrank with horror from seeing even such a creature as varney sacrificed at the shrine of popular resentment, and murdered by an infuriated populace. he felt as great an interest in the escape of the vampyre as if some great advantage to himself had been contingent upon such an event; and, although he spoke not a word, while the echoes of the little wood were all awakened by the clamorous manner in which the mob searched for their victim, his feelings could be well read upon his countenance. the admiral, too, without possessing probably the fine feelings of henry bannerworth, took an unusually sympathetic interest in the fate of the vampyre; and, after placing himself in various attitudes of intense excitement, he exclaimed,-"d--n it, jack, i do hope, after all, the vampyre will get the better of them. it's like a whole flotilla attacking one vessel--a lubberly proceeding at the best, and i'll be hanged if i like it. i should like to pour in a broadside into those fellows, just to let them see it wasn't a proper english mode of fighting. shouldn't you, jack?" "ay, ay, sir, i should." "shiver me, if i see an opportunity, if i don't let some of those rascals know what's what." scarcely had these words escaped the lips of the old admiral than there arose a loud shout from the interior of the wood. it was a shout of success, and seemed at the very least to herald the capture of the unfortunate varney. "by heaven!" exclaimed henry, "they have him." "god forbid!" said mr. marchdale; "this grows too serious." "bear a hand, jack," said the admiral: "we'll have a fight for it yet; they sha'n't murder even a vampyre in cold blood. load the pistols and send a flying shot or two among the rascals, the moment they appear." "no, no," said henry; "no more violence, at least there has been enough--there has been enough." even as he spoke there came rushing from among the trees, at the corner of the wood, the figure of a man. there needed but one glance to assure them who it was. sir francis varney had been seen, and was flying before those implacable foes who had sought his life. he had divested himself of his huge cloak, as well as of his low slouched hat, and, with a speed which nothing but the most absolute desperation could have enabled him to exert, he rushed onward, beating down before him every obstacle, and bounding over the meadows at a rate that, if he could have continued it for any length of time, would have set pursuit at defiance. "bravo!" shouted the admiral, "a stern chase is a long chase, and i wish them joy of it--d----e, jack, did you ever see anybody get along like that?" "ay, ay, sir." "you never did, you scoundrel." "yes, i did." "when and where?" "when you ran away off the sound." the admiral turned nearly blue with anger, but jack looked perfectly imperturbable, as he added,-"you know you ran away after the french frigates who wouldn't stay to fight you." "ah! that indeed. there he goes, putting on every stitch of canvass, i'll be bound." "and there they come," said jack, as he pointed to the corner of the wood, and some of the more active of the vampyre's pursuers showed themselves. it would appear as if the vampyre had been started from some hiding-place in the interior of the wood, and had then thought it expedient altogether to leave that retreat, and make his way to some more secure one across the open country, where there would be more obstacles to his discovery than perseverance could overcome. probably, then, among the brushwood and trees, for a few moments he had been again lost sight of, until those who were closest upon his track had emerged from among the dense foliage, and saw him scouring across the country at such headlong speed. these were but few, and in their extreme anxiety themselves to capture varney, whose precipate and terrified flight brought a firm conviction to their minds of his being a vampyre, they did not stop to get much of a reinforcement, but plunged on like greyhounds in his track. "jack," said the admiral, "this won't do. look at that great lubberly fellow with the queer smock-frock." "never saw such a figure-head in my life," said jack. "stop him." "ay, ay, sir." the man was coming on at a prodigious rate, and jack, with all the deliberation in the world, advanced to meet him; and when they got sufficiently close together, that in a few moments they must encounter each other, jack made himself into as small a bundle as possible, and presented his shoulder to the advancing countryman in such a way, that he flew off it at a tangent, as if he had run against a brick wall, and after rolling head over heels for some distance, safely deposited himself in a ditch, where he disappeared completely for a few moments from all human observation. "don't say i hit you," said jack. "curse yer, what did yer run against me for? sarves you right. lubbers as don't know how to steer, in course runs agin things." "bravo," said the admiral; "there's another of them." the pursuers of varney the vampyre, however, now came too thick and fast to be so easily disposed of, and as soon as his figure could be seen coursing over the meadows, and springing over road and ditch with an agility almost frightful to look upon, the whole rabble rout was in pursuit of him. by this time, the man who had fallen into the ditch had succeeded in making his appearance in the visible world again, and as he crawled up the bank, looking a thing of mire and mud, jack walked up to him with all the carelessness in the world, and said to him,-"any luck, old chap?" "oh, murder!" said the man, "what do you mean? who are you? where am i? what's the matter? old muster fowler, the fat crowner, will set upon me now." "have you caught anything?" said jack. "caught anything?" "yes; you've been in for eels, haven't you?" "d--n!" "well, it is odd to me, as some people can't go a fishing without getting out of temper. have it your own way; i won't interfere with you;" and away jack walked. the man cleared the mud out of his eyes, as well as he could, and looked after him with a powerful suspicion that in jack he saw the very cause of his mortal mishap: but, somehow or other, his immersion in the not over limpid stream had wonderfully cooled his courage, and casting one despairing look upon his begrimed apparel, and another at the last of the stragglers who were pursuing sir francis varney across the fields, he thought it prudent to get home as fast he could, and get rid of the disagreeable results of an adventure which had turned out for him anything but auspicious or pleasant. mr. chillingworth, as though by a sort of impulse to be present in case sir francis varney should really be run down and with a hope of saving him from personal violence, had followed the foremost of the rioters in the wood, found it now quite impossible for him to carry on such a chase as that which was being undertaken across the fields after sir francis varney. his person was unfortunately but ill qualified for the continuance of such a pursuit, and, although with the greatest reluctance, he at last felt himself compelled to give it up. in making his way through the intricacies of the wood, he had been seriously incommoded by the thick undergrowth, and he had accidentally encountered several miry pools, with which he had involuntarily made a closer acquaintance than was at all conducive either to his personal appearance or comfort. the doctor's temper, though, generally speaking, one of the most even, was at last affected by his mishaps, and he could not restrain from an execration upon his want of prudence in letting his wife have a knowledge of a secret that was not his own, and the producing an unlooked for circumstance, the termination of which might be of a most disastrous nature. tired, therefore, and nearly exhausted by the exertions he had already taken, he emerged now alone from the wood, and near the spot where stood henry bannerworth and his friends in consultation. the jaded look of the surgeon was quite sufficient indication of the trouble and turmoil he had gone through, and some expressions of sympathy for his condition were dropped by henry, to whom he replied,-"nay, my young friend, i deserve it all. i have nothing but my own indiscretion to thank for all the turmoil and tumult that has arisen this morning." "but to what possible cause can we attribute such an outrage?" "reproach me as much as you will, i deserve it. a man may prate of his own secrets if he like, but he should be careful of those of other people. i trusted yours to another, and am properly punished." "enough," said henry; "we'll say no more of that, mr. chillingworth. what is done cannot be undone, and we had better spend our time in reflection of how to make the best of what is, than in useless lamentation over its causes. what is to be done?" "nay, i know not. have you fought the duel?" "yes; and, as you perceive, harmlessly." "thank heaven for that." "nay, i had my fire, which sir francis varney refused to return; so the affair had just ended, when the sound of approaching tumult came upon our ears." [illustration] "what a strange mixture," exclaimed marchdale, "of feelings and passions this varney appears to be. at one moment acting with the apparent greatest malignity; and another, seeming to have awakened in his mind a romantic generosity which knows no bounds. i cannot understand him." "nor i, indeed," said henry; "but yet i somehow tremble for his fate, and i seem to feel that something ought to be done to save him from the fearful consequences of popular feeling. let us hasten to the town, and procure what assistance we may: but a few persons, well organised and properly armed, will achieve wonders against a desultory and ill-appointed multitude. there may be a chance of saving him, yet, from the imminent danger which surrounds him." "that's proper," cried the admiral. "i don't like to see anybody run down. a fair fight's another thing. yard arm and yard arm--stink pots and pipkins--broadside to broadside--and throw in your bodies, if you like, on the lee quarter; but don't do anything shabby. what do you think of it, jack?" "why, i means to say as how if varney only keeps on sail as he's been doing, that the devil himself wouldn't catch him in a gale." "and yet," said henry, "it is our duty to do the best we can. let us at once to the town, and summons all the assistance in our power. come on--come on!" his friends needed no further urging, but, at a brisk pace, they all proceeded by the nearest footpaths towards the town. it puzzled his pursuers to think in what possible direction sir francis varney expected to find sustenance or succour, when they saw how curiously he took his flight across the meadows. instead of endeavouring, by any circuitous path, to seek the shelter of his own house, or to throw himself upon the care of the authorities of the town, who must, to the extent of their power, have protected him, he struck across the fields, apparently without aim or purpose, seemingly intent upon nothing but to distance his pursuers in a long chase, which might possibly tire them, or it might not, according to their or his powers of endurance. we say this seemed to be the case, but it was not so in reality. sir francis varney had a deeper purpose, and it was scarcely to be supposed that a man of his subtle genius, and, apparently, far-seeing and reflecting intellect, could have so far overlooked the many dangers of his position as not to be fully prepared for some such contingency as that which had just now occurred. holding, as he did, so strange a place in society--living among men, and yet possessing so few attributes in common with humanity--he must all along have felt the possibility of drawing upon himself popular violence. he could not wholly rely upon the secrecy of the bannerworth family, much as they might well be supposed to shrink from giving publicity to circumstances of so fearfully strange and perilous a nature as those which had occurred amongst them. the merest accident might, at any moment, make him the town's talk. the overhearing of a few chance words by some gossiping domestic--some ebullition of anger or annoyance by some member of the family--or a communication from some friend who had been treated with confidence--might, at any time, awaken around him some such a storm as that which now raged at his heels. varney the vampire must have calculated this. he must have felt the possibility of such a state of things; and, as a matter of course, politicly provided himself with some place of refuge. after about twenty minutes of hard chasing across the fields, there could be no doubt of his intentions. he had such a place of refuge; and, strange a one as it might appear, he sped towards it in as direct a line as ever a well-sped arrow flew towards its mark. that place of refuge, to the surprise of every one, appeared to be the ancient ruin, of which we have before spoken, and which was so well known to every inhabitant of the county. truly, it seemed like some act of mere desperation for sir francis varney to hope there to hide himself. there remained within, of what had once been a stately pile, but a few grey crumbling walls, which the hunted have would have passed unheeded, knowing that not for one instant could he have baffled his pursuers by seeking so inefficient a refuge. and those who followed hard and fast upon the track of sir francis varney felt so sure of their game, when they saw whither he was speeding, that they relaxed in their haste considerably, calling loudly to each other that the vampire was caught at last, for he could be easily surrounded among the old ruins, and dragged from amongst its moss-grown walls. in another moment, with a wild dash and a cry of exultation, he sprang out of sight, behind an angle, formed by what had been at one time one of the principal supports of the ancient structure. then, as if there was still something so dangerous about him, that only by a great number of hands could he be hoped to be secured, the infuriated peasantry gathered in a dense circle around what they considered his temporary place of refuge, and as the sun, which had now climbed above the tree tops, and dispersed, in a great measure, many of the heavy clouds of morning, shone down upon the excited group, they might have been supposed there assembled to perform some superstitious rite, which time had hallowed as an association of the crumbling ruin around which they stood. by the time the whole of the stragglers, who had persisted in the chase, had come up, there might have been about fifty or sixty resolute men, each intent upon securing the person of one whom they felt, while in existence, would continue to be a terror to all the weaker and dearer portions of their domestic circles. there was a pause of several minutes. those who had come the fleetest were gathering breath, and those who had come up last were looking to their more forward companions for some information as to what had occurred before their arrival. all was profoundly still within the ruin, and then suddenly, as if by common consent, there arose from every throat a loud shout of "down with the vampyre! down with the vampyre!" the echoes of that shout died away, and then all was still as before, while a superstitious feeling crept over even the boldest. it would almost seem as if they had expected some kind of response from sir francis varney to the shout of defiance with which they had just greeted him; but the very calmness, repose, and absolute quiet of the ruin, and all about it, alarmed them, and they looked the one at the other as if the adventure after all were not one of the pleasantest description, and might not fall out so happily as they had expected. yet what danger could there be? there were they, more than half a hundred stout, strong men, to cope with one; they felt convinced that he was completely in their power; they knew the ruins could not hide him, and that five minutes time given to the task, would suffice to explore every nook and corner of them. and yet they hesitated, while an unknown terror shook their nerves, and seemingly from the very fact that they had run down their game successfully, they dreaded to secure the trophy of the chase. one bold spirit was wanting; and, if it was not a bold one that spoke at length, he might be complimented as being comparatively such. it was one who had not been foremost in the chase, perchance from want of physical power, who now stood forward, and exclaimed,-"what are you waiting for, now? you can have him when you like. if you want your wives and children to sleep quietly in their beds, you will secure the vampyre. come on--we all know he's here--why do you hesitate? do you expect me to go alone and drag him out by the ears?" any voice would have sufficed to break the spell which bound them. this did so; and, with one accord, and yells of imprecation, they rushed forward and plunged among the old walls of the ruin. less time than we have before remarked would have enabled any one to explore the tottering fabric sufficient to bring a conviction to their minds that, after all, there might have been some mistake about the matter, and sir francis varney was not quite caught yet. it was astonishing how the fact of not finding him in a moment, again roused all their angry feelings against him, and dispelled every feeling of superstitious awe with which he had been surrounded; rage gave place to the sort of shuddering horror with which they had before contemplated his immediate destruction, when they had believed him to be virtually within their very grasp. over and over again the ruins were searched--hastily and impatiently by some, carefully and deliberately by others, until there could be no doubt upon the mind of every one individual, that somehow or somewhere within the shadow of those walls, sir francis varney had disappeared most mysteriously. then it would have been a strange sight for any indifferent spectator to have seen how they shrunk, one by one, out of the shadow of those ruins; each seeming to be afraid that the vampyre, in some mysterious manner, would catch him if he happened to be the last within their sombre influence; and, when they had all collected in the bright, open space, some little distance beyond, they looked at each other and at the ruins, with dubious expressions of countenance, each, no doubt, wishing that each would suggest something of a consolatory or practicable character. "what's to be done, now?" said one. "ah! that's it," said another, sententiously. "i'll be hanged if i know." "he's given us the slip," remarked a third. "but he can't have given us the slip," said one man, who was particularly famous for a dogmatical spirit of argumentation; "how is it possible? he must be here, and i say he is here." "find him, then," cried several at once. "oh! that's nothing to do with the argument; he's here, whether we find him or not." one very cunning fellow laid his finger on his nose, and beckoned to a comrade to retire some paces, where he delivered himself of the following very oracular sentiment:-"my good friend, you must know sir francis varney is here or he isn't." "agreed, agreed." "well, if he isn't here it's no use troubling our heads any more about him; but, otherwise, it's quite another thing, and, upon the whole, i must say, that i rather think he is." all looked at him, for it was evident he was big with some suggestion. after a pause, he resumed,-"now, my good friends, i propose that we all appear to give it up, and to go away; but that some one of us shall remain and hide among the ruins for some time, to watch, in case the vampyre makes his appearance from some hole or corner that we haven't found out." "oh, capital!" said everybody. "then you all agree to that?" "yes, yes." "very good; that's the only way to nick him. now, we'll pretend to give it up; let's all of us talk loud about going home." they did all talk loud about going home; they swore that it was not worth the trouble of catching him, that they gave it up as a bad job; that he might go to the deuce in any way he liked, for all they cared; and then they all walked off in a body, when, the man who had made the suggestion, suddenly cried,-"hilloa! hilloa!--stop! stop! you know one of us is to wait?" "oh, ay; yes, yes, yes!" said everybody, and still they moved on. "but really, you know, what's the use of this? who's to wait?" that was, indeed, a knotty question, which induced a serious consultation, ending in their all, with one accord, pitching upon the author of the suggestion, as by far the best person to hide in the ruins and catch the vampyre. they then all set off at full speed; but the cunning fellow, who certainly had not the slightest idea of so practically carrying out his own suggestion, scampered off after them with a speed that soon brought him in the midst of the throng again, and so, with fear in their looks, and all the evidences of fatigue about them, they reached the town to spread fresh and more exaggerated accounts of the mysterious conduct of varney the vampyre. chapter xliv. varney's danger, and his rescue.--the prisoner again, and the subterranean vault. [illustration] we have before slightly mentioned to the reader, and not unadvisedly, the existence of a certain prisoner, confined in a gloomy dungeon, into whose sad and blackened recesses but few and faint glimmering rays of light ever penetrated; for, by a diabolical ingenuity, the narrow loophole which served for a window to that subterraneous abode was so constructed, that, let the sun be at what point it might, during its diurnal course, but a few reflected beams of light could ever find their way into that abode of sorrow. the prisoner--the same prisoner of whom we before spoke--is there. despair is in his looks, and his temples are still bound with those cloths, which seemed now for many days to have been sopped in blood, which has become encrusted in their folds. he still lives, apparently incapable of movement. how he has lived so long seems to be a mystery, for one would think him scarcely in a state, even were nourishment placed to his lips, to enable him to swallow it. it may be, however, that the mind has as much to do with that apparent absolute prostration of all sort of physical energy as those bodily wounds which he has received at the hands of the enemies who have reduced him to his present painful and hopeless situation. occasionally a low groan burst from his lips; it seems to come from the very bottom of his heart, and it sounds as if it would carry with it every remnant of vitality that was yet remaining to him. then he moves restlessly, and repeats in hurried accents the names of some who are dear to him, and far away--some who may, perchance, be mourning him, but who know not, guess not, aught of his present sufferings. as he thus moves, the rustle of a chain among the straw on which he lies gives an indication, that even in that dungeon it has not been considered prudent to leave him master of his own actions, lest, by too vigorous an effort, he might escape from the thraldom in which he is held. the sound reaches his own ears, and for a few moments, in the deep impatience of his wounded spirit, he heaps malediction on the heads of those who have reduced him to his present state. but soon a better nature seems to come over him, and gentler words fall from his lips. he preaches patience to himself--he talks not of revenge, but of justice, and in accents of more hopefulness than he had before spoken, he calls upon heaven to succour him in his deep distress. then all is still, and the prisoner appears to have resigned himself once more to the calmness of expectation or of despair; but hark! his sense of hearing, rendered doubly acute by lying so long alone in nearly darkness, and in positive silence, detects sounds which, to ordinary mortal powers of perception, would have been by far too indistinct to produce any tangible effect upon the senses. it is the sound of feet--on, on they come; far overhead he hears them; they beat the green earth--that sweet, verdant sod, which he may never see again--with an impatient tread. nearer and nearer still; and now they pause; he listens with all the intensity of one who listens for existence; some one comes; there is a lumbering noise--a hasty footstep; he hears some one labouring for breath--panting like a hunted hare; his dungeon door is opened, and there totters in a man, tall and gaunt; he reels like one intoxicated; fatigue has done more than the work of inebriation; he cannot save himself, and he sinks exhausted by the side of that lonely prisoner. the captive raises himself as far as his chains will allow him; he clutches the throat of his enervated visitor. "villain, monster, vampyre!" he shrieks, "i have thee now;" and locked in a deadly embrace, they roll upon the damp earth, struggling for life together. * * * * * it is mid-day at bannerworth hall, and flora is looking from the casement anxiously expecting the arrival of her brothers. she had seen, from some of the topmost windows of the hall, that the whole neighbourhood had been in a state of commotion, but little did she guess the cause of so much tumult, or that it in any way concerned her. she had seen the peasantry forsaking their work in the fields and the gardens, and apparently intent upon some object of absorbing interest; but she feared to leave the house, for she had promised henry that she would not do so, lest the former pacific conduct of the vampyre should have been but a new snare, for the purpose of drawing her so far from her home as to lead her into some danger when she should be far from assistance. and yet more than once was she tempted to forget her promise, and to seek the open country, for fear that those she loved should be encountering some danger for her sake, which she would willingly either share with them or spare them. the solicitation, however, of her brother kept her comparatively quiet; and, moreover, since her last interview with varney, in which, at all events, he had shown some feeling for the melancholy situation to which, he had reduced her, she had been more able to reason calmly, and to meet the suggestions of passion and of impulse with a sober judgment. about midday, then, she saw the domestic party returning--that party, which now consisted of her two brothers, the admiral, jack pringle, and mr. chillingworth. as for mr. marchdale, he had given them a polite adieu on the confines of the grounds of bannerworth hall, stating, that although he had felt it to be his duty to come forward and second henry bannerworth in the duel with the vampyre, yet that circumstance by no means obliterated from his memory the insults he had received from admiral bell, and, therefore, he declined going to bannerworth hall, and bade them a very good morning. to all this, admiral bell replied that he might go and be d----d, if he liked, and that he considered him a swab and a humbug, and appealed to jack pringle whether he, jack, ever saw such a sanctified looking prig in his life. "ay, ay," says jack. this answer, of course, produced the usual contention, which lasted them until they got fairly in the house, where they swore at each other to an extent that was enough to make any one's hair stand on end, until henry and mr. chillingworth interfered, and really begged that they would postpone the discussion until some more fitting opportunity. the whole of the circumstances were then related to flora; who, while she blamed her brother much for fighting the duel with the vampyre, found in the conduct of that mysterious individual, as regarded the encounter, yet another reason for believing him to be strictly sincere in his desire to save her from the consequences of his future visits. her desire to leave bannerworth hall consequently became more and more intense, and as the admiral really now considered himself the master of the house, they offered no amount of opposition to the subject, but merely said,-"my dear flora, admiral bell shall decide in all these matters, now. we know that he is our sincere friend; and that whatever he says we ought to do, will be dictated by the best possible feelings towards us." "then i appeal to you, sir," said flora, turning to the admiral. "very good," replied the old man; "then i say--" "nay, admiral," interrupted mr. chillingworth; "you promised me, but a short time since, that you would come to no decision whatever upon this question, until you had heard some particulars which i have to relate to you, which, in my humble opinion, will sway your judgment." "and so i did," cried the admiral; "but i had forgotten all about it. flora, my dear, i'll be with you in an hour or two. my friend, the doctor, here, has got some sow by the ear, and fancies it's the right one; however, i'll hear what he has got to say, first, before we come to a conclusion. so, come along, mr. chillingworth, and let's have it out at once." "flora," said henry, when the admiral had left the room, "i can see that you wish to leave the hall." "i do, brother; but not to go far--i wish rather to hide from varney than to make myself inaccessible by distance." "you still cling to this neighbourhood?" "i do, i do; and you know with what hope i cling to it." "perfectly; you still think it possible that charles holland may be united to you." "i do, i do." "you believe his faith." "oh, yes; as i believe in heaven's mercy." "and i, flora; i would not doubt him now for worlds; something even now seems to whisper to me that a brighter sun of happiness will yet dawn upon us, and that, when the mists which at present enshroud ourselves and our fortunes pass away, they will disclose a landscape full of beauty, the future of which shall know no pangs." "yes, brother," exclaimed flora, enthusiastically; "this, after all, may be but some trial, grievous while it lasts, but yet tending eventually only to make the future look more bright and beautiful. heaven may yet have in store for us all some great happiness, which shall spring clearly and decidedly from out these misfortunes." "be it so, and may we ever thus banish despair by such hopeful propositions. lean on my arm, flora; you are safe with me. come, dearest, and taste the sweetness of the morning air." there was, indeed now, a hopefulness about the manner in which henry bannerworth spoke, such as flora had not for some weary months had the pleasure of listening to, and she eagerly rose to accompany him into the garden, which was glowing with all the beauty of sunshine, for the day had turned out to be much finer than the early morning had at all promised it would be. "flora," he said, when they had taken some turns to and fro in the garden, "notwithstanding all that has happened, there is no convincing mr. chillingworth that sir francis varney is really what to us he appears." "indeed!" "it is so. in the face of all evidence, he neither will believe in vampyres at all, nor that varney is anything but some mortal man, like ourselves, in his thoughts, talents, feelings, and modes of life; and with no more power to do any one an injury than we have." "oh, would that i could think so!" "and i; but, unhappily, we have by far too many, and too conclusive evidences to the contrary." "we have, indeed, brother." "and though, while we respect that strength of mind in our friend which will not allow him, even almost at the last extremity, to yield to what appear to be stern facts, we may not ourselves be so obdurate, but may feel that we know enough to be convinced." "you have no doubt, brother?" "most reluctantly, i must confess, that i feel compelled to consider varney as something more than mortal." "he must be so." "and now, sister, before we leave the place which has been a home to us from earliest life, let us for a few moments consider if there be any possible excuse for the notion of mr. chillingworth, to the effect that sir francis varney wants possession of the house for some purpose still more inimical to our peace and prosperity than any he has yet attempted." "has he such an opinion?" "he has." "'tis very strange." "yes, flora; he seems to gather from all the circumstances, nothing but an overwhelming desire on the part of sir francis varney to become the tenant of bannerworth hall." "he certainly wishes to possess it." "yes; but can you, sister, in the exercise of any possible amount of fancy, imagine any motive for such an anxiety beyond what he alleges?" "which is merely that he is fond of old houses." "precisely so. that is the reason, and the only one, that can be got from him. heaven only knows if it be the true one." "it may be, brother." "as you say, it may; but there's a doubt, nevertheless, flora. i much rejoice that you have had an interview with this mysterious being, for you have certainty, since that time, been happier and more composed than i ever hoped to see you again." "i have indeed." "it is sufficiently perceivable." "somehow, brother, since that interview, i have not had the same sort of dread of sir francis varney which before made the very sound of his name a note of terror to me. his words, and all he said to me during that interview which took place so strangely between us, indeed how i know not, tended altogether rather to make him, to a certain extent, an object of my sympathies rather than my abhorrence." "that is very strange." "i own that it is strange, henry; but when we come for but a brief moment to reflect upon the circumstances which have occurred, we shall, i think, be able to find some cause even to pity varney the vampyre." "how?" "thus, brother. it is said--and well may i who have been subject to an attack of such a nature, tremble to repeat the saying--that those who have been once subject to the visitations of a vampyre, are themselves in a way to become one of the dreadful and maddening fraternity." "i have heard so much, sister," replied henry. "yes; and therefore who knows but that sir francis varney may, at one time, have been as innocent as we are ourselves of the terrible and fiendish propensity which now makes him a terror and a reproach to all who know him, or are in any way obnoxious to his attacks." "that is true." "there may have been a time--who shall say there was not?--when he, like me, would have shrunk, with a dread as great as any one could have experienced, from the contamination of the touch even of a vampyre." "i cannot, sister, deny the soundness of your reasoning," said henry, with a sigh; "but i still no not see anything, even from a full conviction that varney is unfortunate, which should induce us to tolerate him." "nay, brother, i said not tolerate. what i mean is, that even with the horror and dread we must naturally feel at such a being, we may afford to mingle some amount of pity, which shall make us rather seek to shun him, than to cross his path with a resolution of doing him an injury." "i perceive well, sister, what you mean. rather than remain here, and make an attempt to defy sir francis varney, you would fly from him, and leave him undisputed master of the field." "i would--i would." "heaven forbid that i or any one should thwart you. you know well, flora, how dear you are to me; you know well that your happiness has ever been to us all a matter which has assumed the most important of shapes, as regarded our general domestic policy. it is not, therefore, likely now, dear sister, that we should thwart you in your wish to remove from here." "i know, henry, all you would say," remarked flora, as a tear started to her eyes. "i know well all you think, and, in your love for me, i likewise know well i rely for ever. you are attached to this place, as, indeed, we all are, by a thousand happy and pleasant associations; but listen to me further, henry, i do not wish to wander far." "not far, flora?" "no. do i not still cling to a hope that charles may yet appear? and if he do so, it will assuredly be in this neighbourhood, which he knows is native and most dear to us all." "true." "then do i wish to make some sort of parade, in the way of publicity, of our leaving the hall." "yes, yes." "and yet not go far. in the neighbouring town, for example, surely we might find some means of living entirely free from remark or observation as to who or what we were." "that, sister, i doubt. if you seek for that species of solitude which you contemplate, it is only to be found in a desert." "a desert?" "yes; or in a large city." "indeed!" "ay, flora; you may well believe me, that it is so. in a small community you can have no possible chance of evading an amount of scrutiny which would very soon pierce through any disguise you could by any possibility assume." "then there is no resource. we must go far." "nay, i will consider for you, flora; and although, as a general principle, what i have said i know to be true, yet some more special circumstance may arise that may point a course that, while it enables us, for charles holland's sake, to remain in this immediate neighbourhood, yet will procure to us all the secrecy we may desire." "dear--dear brother," said flora, as she flung herself upon henry's neck, "you speak cheeringly to me, and, what is more, you believe in charles's faithfulness and truth." "as heaven is my judge, i do." "a thousand, thousand thanks for such an assurance. i know him too well to doubt, for one moment, his faith. oh, brother! could he--could charles holland, the soul of honour, the abode of every noble impulse that can adorn humanity--could he have written those letters? no, no! perish the thought!" "it has perished." "thank god!" "i only, upon reflection, wonder how, misled for the moment by the concurrence of a number of circumstances, i could ever have suspected him." "it is like your generous nature, brother to say so; but you know as well as i, that there has been one here who has, far from feeling any sort of anxiety to think as well as possible of poor charles holland, has done all that in him lay to take the worst view of his mysterious disappearance, and induce us to do the like." "you allude to mr. marchdale?" "i do." "well, flora, at the same time that i must admit you have cause for speaking of mr. marchdale as you do, yet when we come to consider all things, there may be found for him excuses." "may there?" "yes, flora; he is a man, as he himself says, past the meridian of life, and the world is a sad as well as a bad teacher, for it soon--too soon, alas! deprives us of our trusting confidence in human nature." "it may be so; but yet, he, knowing as he did so very little of charles holland, judged him hastily and harshly." "you rather ought to say, flora, that he did not judge him generously." "well, be it so." "and you must recollect, when you say so, that marchdale did not love charles holland." "nay, now," said flora, while there flashed across her cheek, for a moment, a heightened colour, "you are commencing to jest with me, and, therefore, we will say no more. you know, dear henry, all my hopes, my wishes, and my feelings, and i shall therefore leave my future destiny in your hands, to dispose of as you please. look yonder!" "where?" "there. do you not see the admiral and mr. chillingworth walking among the trees?" "yes, yes; i do now." "how very serious and intent they are upon the subject of their discourse. they seem quite lost to all surrounding objects. i could not have imagined any subject that would so completely have absorbed the attention of admiral bell." "mr. chillingworth had something to relate to him or to propose, of a nature which, perchance, has had the effect of enchaining all his attention--he called him from the room." "yes; i saw that he did. but see, they come towards us, and now we shall, probably, hear what is the subject-matter of their discourse and consultation." "we shall." admiral bell had evidently seen henry and his sister, for now, suddenly, as if not from having for the first moment observed them, and, in consequence, broken off their private discourse, but as if they arrived at some point in it which enabled them to come to a conclusion to be communicative, the admiral came towards the brother and sister. "well," said the bluff old admiral, when they were sufficiently near to exchange words, "well, miss flora, you are looking a thousand times better than you were." "i thank you, admiral, i am much better." "oh, to be sure you are; and you will be much better still, and no sort of mistake. now, here's the doctor and i have both been agreeing upon what is best for you." "indeed!" "yes, to be sure. have we not, doctor?" "we have, admiral." "good; and what, now, miss flora, do you suppose it is?" "i really cannot say." "why, it's change of air, to be sure. you must get away from here as quickly as you can, or there will be no peace for you." "yes," added mr. chillingworth, advancing; "i am quite convinced that change of scene and change of place, and habits, and people, will tend more to your complete recovery than any other circumstances. in the most ordinary cases of indisposition we always find that the invalid recovers much sooner away from the scene of his indisposition, than by remaining in it, even though its general salubrity be much greater than the place to which he may be removed." "good," said the admiral. "then we are to understand," said henry, with a smile, "that we are no longer to be your guests, admiral bell?" "belay there!" cried the admiral; "who told you to understand any such thing, i should like to know?" "well, but we shall look upon this house as yours, now; and, that being the case, if we remove from it, of course we cease to be your guests any longer." "that's all you know about it. now, hark ye. you don't command the fleet, so don't pretend to know what the admiral is going to do. i have made money by knocking about some of the enemies of old england, and that's the most gratifying manner in the world of making money, so far as i am concerned." [illustration] "it is an honourable mode." "of course it is. well, i am going to--what the deuce do you call it?" "what?" "that's just what i want to know. oh, i have it now. i am going to what the lawyers call invest it." "a prudent step, admiral, and one which it is to be hoped, before now, has occurred to you." "perhaps it has and perhaps it hasn't; however, that's my business, and no one's else's. i am going to invest my spare cash in taking houses; so, as i don't care a straw where the houses may be situated, you can look out for one somewhere that will suit you, and i'll take it; so, after all, you will be my guests there just the same as you are here." "admiral," said henry, "it would be imposing upon a generosity as rare as it is noble, were we to allow you to do so much for us as you contemplate." "very good." "we cannot--we dare not." "but i say you shall. so you have had your say, and i've had mine, after which, if you please, master henry bannerworth, i shall take upon myself to consider the affair as altogether settled. you can commence operations as soon as you like. i know that miss flora, here--bless her sweet eyes--don't want to stay at bannerworth hall any longer than she can help it." "indeed i was urging upon henry to remove," said flora; "but yet i cannot help feeling with him, admiral, that we are imposing upon your goodness." "go on imposing, then." "but--" "psha! can't a man be imposed upon if he likes? d--n it, that's a poor privilege for an englishman to be forced to make a row about. i tell you i like it. i will be imposed upon, so there's an end of that; and now let's come in and see what mrs. bannerworth has got ready for luncheon." * * * * * it can hardly be supposed that such a popular ferment as had been created in the country town, by the singular reports concerning varney the vampyre, should readily, and without abundant satisfaction, subside. an idea like that which had lent so powerful an impulse to the popular mind, was one far easier to set going than to deprecate or extinguish. the very circumstances which had occurred to foil the excited mob in their pursuit of sir francis varney, were of a nature to increase the popular superstition concerning him, and to make him and his acts appear in still more dreadful colours. mobs do not reason very closely and clearly; but the very fact of the frantic flight of sir francis varney from the projected attack of the infuriated multitude, was seized hold of as proof positive of the reality of his vampyre-like existence. then, again, had he not disappeared in the most mysterious manner? had he not sought refuge where no human being would think of seeking refuge, namely, in that old, dilapidated ruin, where, when his pursuers were so close upon his track, he had succeeded in eluding their grasp with a facility which looked as if he had vanished into thin air, or as if the very earth had opened to receive him bodily within its cold embraces? it is not to be wondered at, that the few who fled so precipitately from the ruin, lost nothing of the wonderful story they had to tell, in the carrying it from that place to the town. when they reached their neighbours, they not only told what had really occurred, but they added to it all their own surmises, and the fanciful creation of all their own fears, so that before mid-day, and about the time when henry bannerworth was conversing so quietly in the gardens of the hall with his beautiful sister, there was an amount of popular ferment in the town, of which they had no conception. all business was suspended, and many persons, now that once the idea had been started concerning the possibility that a vampyre might have been visiting some of the houses in the place, told how, in the dead of the night, they had heard strange noises. how children had shrieked from no apparent cause--doors opened and shut without human agency; and windows rattled that never had been known to rattle before. some, too, went so far as to declare that they had been awakened out of their sleep by noises incidental to an effort made to enter their chambers; and others had seen dusky forms of gigantic proportions outside their windows, tampering with their fastenings, and only disappearing when the light of day mocked all attempts at concealment. these tales flew from mouth to mouth, and all listened to them with such an eager interest, that none thought it worth while to challenge their inconsistencies, or to express a doubt of their truth, because they had not been mentioned before. the only individual, and he was a remarkably clever man, who made the slightest remark upon the subject of a practical character, hazarded a suggestion that made confusion worse confounded. he knew something of vampyres. he had travelled abroad, and had heard of them in germany, as well as in the east, and, to a crowd of wondering and aghast listeners, he said,-"you may depend upon it, my friends, this has been going on for some time; there have been several mysterious and sudden deaths in the town lately; people have wasted away and died nobody knew how or wherefore." "yes--yes," said everybody. "there was miles, the butcher; you know how fat he was, and then how fat he wasn't." a general assent was given to the proposition; and then, elevating one arm in an oratorical manner, the clever fellow continued,-"i have not a doubt that miles, the butcher, and every one else who has died suddenly lately, have been victims of the vampyre; and what's more, they'll all be vampyres, and come and suck other people's blood, till at last the whole town will be a town of vampyres." "but what's to be done?" cried one, who trembled so excessively that he could scarcely stand under his apprehension. "there is but one plan--sir francis varney must be found, and put out of the world in such a manner that he can't come back to it again; and all those who are dead that we have any suspicion of, should be taken up out of their graves and looked at, to see if they're rotting or not; if they are it's all right; but, if they look fresh and much, as usual, you may depend they're vampyres, and no mistake." this was a terrific suggestion thrown amongst a mob. to have caught sir francis varney and immolated him at the shrine of popular fury, they would not have shrunk from; but a desecration of the graves of those whom they had known in life was a matter which, however much it had to recommend it, even the boldest stood aghast at, and felt some qualms of irresolution. there are many ideas, however, which, like the first plunge into a cold bath, are rather uncomfortable for the moment; but which, in a little time, we become so familiarized with, that they become stripped of their disagreeable concomitants, and appear quite pleasing and natural. so it was with this notion of exhuming the dead bodies of those townspeople who had recently died from what was called a decay of nature, and such other failures of vitality as bore not the tangible name of any understood disease. from mouth to mouth the awful suggestion spread like wildfire, until at last it grew into such a shape that it almost seemed to become a duty, at all events, to have up miles the butcher, and see how he looked. there is, too, about human nature a natural craving curiosity concerning everything connected with the dead. there is not a man of education or of intellectual endowment who would not travel many miles to look upon the exhumation of the remains of some one famous in his time, whether for his vices, his virtues, his knowledge, his talents, or his heroism; and, if this feeling exist in the minds of the educated and refined in a sublimated shape, which lends to it grace and dignity, we may look for it among the vulgar and the ignorant, taking only a grosser and meaner form, in accordance with their habits of thought. the rude materials, of which the highest and noblest feelings of educated minds are formed, will be found amongst the most grovelling and base; and so this vulgar curiosity, which, combined with other feelings, prompted an ignorant and illiterate mob to exhume miles, the once fat butcher, in a different form tempted the philosophic hamlet to moralise upon the skull of yorick. and it was wonderful to see how, when these people had made up their minds to carry out the singularly interesting, but, at the same, fearful, suggestion, they assumed to themselves a great virtue in so doing--told each other what an absolute necessity there was, for the public good, that it should be done; and then, with loud shouts and cries concerning the vampyre, they proceeded in a body to the village churchyard, where had been lain, with a hope of reposing in peace, the bones of their ancestors. a species of savage ferocity now appeared to have seized upon the crowd, and the people, in making up their minds to do something which was strikingly at variance with all their preconceived notions of right and wrong, appeared to feel that it was necessary, in order that they might be consistent, to cast off many of the decencies of life, and to become riotous and reckless. as they proceeded towards the graveyard, they amused themselves by breaking the windows of the tax-gatherers, and doing what passing mischief they could to the habitations of all who held any official situation or authority. this was something like a proclamation of war against those who might think it their duty to interfere with the lawless proceedings of an ignorant multitude. a public-house or two, likewise, _en route_, was sacked of some of its inebriating contents, so that, what with the madness of intoxication, and the general excitement consequent upon the very nature of the business which took them to the churchyard, a more wild and infuriated multitude than that which paused at two iron gates which led into the sanctuary of that church could not be imagined. those who have never seen a mob placed in such a situation as to have cast off all moral restraint whatever, at the same time that it feels there is no physical power to cope with it, can form no notion of the mass of terrible passions which lie slumbering under what, in ordinary cases, have appeared harmless bosoms, but which now run riot, and overcame every principle of restraint. it is a melancholy fact, but, nevertheless, a fact, despite its melancholy, that, even in a civilised country like this, with a generally well-educated population, nothing but a well-organised physical force keeps down, from the commission of the most outrageous offences, hundreds and thousands of persons. we have said that the mob paused at the iron gates of the churchyard, but it was more a pause of surprise than one of vacillation, because they saw that those iron gates were closed, which had not been the case within the memory of the oldest among them. at the first building of the church, and the enclosure of its graveyard, two pairs of these massive gates had been presented by some munificent patron; but, after a time, they hung idly upon their hinges, ornamental certainly, but useless, while a couple of turnstiles, to keep cattle from straying within the sacred precincts, did duty instead, and established, without trouble, the regular thoroughfare, which long habit had dictated as necessary, through the place of sepulture. but now those gates were closed, and for once were doing duty. heaven only knows how they had been moved upon their rusty and time-worn hinges. the mob, however, was checked for the moment, and it was clear that the ecclesiastical authorities were resolved to attempt something to prevent the desecration of the tombs. those gates were sufficiently strong to resist the first vigorous shake which was given to them by some of the foremost among the crowd, and then one fellow started the idea that they might be opened from the inside, and volunteered to clamber over the wall to do so. hoisted up upon the shoulders of several, he grasped the top of the wall, and raised his head above its level, and then something of a mysterious nature rose up from the inside, and dealt him such a whack between the eyes, that down he went sprawling among his coadjutors. now, nobody had seen how this injury had been inflicted, and the policy of those in the garrison should have been certainly to keep up the mystery, and leave the invaders in ignorance of what sort of person it was that had so foiled them. man, however, is prone to indulge in vain glorification, and the secret was exploded by the triumphant waving of the long staff of the beadle, with the gilt knob at the end of it, just over the parapet of the wall, in token of victory. "it's waggles! it's waggles!" cried everybody "it's waggles, the beadle!" "yes," said a voice from within, "it's waggles, the beadle; and he thinks as he had yer there rather; try it again. the church isn't in danger; oh, no. what do you think of this?" the staff was flourished more vigorously than ever, and in the secure position that waggles occupied it seemed not only impossible to attack him, but that he possessed wonderful powers of resistance, for the staff was long and the knob was heavy. it was a boy who hit upon the ingenious expedient of throwing up a great stone, so that it just fell inside the wall, and hit waggles a great blow on the head. the staff was flourished more vigorously than ever, and the mob, in the ecstasy at the fun which was going on, almost forgot the errand which had brought them. perhaps after all the affair might have passed off jestingly, had not there been some really mischievous persons among the throng who were determined that such should not be the case, and they incited the multitude to commence an attack upon the gates, which in a few moments must have produced their entire demolition. suddenly, however, the boldest drew back, and there was a pause, as the well-known form of the clergyman appeared advancing from the church door, attired in full canonicals. "there's mr. leigh," said several; "how unlucky he should be here." "what is this?" said the clergyman, approaching the gates. "can i believe my eyes when i see before me those who compose the worshippers at this church armed, and attempting to enter for the purpose of violence to this sacred place! oh! let me beseech you, lose not a moment, but return to your homes, and repent of that which you have already done. it is not yet too late; listen, i pray you, to the voice of one with whom you have so often joined in prayer to the throne of the almighty, who is now looking upon your actions." this appeal was heard respectfully, but it was evidently very far from suiting the feelings and the wishes of those to whom it was addressed; the presence of the clergyman was evidently an unexpected circumstance, and the more especially too as he appeared in that costume which they had been accustomed to regard with a reverence almost amounting to veneration. he saw the favourable effect he had produced, and anxious to follow it up, he added,-"let this little ebullition of feeling pass away, my friends; and, believe me, when i assure you upon my sacred word, that whatever ground there may be for complaint or subject for inquiry, shall be fully and fairly met; and that the greatest exertions shall be made to restore peace and tranquillity to all of you." "it's all about the vampyre!" cried one fellow--"mr. leigh, how should you like a vampyre in the pulpit?" "hush, hush! can it be possible that you know so little of the works of that great being whom you all pretend to adore, as to believe that he would create any class of beings of a nature such as those you ascribe to that terrific word! oh, let me pray of you to get rid of these superstitions--alike disgraceful to yourselves and afflicting to me." the clergyman had the satisfaction of seeing the crowd rapidly thinning from before the gates, and he believed his exhortations were having all the effect he wished. it was not until he heard a loud shout behind him, and, upon hastily turning, saw that the churchyard had been scaled at another place by some fifty or sixty persons, that his heart sunk within him, and he began to feel that what he had dreaded would surely come to pass. even then he might have done something in the way of pacific exertion, but for the interference of waggles, the beadle, who spoilt everything. chapter xlv. the open graves.--the dead bodies.--a scene of terror. [illustration] we have said waggles spoilt everything, and so he did, for before mr. leigh could utter a word more, or advance two steps towards the rioters, waggles charged them staff in hand, and there soon ensued a riot of a most formidable description. a kind of desperation seemed to have seized the beadle, and certainly, by his sudden and unexpected attack, he achieved wonders. when, however, a dozen hands got hold of the staff, and it was wrenched from him, and he was knocked down, and half-a-dozen people rolled over him, waggles was not near the man he had been, and he would have been very well content to have lain quiet where he was; this, however, he was not permitted to do, for two or three, who had felt what a weighty instrument of warfare the parochial staff was, lifted him bodily from the ground, and canted him over the wall, without much regard to whether he fell on a hard or a soft place on the other side. this feat accomplished, no further attention was paid to mr. leigh, who, finding that his exhortations were quite unheeded, retired into the church with an appearance of deep affliction about him, and locked himself in the vestry. the crowd now had entire possession--without even the sort of control that an exhortation assumed over them--of the burying-ground, and soon in a dense mass were these desperate and excited people collected round the well-known spot where lay the mortal remains of miles, the butcher. "silence!" cried a loud voice, and every one obeyed the mandate, looking towards the speaker, who was a tall, gaunt-looking man, attired in a suit of faded black, and who now pressed forward to the front of the throng. "oh!" cried one, "it's fletcher, the ranter. what does he do here?" "hear him! hear him!" cried others; "he won't stop us." "yes, hear him," cried the tall man, waving his arms about like the sails of a windmill. "yes, hear him. sons of darkness, you're all vampyres, and are continually sucking the life-blood from each other. no wonder that the evil one has power over you all. you're as men who walk in the darkness when the sunlight invites you, and you listen to the words of humanity when those of a diviner origin are offered to your acceptance. but there shall be miracles in the land, and even in this place, set apart with a pretended piety that is in itself most damnable, you shall find an evidence of the true light; and the proof that those who will follow me the true path to glory shall be found here within this grave. dig up miles, the butcher!" "hear, hear, hear, hurra!" said every body. "mr. fletcher's not such a fool, after all. he means well." "yes, you sinners," said the ranter, "and if you find miles, the butcher, decaying--even as men are expected to decay whose mortal tabernacles are placed within the bowels of the earth--you shall gather from that a great omen, and a sign that if you follow me you seek the lord; but i you find him looking fresh and healthy, as if the warm blood was still within his veins, you shall take that likewise as a signification that what i say to you shall be as the gospel, and that by coming to the chapel of the little boozlehum, ye shall achieve a great salvation." "very good," said a brawny fellow, advancing with a spade in his hand; "you get out of the way, and i'll soon have him up. here goes, like blue blazes!" the first shovelful of earth he took up, he cast over his head into the air, so that it fell in a shower among the mob, which of course raised a shout of indignation; and, as he continued so to dispose of the superfluous earth, a general row seemed likely to ensue. mr. fletcher opened his mouth to make a remark, and, as that feature of his face was rather a capacious one, a descending lump of mould, of a clayey consistency, fell into it, and got so wedged among his teeth, that in the process of extracting it he nearly brought some of those essential portions of his anatomy with it. this was a state of things that could not last long, and he who had been so liberal with his spadesful of mould was speedily disarmed, and yet he was a popular favourite, and had done the thing so good-humouredly, that nobody touched him. six or eight others, who had brought spades and pickaxes, now pushed forward to the work, and in an incredibly short space of time the grave of miles, the butcher, seemed to be very nearly excavated. work of any kind or nature whatever, is speedily executed when done with a wish to get through it; and never, perhaps, within the memory of man, was a grave opened in that churchyard with such a wonderful celerity. the excitement of the crowd grew intense--every available spot from which a view of the grave could be got, was occupied; for the last few minutes scarcely a remark had been uttered, and when, at last, the spade of one of those who were digging struck upon something that sounded like wood, you might have heard a pin drop, and each one there present drew his breath more shortly than before. "there he is," said the man, whose spade struck upon the coffin. those few words broke the spell, and there was a general murmur, while every individual present seemed to shift his position in his anxiety to obtain a better view of what was about to ensue. the coffin now having been once found, there seemed to be an increased impetus given to the work; the earth was thrown out with a rapidity that seemed almost the quick result of the working of some machine; and those closest to the grave's brink crouched down, and, intent as they were upon the progress of events, heeded not the damp earth that fell upon them, nor the frail brittle and humid remains of humanity that occasionally rolled to their feet. it was, indeed, a scene of intense excitement--a scene which only wanted a few prominent features in its foreground of a more intellectual and higher cast than composed the mob, to make it a fit theme for a painter of the highest talent. and now the last few shovelfuls of earth that hid the top of the coffin were cast from the grave, and that narrow house which contained the mortal remains of him who was so well known, while in life, to almost every one then present, was brought to the gaze of eyes which never had seemed likely to have looked upon him again. the cry was now for ropes, with which to raise the cumbrous mass; but these were not to be had, no one thought of providing himself with such appliances, so that by main strength, only, could the coffin be raised to the brink. the difficulty of doing this was immense, for there was nothing tangible to stand upon; and even when the mould from the sides was sufficiently cleared away, that the handles of the coffin could be laid hold of, they came away immediately in the grasp of those who did so. but the more trouble that presented itself to the accomplishment of the designs of the mob, the more intent that body seemed upon carrying out to the full extent their original designs. finding it quite impossible by bodily strength to raise the coffin of the butcher from the position in which it had got imbedded by excessive rains, a boy was hastily despatched to the village for ropes, and never did boy run with such speed before, for all his own curiosity was excited in the issue of an adventure, that to his young imagination was appallingly interesting. as impatient as mobs usually are, they had not time, in this case, for the exercise of that quality of mind before the boy came back with the necessary means of exerting quite a different species of power against the butcher's coffin. strong ropes were slid under the inert mass, and twenty hands at once plied the task of raising that receptacle of the dead from what had been presumed to be its last resting-place. the ropes strained and creaked, and many thought that they would burst asunder sooner than raise the heavy coffin of the defunct butcher. it is singular what reasons people find for backing their opinion. "you may depend he's a vampyre," said one, "or it wouldn't be so difficult to get him out of the grave." "oh, there can be no mistake about that," said one; "when did a natural christian's coffin stick in the mud in that way?" "ah, to be sure," said another; "i knew no good would come of his goings on; he never was a decent sort of man like his neighbours, and many queer things have been said of him that i have no doubt are true enough, if we did but know the rights of them." "ah, but," said a young lad, thrusting his head between the two who were talking, "if he is a vampyre, how does he get out of his coffin of a night with all that weight of mould a top of him?" one of the men considered for a moment, and then finding no rational answer occur to him, he gave the boy a box on the ear, saying,-"i should like to know what business that is of yours? boys, now-a-days, ain't like the boys in my time; they think nothing now of putting their spokes in grown-up people's wheels, just as if their opinions were of any consequence." now, by a vigorous effort, those who were tugging at the ropes succeeded in moving the coffin a little, and that first step was all the difficulty, for it was loosened from the adhesive soil in which it lay, and now came up with considerable facility. there was a half shout of satisfaction at this result, while some of the congregation turned pale, and trembled at the prospect of the sight which was about to present itself; the coffin was dragged from the grave's brink fairly among the long rank grass that flourished in the churchyard, and then they all looked at it for a time, and the men who had been most earnest in raising it wiped the perspiration from their brows, and seemed to shrink from the task of opening that receptacle of the dead now that it was fairly in their power so to do. each man looked anxiously in his neighbour's face, and several audibly wondered why somebody else didn't open the coffin. "there's no harm in it," said one; "if he's a vampyre, we ought to know it; and, if he ain't, we can't do any hurt to a dead man." "oughtn't we to have the service for the dead?" said one. "yes," said the impertinent boy who had before received the knock on the head, "i think we ought to have that read backwards." this ingenious idea was recompensed by a great many kicks and cuffs, which ought to have been sufficient to have warned him of the great danger of being a little before his age in wit. "where's the use of shirking the job?" cried he who had been so active in shoveling the mud upon the multitude; "why, you cowardly sneaking set of humbugs, you're half afraid, now." "afraid--afraid!" cried everybody: "who's afraid." "ah, who's afraid?" said a little man, advancing, and assuming an heroic attitude; "i always notice, if anybody's afraid, it's some big fellow, with more bones than brains." at this moment, the man to whom this reproach was more particularly levelled, raised a horrible shout of terror, and cried out, in frantic accents,-"he's a-coming--he's a-coming!" the little man fell at once into the grave, while the mob, with one accord, turned tail, and fled in all directions, leaving him alone with the coffin. such a fighting, and kicking, and scrambling ensued to get over the wall of the grave-yard, that this great fellow, who had caused all the mischief, burst into such peals of laughter that the majority of the people became aware that it was a joke, and came creeping back, looking as sheepish as possible. some got up very faint sorts of laugh, and said "very good," and swore they saw what big dick meant from the first, and only ran to make the others run. "very good," said dick, "i'm glad you enjoyed it, that's all. my eye, what a scampering there was among you. where's my little friend, who was so infernally cunning about bones and brains?" with some difficulty the little man was extricated from the grave, and then, oh, for the consistency of a mob! they all laughed at him; those very people who, heedless of all the amenities of existence, had been trampling upon each other, and roaring with terror, actually had the impudence to laugh at him, and call him a cowardly little rascal, and say it served him right. but such is popularity! "well, if nobody won't open the coffin," said big dick, "i will, so here goes. i knowed the old fellow when he was alive, and many a time he's d----d me and i've d----d him, so i ain't a-going to be afraid of him now he's dead. we was very intimate, you see, 'cos we was the two heaviest men in the parish; there's a reason for everything." "ah, dick's the fellow to do it," cried a number of persons; "there's nobody like dick for opening a coffin; he's the man as don't care for nothing." "ah, you snivelling curs," said dick, "i hate you. if it warn't for my own satisfaction, and all for to prove that my old friend, the butcher, as weighed seventeen stone, and stood six feet two and-a-half on his own sole, i'd see you all jolly well--" "d----d first," said the boy; "open the lid, dick, let's have a look." "ah, you're a rum un," said dick, "arter my own heart. i sometimes thinks as you must be a nevy, or some sort of relation of mine. howsomdever, here goes. who'd a thought that i should ever had a look at old fat and thunder again?--that's what i used to call him; and then he used to request me to go down below, where i needn't turn round to light my blessed pipe." "hell--we know," said the boy; "why don't you open the lid, dick?" "i'm a going," said dick; "kim up." he introduced the corner of a shovel between the lid and the coffin, and giving it a sudden wrench, he loosened it all down one side. a shudder pervaded the multitude, and, popularly speaking, you might have heard a pin drop in that crowded churchyard at that eventful moment. dick then proceeded to the other side, and executed the same manoeuvre. "now for it," he said; "we shall see him in a moment, and we'll think we seed him still." "what a lark!" said the boy. "you hold yer jaw, will yer? who axed you for a remark, blow yer? what do you mean by squatting down there, like a cock-sparrow, with a pain in his tail, hanging yer head, too, right over the coffin? did you never hear of what they call a fluvifium coming from the dead, yer ignorant beast, as is enough to send nobody to blazes in a minute? get out of the way of the cold meat, will yer?" "a what, do you say, dick?" "request information from the extreme point of my elbow." dick threw down the spade, and laying hold of the coffin-lid with both hands, he lifted it off, and flung it on one side. there was a visible movement and an exclamation among the multitude. some were pushed down, in the eager desire of those behind to obtain a sight of the ghastly remains of the butcher; those at a distance were frantic, and the excitement was momentarily increasing. they might all have spared themselves the trouble, for the coffin was empty--here was no dead butcher, nor any evidence of one ever having been there, not even the grave-clothes; the only thing at all in the receptacle of the dead was a brick. dick's astonishment was so intense that his eyes and mouth kept opening together to such an extent, that it seemed doubtful when they would reach their extreme point of elongation. he then took up the brick and looked at it curiously, and turned it over and over, examined the ends and the sides with a critical eye, and at length he said,-"well, i'm blowed, here's a transmogrification; he's consolidified himself into a blessed brick--my eye, here's a curiosity." "but you don't mean to say that's the butcher, dick?" said the boy. dick reached over, and gave him a tap on the head with the brick. "there!" he said, "that's what i calls occular demonstration. do you believe it now, you blessed infidel? what's more natural? he was an out-and-out brick while he was alive; and he's turned to a brick now he's dead." "give it to me, dick," said the boy; "i should like to have that brick, just for the fun of the thing." "i'll see you turned into a pantile first. i sha'n't part with this here, it looks so blessed sensible; it's a gaining on me every minute as a most remarkable likeness, d----d if it ain't." by this time the bewilderment of the mob had subsided; now that there was no dead butcher to look upon, they fancied themselves most grievously injured; and, somehow or other, dick, notwithstanding all his exertions in their service, was looked upon in the light of a showman, who had promised some startling exhibition and then had disappointed his auditors. the first intimation he had of popular vengeance was a stone thrown at him, but dick's eye happened to be upon the fellow who threw it, and collaring him in a moment, he dealt him a cuff on the side of the head, which confused his faculties for a week. "hark ye," he then cried, with a loud voice, "don't interfere with me; you know it won't go down. there's something wrong here; and, as one of yourselves, i'm as much interested in finding out what it is as any of you can possibly be. there seems to be some truth in this vampyre business; our old friend, the butcher, you see, is not in his grave; where is he then?" the mob looked at each other, and none attempted to answer the question. "why, of course, he's a vampyre," said dick, "and you may all of you expect to see him, in turn, come into your bed-room windows with a burst, and lay hold of you like a million and a half of leeches rolled into one." there was a general expression of horror, and then dick continued,-"you'd better all of you go home; i shall have no hand in pulling up any more of the coffins--this is a dose for me. of course you can do what you like." [illustration] "pull them all up!" cried a voice; "pull them all up! let's see how many vampyres there are in the churchyard." "well, it's no business of mine," said dick; "but i wouldn't, if i was you." "you may depend," said one, "that dick knows something about it, or he wouldn't take it so easy." "ah! down with him," said the man who had received the box on the ears; "he's perhaps a vampyre himself." the mob made a demonstration towards him, but dick stood his ground, and they paused again. "now, you're a cowardly set," he said; "cause you're disappointed, you want to come upon me. now, i'll just show what a little thing will frighten you all again, and i warn beforehand it will, so you sha'n't say you didn't know it, and were taken by surprise." the mob looked at him, wondering what he was going to do. "once! twice! thrice!" he said, and then he flung the brick up into the air an immense height, and shouted "heads," in a loud tone. a general dispersion of the crowd ensued, and the brick fell in the centre of a very large circle indeed. "there you are again," said dick; "why, what a nice act you are!" "what fun!" said the boy. "it's a famous coffin, this, dick," and he laid himself down in the butcher's last resting-place. "i never was in a coffin before--it's snug enough." "ah, you're a rum 'un," said dick; "you're such a inquiring genius, you is; you'll get your head into some hole one day, and not be able to get it out again, and then i shall see you a kicking. hush! lay still--don't say anything." "good again," said the boy; "what shall i do?" "give a sort of a howl and a squeak, when they've all come back again." "won't i!" said the boy; "pop on the lid." "there you are," said dick; "d----d if i don't adopt you, and bring you up to the science of nothing." "now, listen to me, good people all," added dick; "i have really got something to say to you." at this intimation the people slowly gathered again round the grave. "listen," said dick, solemnly; "it strikes me there's some tremendous do going on." "yes, there is," said several who were foremost. "it won't be long before you'll all of you be most d--nably astonished; but let me beg of all you not to accuse me of having anything to do with it, provided i tell you all i know." "no, dick; we won't--we won't--we won't." "good; then, listen. i don't know anything, but i'll tell you what i think, and that's as good; i don't think that this brick is the butcher; but i think, that when you least expect it--hush! come a little closer." "yes, yes; we are closer." "well, then, i say, when you all least expect it, and when you ain't dreaming of such a thing, you'll hear something of my fat friend as is dead and gone, that will astonish you all." dick paused, and he gave the coffin a slight kick, as intimation to the boy that he might as well be doing his part in the drama, upon which that ingenious young gentleman set up such a howl, that even dick jumped, so unearthly did it sound within the confines of that receptacle of the dead. but if the effect upon him was great, what must it have been upon those whom it took completely unawares? for a moment or two they seemed completely paralysed, and then they frightened the boy, for the shout of terror that rose from so many throats at once was positively alarming. this jest of dick's was final, for, before three minutes had elapsed, the churchyard was clear of all human occupants save himself and the boy, who had played his part so well in the coffin. "get out," said dick, "it's all right--we've done 'em at last; and now you may depend upon it they won't be in a hurry to come here again. you keep your own counsel, or else somebody will serve you out for this. i don't think you're altogether averse to a bit of fun, and if you keep yourself quiet, you'll have the satisfaction of hearing what's said about this affair in every pot-house in the village, and no mistake." chapter xlvi. the preparations for leaving bannerworth hall, and the mysterious conduct of the admiral and mr. chillingworth. [illustration] it seemed now, that, by the concurrence of all parties, bannerworth hall was to be abandoned; and, notwithstanding henry was loth--as he had, indeed, from the first shown himself--to leave the ancient abode of his race, yet, as not only flora, but the admiral and his friend mr. chillingworth seemed to be of opinion that it would be a prudent course to adopt, he felt that it would not become him to oppose the measure. he, however, now made his consent to depend wholly upon the full and free acquiescence of every member of the family. "if," he said, "there be any among us who will say to me 'continue to keep open the house in which we have passed so many happy hours, and let the ancient home of our race still afford a shelter to us,' i shall feel myself bound to do so; but if both my mother and my brother agree to a departure from it, and that its hearth shall be left cold and desolate, be it so. i will not stand in the way of any unanimous wish or arrangement." "we may consider that, then, as settled," said the admiral, "for i have spoken to your brother, and he is of our opinion. therefore, my boy, we may all be off as soon as we can conveniently get under weigh." "but my mother? "oh, there, i don't know. you must speak to her yourself. i never, if i can help it, interfere with the women folks." "if she consent, then i am willing." "will you ask her?" "i will not ask her to leave, because i know, then, what answer she would at once give; but she shall hear the proposition, and i will leave her to decide upon it, unbiased in her judgment by any stated opinion of mine upon the matter." "good. that'll do; and the proper way to put it, too. there's no mistake about that, i can tell you." henry, although he went through the ceremony of consulting his mother, had no sort of doubt before he did so that she was sufficiently aware of the feelings and wishes of flora to be prepared to yield a ready assent to the proposition of leaving the hall. moreover, mr. marchdale had, from the first, been an advocate of such a course of proceeding, and henry well knew how strong an influence he had over mrs. bannerworth's mind, in consequence of the respect in which she held him as an old and valued friend. he was, therefore, prepared for what his mother said, which was,-"my dear henry, you know that the wishes of my children, since they have been grown up and capable of coming to a judgment for themselves, have ever been laws to me. if you, among you all, agree to leave this place, do so." "but will you leave it freely, mother?" "most freely i go with you all; what is it that has made this house and all its appurtenances pleasant in my eyes, but the presence in it of those who are so dear to me? if you all leave it, you take with you the only charms it ever possessed; so it becomes in itself as nothing. i am quite ready to accompany you all anywhere, so that we do but keep together." "then, mother, we may consider that as settled." "as you please." "'it's scarcely as i please. i must confess that i would fain have clung with a kind of superstitious reverence to this ancient abiding-place of my race, but it may not be so. those, perchance, who are more practically able to come to correct conclusions, in consequence of their feelings not being sufficiently interested to lead them astray, have decided otherwise; and, therefore, i am content to leave." "do not grieve at it, henry. there has hung a cloud of misfortune over us all since the garden of this house became the scene of an event which we can none of us remember but with terror and shuddering." "two generations of our family must live and die before the remembrance of that circumstance can be obliterated. but we will think of it no more." there can no doubt but that the dreadful circumstance to which both mrs. bannerworth and henry alluded, was the suicide of the father of the family in the gardens which before has been hinted at in the course of this narration, as being a circumstance which had created a great sensation at the time, and cast a great gloom for many months over the family. the reader will, doubtless, too, recollect that, at his last moments, this unhappy individual was said to have uttered some incoherent words about some hidden money, and that the rapid hand of death alone seemed to prevent him from being explicit upon that subject, and left it merely a matter of conjecture. as years had rolled on, this affair, even as a subject of speculation, had ceased to occupy the minds of any of the bannerworth family, and several of their friends, among whom was mr. marchdale, were decidedly of opinion that the apparently pointed and mysterious words uttered, were but the disordered wanderings of an intellect already hovering on the confines of eternity. indeed, far from any money, of any amount, being a disturbance to the last moments of the dissolute man, whose vices and extravagances had brought his family, to such ruin, it was pretty generally believed that he had committed suicide simply from a conviction of the impossibility of raising any more supplies of cash, to enable him to carry on the career which he had pursued for so long. but to resume. henry at once communicated to the admiral what his mother had said, and then the whole question regarding the removal being settled in the affirmative, nothing remained to be done but to set about it as quickly as possible. the bannerworths lived sufficiently distant from the town to be out of earshot of the disturbances which were then taking place; and so completely isolated were they from all sort of society, that they had no notion of the popular disturbance which varney the vampyre had given rise to. it was not until the following morning that mr. chillingworth, who had been home in the meantime, brought word of what had taken place, and that great commotion was still in the town, and that the civil authorities, finding themselves by far too weak to contend against the popular will, had sent for assistance to a garrison town, some twenty miles distant. it was a great grief to the bannerworth family to hear these tidings, not that they were in any way, except as victims, accessory to creating the disturbance about the vampyre, but it seemed to promise a kind of notoriety which they might well shrink from, and which they were just the people to view with dislike. view the matter how we like, however, it is not to be considered as at all probable that the bannerworth family would remain long in ignorance of what a great sensation they had created unwittingly in the neighbourhood. the very reasons which had induced their servants to leave their establishment, and prefer throwing themselves completely out of place, rather than remain in so ill-omened a house, were sure to be bruited abroad far and wide. and that, perhaps, when they came to consider of it, would suffice to form another good and substantial reason for leaving the hall, and seeking a refuge in obscurity from the extremely troublesome sort of popularity incidental to their peculiar situation. mr. chillingworth felt uncommonly chary of telling them all that had taken place; although he was well aware that the proceedings of the riotous mob had not terminated with the little disappointment at the old ruin, to which they had so effectually chased varney the vampyre, but to lose him so singularly when he got there. no doubt he possessed the admiral with the uproar that was going on in the town, for the latter did hint a little of it to henry bannerworth. "hilloa!" he said to henry, as he saw him walking in the garden; "it strikes me if you and your ship's crew continue in these latitudes, you'll get as notorious as the flying dutchman in the southern ocean." "how do you mean?" said henry. "why, it's a sure going proverb to say, that a nod's as good as a wink; but, the fact is, it's getting rather too well known to be pleasant, that a vampyre has struck up rather a close acquaintance with your family. i understand there's a precious row in the town." "indeed!" "yes; bother the particulars, for i don't know them; but, hark ye, by to-morrow i'll have found a place for you to go to, so pack up the sticks, get all your stores ready to clear out, and make yourself scarce from this place." "i understand you," said henry; "we have become the subject of popular rumour; i've only to beg of you, admiral, that you'll say nothing of this to flora; she has already suffered enough, heaven knows; do not let her have the additional infliction of thinking that her name is made familiar in every pothouse in the town." "leave me alone for that," said the admiral. "do you think i'm an ass?" "ay, ay," said jack pringle, who came in at that moment, and thought the question was addressed to him. "who spoke to you, you bad-looking horse-marine?" "me a horse-marine! didn't you ask a plain question of a fellow, and get a plain answer?" "why, you son of a bad looking gun, what do you mean by that? i tell you what it is, jack; i've let you come sneaking too often on the quarter-deck, and now you come poking your fun at your officers, you rascal!" "i poking fun!" said jack; "couldn't think of such a thing. i should just as soon think of you making a joke as me." "now, i tell you what it is, i shall just strike you off the ship's books, and you shall just go and cruise by yourself; i've done with you." "go and tell that to the marines, if you like," said jack. "i ain't done with you yet, for a jolly long watch. why, what do you suppose would become of you, you great babby, without me? ain't i always a conveying you from place to place, and steering you through all sorts of difficulties?" "d---n your impudence!" "well, then, d---n yours." "shiver my timbers!" "ay, you may do what you like with your own timbers." "and you won't leave me?" "sartingly not." "come here, then?" jack might have expected a gratuity, for he advanced with alacrity. "there," said the admiral, as he laid his stick across his shoulders; "that's your last month's wages; don't spend it all at once." "well, i'm d----d!" said jack; "who'd have thought of that?--he's a turning rumgumtious, and no mistake. howsomdever, i must turn it over in my mind, and be even with him, somehow--i owes him one for that. i say, admiral." "what now, you lubber?" "nothing; turn that over in your mind;" and away jack walked, not quite satisfied, but feeling, at least, that he had made a demonstration of attack. as for the admiral, he considered that the thump he had given jack with the stick, and it was no gentle one, was a decided balancing of accounts up to that period, and as he remained likewise master of the field, he was upon the whole very well satisfied. these last few words which had been spoken to henry by admiral bell, more than any others, induced him to hasten his departure from bannerworth hall; he had walked away when the altercation between jack pringle and the admiral began, for he had seen sufficient of those wordy conflicts between those originals to be quite satisfied that neither of them meant what he said of a discouraging character towards the other, and that far from there being any unfriendly feeling contingent upon those little affairs, they were only a species of friendly sparring, which both parties enjoyed extremely. he went direct to flora, and he said to her,-"since we are all agreed upon the necessity, or, at all events, upon the expediency of a departure from the hall, i think, sister, the sooner we carry out that determination the better and the pleasanter for us all it will be. do you think you could remove so hastily as to-morrow?" "to-morrow! that is soon indeed." "i grant you that it is so; but admiral bell assures me that he will have everything in readiness, and a place provided for us to go to by then." "would it be possible to remove from a house like this so very quickly?" "yes, sister. if you look around you, you will see that a great portion of the comforts you enjoy in this mansion belong to it as a part of its very structure, and are not removable at pleasure; what we really have to take away is very little. the urgent want of money during our father's lifetime induced him, as you may recollect even, at various times to part with much that was ornamental, as well as useful, which was in the hall. you will recollect that we seldom returned from those little continental tours which to us were so delightful, without finding some old familiar objects gone, which, upon inquiry, we found had been turned into money, to meet some more than usually pressing demand." "that is true, brother; i recollect well." "so that, upon the whole, sister, there is little to remove." "well, well, be it so. i will prepare our mother for this sudden step. believe me, my heart goes with it; and as a force of vengeful circumstances have induced us to remove from this home, which was once so full of pleasant recollections, it is certainly better, as you say, that the act should be at once consummated, than left hanging in terror over our minds." "then i'll consider that as settled," said henry. chapter xlvii. the removal from the hall.--the night watch, and the alarm. [illustration] mrs. bannerworth's consent having been already given to the removal, she said at once, when appealed to, that she was quite ready to go at any time her children thought expedient. upon this, henry sought the admiral, and told him as much, at the same time adding,-"my sister feared that we should have considerable trouble in the removal, but i have convinced her that such will not be the case, as we are by no means overburdened with cumbrous property." "cumbrous property," said the admiral, "why, what do you mean? i beg leave to say, that when i took the house, i took the table and chairs with it. d--n it, what good do you suppose an empty house is to me?" "the tables and chairs!" "yes. i took the house just as it stands. don't try and bamboozle me out of it. i tell you, you've nothing to move but yourselves and immediate personal effects." "i was not aware, admiral, that that was your plan." "well, then, now you are, listen to me. i've circumvented the enemy too often not to know how to get up a plot. jack and i have managed it all. to-morrow evening, after dark, and before the moon's got high enough to throw any light, you and your brother, and miss flora and your mother, will come out of the house, and jack and i will lead you where you're to go to. there's plenty of furniture where you're a-going, and so you will get off free, without anybody knowing anything about it." "well, admiral, i've said it before, and it is the unanimous opinion of us all, that everything should be left to you. you have proved yourself too good a friend to us for us to hesitate at all in obeying your commands. arrange everything, i pray you, according to your wishes and feelings, and you will find there shall be no cavilling on our parts." "that's right; there's nothing like giving a command to some one person. there's no good done without. now i'll manage it all. mind you, seven o'clock to-morrow evening everything is to be ready, and you will all be prepared to leave the hall." "it shall be so." "who's that giving such a thundering ring at the gate?" "nay, i know not. we have few visitors and no servants, so i must e'en be my own gate porter." henry walked to the gate, and having opened it, a servant in a handsome livery stepped a pace or two into the garden. "well," said henry. "is mr. henry bannerworth within, or admiral bell?" "both," cried the admiral. "i'm admiral bell, and this is mr. henry bannerworth. what do you want with us, you d----d gingerbread-looking flunkey?" "sir, my master desires his compliments--his very best compliments--and he wants to know how you are after your flurry." "what?" "after your--a--a--flurry and excitement." "who is your master?" said henry. "sir francis varney." "the devil!" said the admiral; "if that don't beat all the impudence i ever came near. our flurry! ah! i like that fellow. just go and tell him--" "no, no," said henry, interposing, "send back no message. say to your master, fellow, that mr. henry bannerworth feels that not only has he no claim to sir francis varney's courtesy, but that he would rather be without it." "oh, ha!" said the footman, adjusting his collar; "very good. this seems a d----d, old-fashioned, outlandish place of yours. any ale?" "now, shiver my hulks!" said the admiral. "hush! hush!" said henry; "who knows but there may be a design in this? we have no ale." "oh, ah! dem!--dry as dust, by god! what does the old commodore say? any message, my ancient greek?" "no, thank you," said the admiral; "bless you, nothing. what did you give for that waistcoat, d--n you? ha! ha! you're a clever fellow." "ah! the old gentleman's ill. however, i'll take back his compliments, and that he's much obliged at sir francis's condescension. at the same time, i suppose may place in my eye what i may get out of either of you, without hindering me seeing my way back. ha! ha! adieu--adieu." "bravo!" said the admiral; "that's it--go it--now for it. d--n it, it is a _do!_" the admiral's calmness during the latter part of the dialogue arose from the fact that over the flunkey's shoulder, and at some little distance off, he saw jack pringle taking off his jacket, and rolling up his sleeves in that deliberate sort of way that seemed to imply a determination of setting about some species of work that combined the pleasant with the useful. jack executed many nods to and winks at the livery-servant, and jerked his thumb likewise in the direction of a pump near at hand, in a manner that spoke as plainly as possible, that john was to be pumped upon. and now the conference was ended, and sir francis's messenger turned to go; but jack pringle bothered him completely, for he danced round him in such a singular manner, that, turn which way he would, there stood jack pringle, in some grotesque attitude, intercepting him; and so he edged him on, till he got him to the pump. "jack," said the admiral. "ay, ay, sir." "don't pump on that fellow now." "ay, ay, sir; give us a hand." jack laid hold of him by the two ears, and holding him under the pump, kicked his shins until he completely gathered himself beneath the spout. it was in vain that he shouted "murder! help! fire! thieves!" jack was inexorable, and the admiral pumped. jack turned the fellow's head about in a very scientific manner, so as to give him a fair dose of hydropathic treatment, and in a few minutes, never was human being more thoroughly saturated with moisture than was sir francis varney's servant. he had left off hallooing for aid, for he found that whenever he did so, jack held his mouth under the spout, which was decidedly unpleasant; so, with a patience that looked like heroic fortitude, he was compelled to wait until the admiral was tired of pumping. "very good," at length he said. "now, jack, for fear this fellow catcher cold, be so good as to get a horsewhip, and see him off the premises with it." "ay, ay, sir," said jack. "and i say, old fellow, you can take back all our blessed compliments now, and say you've been flurried a little yourself; and if so be as you came here as dry as dust, d----e, you go back as wet as a mop. won't it do to kick him out, sir?" "very well--as you please, jack." "then here goes;" and jack proceeded to kick the shivering animal from the garden with a vehemence that soon convinced him of the necessity of getting out of it as quickly as possible. how it was that sir francis varney, after the fearful race he had had, got home again across the fields, free from all danger, and back to his own house, from whence he sent so cool and insolent a message, they could not conceive. but such must certainly be the fact; somehow or another, he had escaped all danger, and, with a calm insolence peculiar to the man, he had no doubt adopted the present mode of signifying as much to the bannerworths. the insolence of his servant was, no doubt, a matter of pre-arrangement with that individual, however he might have set about it con amore. as for the termination of the adventure, that, of course, had not been at all calculated upon; but, like most tools of other people's insolence or ambition, the insolence of the underling had received both his own punishment and his master's. we know quite enough of sir francis varney to feel assured that he would rather consider it as a good jest than otherwise of his footman, so that with the suffering he endured at the bannerworths', and the want of sympathy he was likely to find at home, that individual had certainly nothing to congratulate himself upon but the melancholy reminiscence of his own cleverness. but were the mob satisfied with what had occurred in the churchyard? they were not, and that night was to witness the perpetration of a melancholy outrage, such as the history of the time presents no parallel to. the finding of a brick in the coffin of the butcher, instead of the body of that individual, soon spread as a piece of startling intelligence all over the place; and the obvious deduction that was drawn from the circumstance, seemed to be that the deceased butcher was unquestionably a vampyre, and out upon some expedition at the time when his coffin was searched. how he had originally got out of that receptacle for the dead was certainly a mystery; but the story was none the worse for that. indeed, an ingenious individual found a solution for that part of the business, for, as he said, nothing was more natural, when anybody died who was capable of becoming a vampyre, than for other vampyres who knew it to dig him up, and lay him out in the cold beams of the moonlight, until he acquired the same sort of vitality they themselves possessed, and joined their horrible fraternity. in lieu of a better explanation--and, after all, it was no bad one--this theory was generally received, and, with a shuddering horror, people asked themselves, if the whole of the churchyard were excavated, how many coffins would be found tenantless by the dead which had been supposed, by simple-minded people, to inhabit them. the presence, however, of a body of dragoons, towards evening, effectually prevented any renewed attack upon the sacred precincts of the churchyard, and it was a strange and startling thing to see that country town under military surveillance, and sentinels posted at its principal buildings. this measure smothered the vengeance of the crowd, and insured, for a time, the safety of sir francis varney; for no considerable body of persons could assemble for the purpose of attacking his house again, without being followed; so such a step was not attempted. it had so happened, however, that on that very day, the funeral of a young man was to have taken place, who had put up for a time at that same inn where admiral bell was first introduced to the reader. he had become seriously ill, and, after a few days of indisposition, which had puzzled the country practitioners, breathed his last. he was to have been buried in the village churchyard on the very day of the riot and confusion incidental to the exhumation of the coffin of the butcher, and probably from that circumstance we may deduce the presence of the clergyman in canonicals at the period of the riot. when it was found that so disorderly a mob possessed the churchyard, the idea of burying the stranger on that day was abandoned; but still all would have gone on quietly as regarded him, had it not been for the folly of one of the chamber-maids at the tavern. this woman, with all the love of gossip incidental to her class, had, from the first, entered so fully into all the particulars concerning vampyres, that she fairly might be considered to be a little deranged on that head. her imagination had been so worked upon, that she was in an unfit state to think of anything else, and if ever upon anybody a stern and revolting superstition was calculated to produce direful effects, it was upon this woman. the town was tolerably quiet; the presence of the soldiery had frightened some and amused others, and no doubt the night would have passed off serenely, had she not suddenly rushed into the street, and, with bewildered accents and frantic gestures shouted,-"a vampyre--a vampyre--a vampyre!" these words soon collected a crowd around her, and then, with screaming accents, which would have been quite enough to convince any reflecting person that she had actually gone distracted upon that point, she cried,-"come into the house--come into the house! look upon the dead body, that should have been in its grave; it's fresher now than it was the day on which it died, and there's a colour in its cheeks! a vampyre--a vampyre--a vampyre! heaven save us from a vampyre!" the strange, infuriated, maniacal manner in which these words were uttered, produced an astonishingly exciting effect among the mob. several women screamed, and some few fainted. the torch was laid again to the altar of popular feeling, and the fierce flame of superstition burnt brightly and fiercely. some twenty or thirty persons, with shouts and exclamations, rushed into the inn, while the woman who had created the disturbance still continued to rave, tearing her hair, and shrieking at intervals, until she fell exhausted upon the pavement. soon, from a hundred throats, rose the dreadful cry of "a vampyre--a vampyre!" the alarm was given throughout the whole town; the bugles of the military sounded; there was a clash of arms--the shrieks of women; altogether, the premonitory symptoms of such a riot as was not likely to be quelled without bloodshed and considerable disaster. it is truly astonishing the effect which one weak or vicious-minded person can produce upon a multitude. here was a woman whose opinion would have been accounted valueless upon the most common-place subject, and whose word would not have passed for twopence, setting a whole town by the ears by force of nothing but her sheer brutal ignorance. it is a notorious physiological fact, that after four or five days, or even a week, the bodies of many persons assume an appearance of freshness, such as might have been looked for in vain immediately after death. it is one of the most insidious processes of that decay which appears to regret with its "----------offensive fingers, to mar the lines where beauty lingers." but what did the chamber-maid know of physiology? probably, she would have asked if it was anything good to eat; and so, of course, having her head full of vampyres, she must needs produce so lamentable a scene of confusion, the results of which we almost sicken at detailing. chapter xlviii. the stake and the dead body. [illustration] the mob seemed from the first to have an impression that, as regarded the military force, no very serious results would arise from that quarter, for it was not to be supposed that, on an occasion which could not possibly arouse any ill blood on the part of the soldiery, or on which they could have the least personal feeling, they would like to get a bad name, which would stick to them for years to come. it was no political riot, on which men might be supposed, in consequence of differing in opinion, to have their passions inflamed; so that, although the call of the civil authorities for military aid had been acceded to, yet it was hoped, and, indeed, almost understood by the officers, that their operations would lie confined more to a demonstration of power, than anything else. besides, some of the men had got talking to the townspeople, and had heard all about the vampyre story, and not being of the most refined or educated class themselves, they felt rather interested than otherwise in the affair. under these circumstances, then, we are inclined to think, that the disorderly mob of that inn had not so wholesome a fear as it was most certainly intended they should have of the redcoats. then, again, they were not attacking the churchyard, which, in the first case, was the main point in dispute, and about which the authorities had felt so very sore, inasmuch as they felt that, if once the common people found out that the sanctity of such places could be outraged with impunity, they would lose their reverence for the church; that is to say, for the host of persons who live well and get fat in this country by the trade of religion. [illustration] consequently, this churchyard was the main point of defence, and it was zealously looked to when it need not have been done so, while the public-house where there really reigned mischief was half unguarded. there are always in all communities, whether large or small, a number of persons who really have, or fancy they have, something to gain by disturbance. these people, of course, care not for what pretext the public peace is violated; so long as there is a row, and something like an excuse for running into other people's houses, they are satisfied. to get into a public-house under such circumstances is an unexpected treat; and thus, when the mob rushed into the inn with such symptoms of fury and excitement, there went with the leaders of the disturbance a number of persons who never thought of getting further than the bar, where they attacked the spirit-taps with an alacrity which showed how great was their love for ardent compounds. leaving these persons behind, however, we will follow those who, with a real superstition, and a furious interest in the affair of the vampyre, made their way towards the upper chamber, determining to satisfy themselves if there were truth in the statement so alarmingly made by the woman who had created such an emotion. it is astonishing what people will do in crowds, in comparison with the acts that they would be able to commit individually. there is usually a calmness, a sanctity, a sublimity about death, which irresistibly induces a respect for its presence, alike from the educated or from the illiterate; and let the object of the fell-destroyer's presence be whom it may, the very consciousness that death has claimed it for its own, invests it with a halo of respect, that, in life, the individual could never aspire to probably. let us precede these furious rioters for a few moments, and look upon the chamber of the dead--that chamber, which for a whole week, had been looked upon with a kind of shuddering terror--that chamber which had been darkened by having its sources of light closed, as if it were a kind of disrespect to the dead to allow the pleasant sunshine to fall upon the faded form. and every inhabitant of that house, upon ascending and descending its intricate and ancient staircases, had walked with a quiet and subdued step past that one particular door. even the tones of voice in which they spoke to each other, while they knew that that sad remnant of mortality was in the house, was quiet and subdued, as if the repose of death was but a mortal sleep, and could be broken by rude sounds. ay, even some of these very persons, who now with loud and boisterous clamour, had rushed into the place, had visited the house and talked in whispers; but then they were alone, and men will do in throngs acts which, individually, they would shrink from with compunction or cowardice, call it which we will. the chamber of death is upon the second story of the house. it is a back room, the windows of which command a view of that half garden, half farm-yard, which we find generally belonging to country inns. but now the shutters were closed, with the exception of one small opening, that, in daylight, would have admitted a straggling ray of light to fall upon the corpse. now, however, that the sombre shades of evening had wrapped everything in gloom, the room appeared in total darkness, so that the most of those adventurers who had ventured into the place shrunk back until lights were procured from the lower part of the house, with which to enter the room. a dim oil lamp in a niche sufficiently lighted the staircase, and, by the friendly aid of its glimmering beams, they had found their way up to the landing tolerably well, and had not thought of the necessity of having lights with which to enter the apartments, until they found them in utter darkness. these requisites, however, were speedily procured from the kitchen of the inn. indeed, anything that was wanted was laid hold of without the least word of remark to the people of the place, as if might, from that evening forthwith, was understood to constitute right, in that town. up to this point no one had taken a very prominent part in the attack upon the inn if attack it could be called; but now the man whom chance, or his own nimbleness, made the first of the throng, assumed to himself a sort of control over his companions and, turning to them, he said,-"hark ye, my friends; we'll do everything quietly and properly; so i think we'd better three or four of us go in at once, arm-in-arm." "psha!" cried one who had just arrived with a light; "it's your cowardice that speaks. i'll go in first; let those follow me who like, and those who are afraid may remain where they are." he at once dashed into the room, and this immediately broke the spell of fear which was beginning to creep over the others in consequence of the timid suggestion of the man who, up to that moment, had been first and foremost in the enterprise. in an instant the chamber was half filled with persons, four or five of whom carried lights; so that, as it was not of very large dimensions, it was sufficiently illuminated for every object in it to be clearly visible. there was the bed, smooth and unruffled, as if waiting for some expected guest; while close by its side a coffin, supported upon tressles, over which a sheet was partially thrown, contained the sad remains of him who little expected in life that, after death, he should be stigmatised as an example of one of the ghastliest superstitions that ever found a home in the human imagination. it was evident that some one had been in the room; and that this was the woman whose excited fancy had led her to look upon the face of the corpse there could be no doubt, for the sheet was drawn aside just sufficiently to discover the countenance. the fact was that the stranger was unknown at the inn, or probably ere this the coffin lid would have been screwed on; but it was hoped, up to the last moment, as advertisements had been put into the county papers, that some one would come forward to identify and claim him. such, however, had not been the case, and so his funeral had been determined upon. the presence of so many persons at once effectually prevented any individual from exhibiting, even if he felt any superstitious fears about approaching the coffin; and so, with one accord, they surrounded it, and looked upon the face of the dead. there was nothing repulsive in that countenance. the fact was that decomposition had sufficiently advanced to induce a relaxation of the muscles, and a softening of the fibres, so that an appearance of calmness and repose had crept over the face which it did not wear immediately after death. it happened, too, that the face was full of flesh--for the death had been sudden, and there had not been that wasting away of the muscles and integuments which makes the skin cling, as it were, to the bone, when the ravages of long disease have exhausted the physical frame. there was, unquestionably, a plumpness, a freshness, and a sort of vitality about the countenance that was remarkable. for a few moments there was a death-like stillness in the apartment, and then one voice broke the silence by exclaiming,-"he's a vampyre, and has come here to die. well he knows he'd be taken up by sir francis varney, and become one of the crew." "yes, yes," cried several voices at once; "a vampyre! a vampyre!" "hold a moment," cried one; "let us find somebody in the house who has seen him some days ago, and then we can ascertain if there's any difference in his looks." this suggestion was agreed to, and a couple of stout men ran down stairs, and returned in a few moments with a trembling waiter, whom they had caught in the passage, and forced to accompany them. this man seemed to think that he was to be made a dreadful example of in some sort of way; and, as he was dragged into the room, he trembled, and looked as pale as death. "what have i done, gentlemen?" he said; "i ain't a vampyre. don't be driving a stake through me. i assure you, gentlemen, i'm only a waiter, and have been for a matter of five-and-twenty years." "you'll be done no harm to," said one of his captors; "you've only got to answer a question that will be put to you." "oh, well, certainly, gentlemen; anything you please. coming--coming, as i always say; give your orders, the waiter's in the room." "look upon the fare of that corpse." "certainly, certainly--directly." "have you ever seen it before?" "seen it before! lord bless you! yes, a dozen of times. i seed him afore he died, and i seed him arter; and when the undertaker's men came, i came up with them and i seed 'em put him in his coffin. you see i kept an eye on 'em, gentlemen, 'cos knows well enough what they is. a cousin of mine was in the trade, and he assures me as one of 'em always brings a tooth-drawing concern in his pocket, and looks in the mouth of the blessed corpse to see if there's a blessed tooth worth pulling out." "hold your tongue," said one; "we want none of your nonsense. do you see any difference now in the face of the corpse to what it was some days since?" "well, i don't know; somehow, it don't look so rum." "does it look fresher?" "well, somehow or another, now you mention it, it's very odd, but it does." "enough," cried the man who had questioned him, with considerable excitement of manner. "neighbours, are we to have our wives and our children scared to death by vampyres?" "no--no!" cried everybody. "is not this, then, one of that dreadful order of beings?" "yes--yes; what's to be done?" "drive a stake through the body, and so prevent the possibility of anything in the shape of a restoration." this was a terrific proposition; and even those who felt most strongly upon the subject, and had their fears most awakened, shrank from carrying it into effect. others, again, applauded it, although they determined, in their own minds, to keep far enough off from the execution of the job, which they hoped would devolve upon others, so that they might have all the security of feeling that such a process had been gone through with the supposed vampyre, without being in any way committed by the dreadful act. nothing was easier than to procure a stake from the garden in the rear of the premises; but it was one thing to have the means at hand of carrying into effect so dreadful a proposition, and another actually to do it. for the credit of human nature, we regret that even then, when civilisation and popular education had by no means made such rapid strides as in our times they have, such a proposition should be entertained for a moment: but so it was; and just as an alarm was given that a party of the soldiers had reached the inn and had taken possession of the doorway with a determination to arrest the rioters, a strong hedge-stake had been procured, and everything was in readiness for the perpetration of the horrible deed. even then those in the room, for they were tolerably sober, would have revolted, probably, from the execution of so fearful an act; but the entrance of a party of the military into the lower portion of the tavern, induced those who had been making free with the strong liquors below, to make a rush up-stairs to their companions with the hope of escaping detection of the petty larceny, if they got into trouble on account of the riot. these persons, infuriated by drink, were capable of anything, and to them, accordingly, the more sober parties gladly surrendered the disagreeable job of rendering the supposed vampyre perfectly innoxious, by driving a hedge-stake through his body--a proceeding which, it was currently believed, inflicted so much physical injury to the frame, as to render his resuscitation out of the question. the cries of alarm from below, joined now to the shouts of those mad rioters, produced a scene of dreadful confusion. we cannot, for we revolt at the office, describe particularly the dreadful outrage which was committed upon the corpse; suffice it that two or three, maddened by drink, and incited by the others, plunged the hedge-stake through the body, and there left it, a sickening and horrible spectacle to any one who might cast his eyes upon it. with such violence had the frightful and inhuman deed been committed, that the bottom of the coffin was perforated by the stake so that the corpse was actually nailed to its last earthly tenement. some asserted, that at that moment an audible groan came from the dead man, and that this arose from the extinguishment of that remnant of life which remained in him, on account of his being a vampyre, and which would have been brought into full existence, if the body had been placed in the rays of the moon, when at its full, according to the popular superstition upon that subject. others, again, were quite ready to swear that at the moment the stake was used there was a visible convulsion of all the limbs, and that the countenance, before so placid and so calm, became immediately distorted, as if with agony. but we have done with these horrible surmises; the dreadful deed has been committed, and wild, ungovernable superstition has had, for a time, its sway over the ignorant and debased. chapter xlix. the mob's arrival at sir francis varney's.--the attempt to gain admission. [illustration] the soldiery had been sent for from their principal station near the churchyard, and had advanced with some degree of reluctance to quell what they considered as nothing better nor worse than a drunken brawl at a public-house, which they really considered they ought not to be called to interfere with. when, however, the party reached the spot, and heard what a confusion there was, and saw in what numbers the rioters were assembling, it became evident to them that the case was of a more serious complexion than they had at first imagined, and consequently they felt that their professional dignity was not so much compromised with their interference with the lawless proceedings. some of the constabulary of the town were there, and to them the soldiers promised they would hand what prisoners they took, at the same time that they made a distinct condition that they were not to be troubled with their custody, nor in any way further annoyed in the business beyond taking care that they did not absolutely escape, after being once secured. this was all that the civil authorities of the town required, and, in fact, they hoped that, after making prisoners of a few of the ringleaders of the riotous proceedings, the rest would disperse, and prevent the necessity of capturing them. be it known, however, that both military and civil authorities were completely ignorant of the dreadful outrage against all common decency, which had been committed within the public-house. the door was well guarded, and the question now was how the rioters were to be made to come down stairs, and be captured; and this was likely to remain a question, so long as no means were adopted to make them descend. so that, after a time, it was agreed that a couple of troopers should march up stairs with a constable, to enable him to secure any one who seemed a principal in the riot. but this only had the effect of driving those who were in the second-floor, and saw the approach of the two soldiers, whom they thought were backed by the whole of their comrades, up a narrow staircase, to a third-floor, rather consisting of lofts than of actual rooms; but still, for the time, it was a refuge; and owing to the extreme narrowness of the approach to it, which consisted of nearly a perpendicular staircase, with any degree of tact or method, it might have been admirably defended. in the hurry and scramble, all the lights were left behind; and when the two soldiers and constables entered the room where the corpse had lain, they became, for the first time, aware of what a horrible purpose had been carried out by the infuriated mob. the sight was one of perfect horror, and hardened to scenes which might strike other people as being somewhat of the terrific as these soldiers might be supposed to be by their very profession, they actually sickened at the sight which the mutilated corpse presented, and turned aside with horror. these feelings soon gave way to anger and animosity against the crowd who could be guilty of such an atrocious outrage; and, for the first time, a strong and interested vengeance against the mob pervaded the breasts of those who were brought to act against it. one of the soldiers ran down stairs to the door, and reported the scene which was to be seen above. a determination was instantly come to, to capture as many as possible of those who had been concerned in so diabolical an outrage, and leaving a guard of five men at the door, the remainder of the party ascended the staircase, determined upon storming the last refuge of the rioters, and dragging them to justice. the report, however, of these proceedings that were taking place at the inn, spread quickly over the whole town; and soon as large a mob of the disorderly and the idle as the place could at all afford was assembled outside the inn. this mob appeared, for a time, inertly to watch the proceedings. it seemed rather a hazardous thing to interfere with the soldiers, whose carbines look formidable and troublesome weapons. with true mob courage, therefore, they left the minority of their comrades, who were within the house, to their fate; and after a whispered conference from one to the other, they suddenly turned in a body, and began to make for the outskirts of the town. they then separated, as if by common consent, and straggled out into the open country by twos and threes, consolidating again into a mass when they had got some distance off, and clear of any exertions that could be made by the soldiery to stay them. the cry then rose of "down with sir francis varney--slay him--burn his house--death to all vampyres!" and, at a rapid pace, they proceeded in the direction of his mansion. we will leave this mob, however, for the present, and turn our attention to those who are at the inn, and are certainly in a position of some jeopardy. their numbers were not great, and they were unarmed; certainly, their best chance would have been to have surrendered at discretion; but that was a measure which, if the sober ones had felt inclined to, those who were infuriated and half maddened with drink would not have acceded to on any account. a furious resistance was, therefore, fairly to be expected; and what means the soldiery were likely to use for the purpose of storming this last retreat was a matter of rather anxious conjecture. in the case of a regular enemy, there would not, perhaps, have been much difficulty; but here the capture of certain persons, and not their destruction, was the object; and how that was to be accomplished by fair means, certainly was a question which nobody felt very competent to solve. determination, however, will do wonders; and although the rioters numbered over forty, notwithstanding all their desertions, and not above seventeen or eighteen soldiers marched into the inn, we shall perceive that they succeeded in accomplishing their object without any manoeuvring at all. the space in which the rioters were confined was low, narrow, and inconvenient, as well as dark, for the lights on the staircase cast up that height but very insufficient rays. weapons of defence they found but very few, and yet there were some which, to do them but common credit, they used as effectually as possible. these attics, or lofts, were used as lumber-rooms, and had been so for years, so that there was a collection of old boxes, broken pieces of furniture, and other matters, which will, in defiance of everything and everybody, collect in a house. these were formidable means of defence, if not of offence, down a very narrow staircase, had they been used with judgment. some of the rioters, who were only just drunk enough to be fool-hardy, collected a few of these articles at the top of the staircase, and swore they would smash anybody who should attempt to come up to them, a threat easier uttered than executed. and besides, after all, if their position had been ever so impregnable, they must come down eventually, or be starved out. but the soldiers were not at liberty to adopt so slow a process of overcoming their enemy, and up the second-floor staircase they went, with a determination of making short work of the business. they paused a moment, by word of command, on the landing, and then, after this slight pause, the word was given to advance. now when men will advance, in spite of anything and everything, it is no easy matter to stop them, and he who was foremost among the military would as soon thought of hesitating to ascend the narrow staircase before him, when ordered so to do, as paying the national debt. on he went, and down came a great chest, which, falling against his feet, knocked him down as he attempted to scramble over it. "fire," said the officer; and it appeared that he had made some arrangements as to how the order was to be obeyed, for the second man fired his carbine, and then scrambled over his prostrate comrade; after which he stooped, and the third fired his carbine likewise, and then hurried forward in the same manner. at the first sound of the fire arms the rioters were taken completely by surprise; they had not had the least notion of affairs getting to such a length. the smell of the powder, the loud report, and the sensation of positive danger that accompanied these phenomena, alarmed them most terrifically; so that, in point of fact, with the exception of the empty chest that was thrown down in the way of the first soldier, no further idea of defence seemed in any way to find a place in the hearts of the besieged. they scrambled one over the other in their eagerness to get as far as possible from immediate danger, which, of course, they conceived existed in the most imminent degree the nearest to the door. such was the state of terror into which they were thrown, that each one at the moment believed himself shot, and the soldiers had overcome all the real difficulties in getting possession of what might thus be called the citadel of the inn, before those men who had been so valorous a short time since recovered from the tremendous fright into which they had been thrown. we need hardly say that the carbines were loaded, but with blank cartridges, for there was neither a disposition nor a necessity for taking the lives of these misguided people. if was the suddenness and the steadiness of the attack that had done all the mischief to their cause; and now, ere they recovered from the surprise of having their position so completely taken by storm, they were handed down stairs, one by one, from soldier to soldier, and into the custody of the civil authorities. in order to secure the safe keeping of large a body of prisoners, the constables, who were in a great minority, placed handcuffs upon some of the most capable of resistance; so what with those who were thus secured, and those who were terrified into submission, there was not a man of all the lot who had taken refuge in the attics of the public-house but was a prisoner. at the sound of fire-arms, the women who were outside the inn had, of course, raised a most prodigious clamour. they believed directly that every bullet must have done some most serious mischief to the townspeople, and it was only upon one of the soldiers, a non-commissioned officer, who was below, assuring them of the innoxious nature of the proceeding which restored anything like equanimity. "silence!" he cried: "what are you howling about? do you fancy that we've nothing better to do than to shoot a parcel of fellows that are not worth the bullets that would be lodged in their confounded carcases?" "but we heard the gun," said a woman. "of course you did; it's the powder that makes the noise, not the bullet. you'll see them all brought out safe wind and limb." this assurance satisfied the women to a certain extent, and such had been their fear that they should have had to look upon the spectacle of death, or of grievous wounds, that they were comparatively quite satisfied when they saw husbands, fathers, and brothers, only in the custody of the town officers. and very sheepish some of the fellows looked, when they were handed down and handcuffed, and the more especially when they had been routed only by a few blank cartridges--that sixpenny worth of powder had defeated them. they were marched off to the town gaol, guarded by the military, who now probably fancied that their night's work was over, and that the most turbulent and troublesome spirits in the town had been secured. such, however, was not the case, for no sooner had comparative order been restored, than common observation pointed to a dull red glare in the southern sky. in a few more minutes there came in stragglers from the open country, shouting "fire! fire!" with all their might. chapter l. the mob's arrival at sir francis varney's.--the attempt to gain admission. [illustration] all eyes were directed towards that southern sky which each moment was becoming more and more illuminated by the lurid appearance bespeaking a conflagration, which if it was not extensive, at all events was raging fiercely. there came, too upon the wind, which set from that direction, strange sounds, resembling shouts of triumph, combined occasionally with sharper cries, indicative of alarm. with so much system and so quietly had this attack been made upon the house of sir francis varney--for the consequences of it now exhibited themselves most unequivocally--that no one who had not actually accompanied the expedition was in the least aware that it had been at all undertaken, or that anything of the kind was on the tapis. now, however, it could be no longer kept a secret, and as the infuriated mob, who had sought this flagrant means of giving vent to their anger, saw the flames from the blazing house rising high in the heavens, they felt convinced that further secrecy was out of the question. accordingly, in such cries and shouts as--but for caution's sake--they would have indulged in from the very first, they now gave utterance to their feelings as regarded the man whose destruction was aimed at. "death to the vampyre!--death to the vampyre!" was the principal shout, and it was uttered in tones which sounded like those of rage and disappointment. but it is necessary, now that we have disposed of the smaller number of rioters who committed so serious an outrage at the inn, that we should, with some degree of method, follow the proceedings of the larger number, who went from the town towards sir francis varney's. these persons either had information of a very positive nature, or a very strong suspicion that, notwithstanding the mysterious and most unaccountable disappearance of the vampyre in the old ruin, he would now be found, as usual, at his own residence. perhaps one of his own servants may have thus played the traitor to him; but however it was, there certainly was an air of confidence about some of the leaders of the tumultuous assemblage that induced a general belief that this time, at least, the vampyre would not escape popular vengeance for being what he was. we have before noticed that these people went out of the town at different points, and did not assemble into one mass until they were at a sufficient distance off to be free from all fear of observation. then some of the less observant and cautious of them began to indulge in shouts of rage and defiance; but those who placed themselves foremost succeeded in procuring a halt, and one said,-"good friends all, if we make any noise, it can only have one effect, and that is, to warn sir francis varney, and enable him to escape. if, therefore, we cannot go on quietly, i propose that we return to our homes, for we shall accomplish nothing." this advice was sufficiently and evidently reasonable to meet with no dissension; a death-like stillness ensued, only broken by some two or three voices saying, in subdued tones,-"that's right--that's right. nobody speak." "come on, then," said he who had given such judicious counsel; and the dark mass of men moved towards sir francis varney's house, as quietly as it was possible for such an assemblage to proceed. indeed, saving the sound of the footsteps, nothing could be heard of them at all; and that regular tramp, tramp, would have puzzled any one listening to it from any distance to know in which direction it was proceeding. in this way they went on until sir francis varney's house was reached, and then a whispered word to halt was given, and all eyes were bent upon the building. from but one window out of the numerous ones with which the front of the mansion was studded did there shine the least light, and from that there came rather an uncommonly bright reflection, probably arising from a reading lamp placed close to the window. a general impression, they knew not why exactly, seemed to pervade everybody, that in the room from whence streamed that bright light was sir francis varney. "the vampyre's room!" said several. "the vampyre's room! that is it!" "yes," said he who had a kind of moral control over his comrades; "i have no doubt but he is there." "what's to be done?" asked several. "make no noise whatever, but stand aside, so as not to be seen from the door when it is opened." "yes, yes." "i will knock for admittance, and, the moment it is answered, i will place this stick in such a manner within, that the door cannot be closed again. upon my saying 'advance,' you will make a rush forward, and we shall have possession immediately of the house." all this was agreed to. the mob slunk close to the walls of the house, and out of immediate observation from the hall door, or from any of the windows, and then the leader advanced, and knocked loudly for admission. the silence was now of the most complete character that could be imagined. those who came there so bent upon vengeance were thoroughly convinced of the necessity of extreme caution, to save themselves even yet from being completely foiled. they had abundant faith, from experience, of the resources in the way of escape of sir francis varney, and not one among them was there who considered that there was any chance of capturing him, except by surprise, and when once they got hold of him, they determined he should not easily slip through their fingers. the knock for admission produced no effect; and, after waiting three or four minutes, it was very provoking to find such a wonderful amount of caution and cunning completely thrown away. "try again," whispered one. "well, have patience; i am going to try again." the man had the ponderous old-fashioned knocker in his hand, and was about to make another appeal to sir francis varney's door, when a strange voice said,-"perhaps you may as well say at once what you want, instead of knocking there to no purpose." he gave a start, for the voice seemed to come from the very door itself. yet it sounded decidedly human; and, upon a closer inspection, it was seen that a little wicket-gate, not larger than a man's face, had been opened from within. this was terribly provoking. here was an extent of caution on the part of the garrison quite unexpected. what was to be done? "well?" said the man who appeared at the little opening. "oh," said he who had knocked; "i--" "well?" "i--that is to say--ahem! is sir francis varney within?" "well?" "i say, is sir francis varney within?" "well; you have said it!" "ah, but you have not answered it." "no." "well, is he at home?" "i decline saying; so you had better, all of you, go back to the town again, for we are well provided with all material to resist any attack you may be fools enough to make." as he spoke, the servant shut the little square door with a bang that made his questioner jump again. here was a dilemma! chapter li. the attack upon the vampyre's house.--the story of the attack.--the forcing of the doors, and the struggle. [illustration] a council of war was now called among the belligerents, who were somewhat taken aback by the steady refusal of the servant to admit them, and their apparent determination to resist all endeavours on the part of the mob to get into and obtain possession of the house. it argued that they were prepared to resist all attempts, and it would cost some few lives to get into the vampyre's house. this passed through the minds of many as they retired behind the angle of the wall where the council was to be held. here they looked in each others' face, as if to gather from that the general tone of the feelings of their companions; but here they saw nothing that intimated the least idea of going back as they came. "it's all very well, mates, to take care of ourselves, you know," began one tall, brawny fellow; "but, if we bean't to be sucked to death by a vampyre, why we must have the life out of him." "ay, so we must." "jack hodge is right; we must kill him, and there's no sin in it, for he has no right to it; he's robbed some poor fellow of his life to prolong his own." "ay, ay, that's the way he does; bring him out, i say, then see what we will do with him." "yes, catch him first," said one, "and then we can dispose of him afterwards, i say, neighbours, don't you think it would be as well to catch him first?" "haven't we come on purpose?" "yes, but do it." "ain't we trying it?" "you will presently, when we come to get into the house." "well, what's to be done?" said one; "here we are in a fix, i think, and i can't see our way out very clearly." [illustration] "i wish we could get in." "but how is a question i don't very well see," said a large specimen of humanity. "the best thing that can be done will be to go round and look over the whole house, and then we may come upon some part where it is far easier to get in at than by the front door." "but it won't do for us all to go round that way," said one; "a small party only should go, else they will have all their people stationed at one point, and if we can divide them, we shall beat them because they have not enough to defend more than one point at a time; now we are numerous enough to make several attacks." "oh! that's the way to bother them all round; they'll give in, and then the place is our own." "no, no," said the big countryman, "i like to make a good rush and drive all afore us; you know what ye have to do then, and you do it, ye know." "if you can." "ay, to be sure, if we can, as you say; but can't we? that's what i want to know." "to be sure we can." "then we'll do it, mate--that's my mind; we'll do it. come on, and let's have another look at the street-door." the big countryman left the main body, and resolutely walked up to the main avenue, and approached the door, accompanied by about a dozen or less of the mob. when they came to the door, they commenced knocking and kicking most violently, and assailing it with all kinds of things they could lay their hands upon. they continued at this violent exercise for some time--perhaps for five minutes, when the little square hole in the door was again opened, and a voice was heard to say,-"you had better cease that kind of annoyance." "we want to get in." "it will cost you more lives to do so than you can afford to spare. we are well armed, and are prepared to resist any effort you can make." "oh! it's all very well; but, an you won't open, why we'll make you; that's all about it." this was said as the big countryman and his companions were leaving the avenue towards the rest of the body. "then, take this, as an earnest of what is to follow," said the man, and he discharged the contents of a blunderbuss through the small opening, and its report sounded to the rest of the mob like the report of a field-piece. fortunately for the party retiring the man couldn't take any aim, else it is questionable how many of the party would have got off unwounded. as it was, several of them found stray slugs were lodged in various parts of their persons, and accelerated their retreat from the house of the vampyre. "what luck?" inquired one of the mob to the others, as they came back; "i'm afraid you had all the honour." "ay, ay, we have, and all the lead too," replied a man, as he placed his hand upon a sore part of his person, which bled in consequence of a wound. "well, what's to be done?" "danged if i know," said one. "give it up," said another. "no, no; have him out. i'll never give in while i can use a stick. they are in earnest, and so are we. don't let us be frightened because they have a gun or two--they can't have many; and besides, if they have, we are too many for them. besides, we shall all die in our beds." "hurrah! down with the vampyre!" "so say i, lads. i don't want to be sucked to death when i'm a-bed. better die like a man than such a dog's death as that, and you have no revenge then." "no, no; he has the better of us then. we'll have him out--we'll burn him--that's the way we'll do it." "ay, so we will; only let us get in." at that moment a chosen party returned who had been round the house to make a reconnaissance. "well, well," inquired the mob, "what can be done now--where can we get in?" "in several places." "all right; come along then; the place is our own." "stop a minute; they are armed at all points, and we must make an attack on all points, else we may fail. a party must go round to the front-door, and attempt to beat it in; there are plenty of poles and things that could be used for such a purpose." "there is, besides, a garden-door, that opens into the house--a kind of parlour; a kitchen-door; a window in the flower-garden, and an entrance into a store-room; this place appears strong, and is therefore unguarded." "the very point to make an attack." "not quite." "why not?" "because it can easily be defended, and rendered useless to us. we must make an attack upon all places but that, and, while they are being at those points, we can then enter at that place, and then you will find them desert the other places when they see us inside." "hurrah! down with the vampyre!" said the mob, as they listened to this advice, and appreciated the plan. "down with the vampyre!" "now, then, lads, divide, and make the attack; never mind their guns, they have but very few, and if you rush in upon them, you will soon have the guns yourselves." "hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the mob. the mob now moved away in different bodies, each strong enough to carry the house. they seized upon a variety of poles and stones, and then made for the various doors and windows that were pointed out by those who had made the discovery. each one of those who had formed the party of observation, formed a leader to the others, and at once proceeded to the post assigned him. the attack was so sudden and so simultaneous that the servants were unprepared; and though they ran to the doors, and fired away, still they did but little good, for the doors were soon forced open by the enraged rioters, who proceeded in a much more systematic operation, using long heavy pieces of timber which were carried on the shoulders of several men, and driven with the force of battering-rams--which, in fact, they were--against the door. bang went the battering-ram, crash went the door, and the whole party rushed headlong in, carried forward by their own momentum and fell prostrate, engine and all, into the passage. "now, then, we have them," exclaimed the servants, who began to belabour the whole party with blows, with every weapon they could secure. loudly did the fallen men shout for assistance, and but for their fellows who came rushing in behind, they would have had but a sorry time of it. "hurrah!" shouted the mob; "the house is our own." "not yet," shouted the servants. "we'll try," said the mob; and they rushed forward to drive the servants back, but they met with a stout resistance, and as some of them had choppers and swords, there were a few wounds given, and presently bang went the blunderbuss. two or three of the mob reeled and fell. this produced a momentary panic, and the servants then had the whole of the victory to themselves, and were about to charge, and clear the passage of their enemies, when a shout behind attracted their attention. that shout was caused by an entrance being gained in another quarter, whence the servants were flying, and all was disorder. "hurrah! hurrah!" shouted the mob. the servants retreated to the stairs, and here united, they made a stand, and resolved to resist the whole force of the rioters, and they succeeded in doing so, too, for some minutes. blows were given and taken of a desperate character. somehow, there were no deadly blows received by the servants; they were being forced and beaten, but they lost no life; this may be accounted for by the fact that the mob used no more deadly weapons than sticks. the servants of sir francis varney, on the contrary, were mostly armed with deadly weapons, which, however, they did not use unnecessarily. they stood upon the hall steps--the grand staircase, with long poles or sticks, about the size of quarter-staves, and with these they belaboured those below most unmercifully. certainly, the mob were by no means cowards, for the struggle to close with their enemies was as great as ever, and as firm as could well be. indeed, they rushed on with a desperation truly characteristic of john bull, and defied the heaviest blows; for as fast as one was stricken down another occupied his place, and they insensibly pressed their close and compact front upon the servants, who were becoming fatigued and harassed. "fire, again," exclaimed a voice from among the servants. the mob made no retrogade movement, but still continued to press onwards, and in another moment a loud report rang through the house, and a smoke hung over the heads of the mob. a long groan or two escaped some of the men who had been wounded, and a still louder from those who had not been wounded, and a cry arose of,-"down with the vampyre--pull down--destroy and burn the whole place--down with them all." a rush succeeded, and a few more discharges took place, when a shout above attracted the attention of both parties engaged in this fierce struggle. they paused by mutual consent, to look and see what was the cause of that shout. chapter lii. the interview between the mob and sir francis varney.--the mysterious disappearance.--the wine cellars. [illustration] the shout that had so discomposed the parties who were thus engaged in a terrific struggle came from a party above. "hurrah! hurrah!" they shouted a number of times, in a wild strain of delight. "hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" the fact was, a party of the mob had clambered up a verandah, and entered some of the rooms upstairs, whence they emerged just above the landing near the spot where the servants were resisting in a mass the efforts of the mob. "hurrah!" shouted the mob below. "hurrah!" shouted the mob above. there was a momentary pause, and the servants divided themselves into two bodies, and one turned to face those above, and the other those who were below. a simultaneous shout was given by both parties of the mob, and a sudden rush was made by both bodies, and the servants of sir francis varney were broken in an instant. they were instantly separated, and knocked about a good bit, but they were left to shift for themselves, the mob had a more important object in view. "down with the vampyre!" they shouted. "down with the vampyre!" shouted they, and they rushed helter skelter through the rooms, until they came to one where the door was partially open, and they could see some person very leisurely seated. "here he is," they cried. "who? who?" "the vampire." "down with him! kill him! burn him!" "hurrah! down with the vampire!" these sounds were shouted out by a score of voices, and they rushed headlong into the room. but here their violence and headlong precipitancy were suddenly restrained by the imposing and quiet appearance of the individual who was there seated. the mob entered the room, and there was a sight, that if it did not astonish them, at least, it caused them to pause before the individual who was seated there. the room was well filled with furniture, and there was a curtain drawn across the room, and about the middle of it there was a table, behind which sat sir francis varney himself, looking all smiles and courtesy. "well, dang my smock-frock!" said one, "who'd ha' thought of this? he don't seem to care much about it." "well, i'm d----d!" said another; "he seems pretty easy, at all events. what is he going to do?" "gentlemen," said sir francis varney, rising, with the blandest smiles, "pray, gentlemen, permit me to inquire the cause of this condescension on your part. the visit is kind." the mob looked at sir francis, and then at each other, and then at sir francis again; but nobody spoke. they were awed by this gentlemanly and collected behaviour. "if you honour me with this visit from pure affection and neighbourly good-will, i thank you." "down with the vampyre!" said one, who was concealed behind the rest, and not so much overawed, as he had not seen sir francis. sir francis varney rose to his full height; a light gleamed across his features; they were strongly defined then. his long front teeth, too, showed most strongly when he smiled, as he did now, and said, in a bland voice,-"gentlemen, i am at your service. permit me to say you are welcome to all i can do for you. i fear the interview will be somewhat inconvenient and unpleasant to you. as for myself, i am entirely at your service." as sir francis spoke, he bowed, and folded his hands together, and stepped forwards; but, instead of coming onwards to them, he walked behind the curtain, and was immediately hid from their view. "down with the vampyre!" shouted one. "down with the vampyre!" rang through the apartment; and the mob now, not awed by the coolness and courtesy of sir francis, rushed forward, and, overturning the table, tore down the curtain to the floor; but, to their amazement, there was no sir francis varney present. "where is he?" "where is the vampyre?" "where has he gone?" these were cries that escaped every one's lips; and yet no one could give an answer to them. there sir francis varney was not. they were completely thunderstricken. they could not find out where he had gone to. there was no possible means of escape, that they could perceive. there was not an odd corner, or even anything that could, by any possibility, give even a suspicion that even a temporary concealment could take place. they looked over every inch of flooring and of wainscoting; not the remotest trace could be discovered. "where is he?" "i don't know," said one--"i can't see where he could have gone. there ain't a hole as big as a keyhole." "my eye!" said one; "i shouldn't be at all surprised, if he were to blow up the whole house." "you don't say go!" "i never heard as how vampyres could do so much as that. they ain't the sort of people," said another. "but if they can do one thing, they can do another." "that's very true." "and what's more, i never heard as how a vampyre could make himself into nothing before; yet he has done so." "he may be in this room now." "he may." "my eyes! what precious long teeth he had!" "yes; and had he fixed one on 'em in to your arm, he would have drawn every drop of blood out of your body; you may depend upon that," said an old man. "he was very tall." "yes; too tall to be any good." "i shouldn't like him to have laid hold of me, though, tall as he is; and then he would have lifted me up high enough to break my neck, when he let me fall." the mob routed about the room, tore everything out of its place, and as the object of their search seemed to be far enough beyond their reach, their courage rose in proportion, and they shouted and screamed with a proportionate increase of noise and bustle; and at length they ran about mad with rage and vexation, doing all the mischief that was in their power to inflict. then they became mischievous, and tore the furniture from its place, and broke it in pieces, and then amused themselves with breaking it up, throwing pieces at the pier-glasses, in which they made dreadful holes; and when that was gone, they broke up the frames. every hole and corner of the house was searched, but there was no sir francis varney to be found. "the cellars, the cellars!" shouted a voice. "the cellars, the cellars!" re-echoed nearly every pair of lips in the whole place; in another moment, there was crushing and crowding to get down into the cellars. "hurray!" said one, as he knocked off the neck of the bottle that first came to hand. "here's luck to vampyre-hunting! success to our chase!" "so say i, neighbour; but is that your manners to drink before your betters?" so saying, the speaker knocked the other's elbow, while he was in the act of lifting the wine to his mouth; and thus he upset it over his face and eyes. "d--n it!" cried the man; "how it makes my eyes smart! dang thee! if i could see, i'd ring thy neck!" "success to vampyre-hunting!" said one. "may we be lucky yet!" said another. "i wouldn't be luckier than this," said another, as he, too, emptied a bottle. "we couldn't desire better entertainment, where the reckoning is all paid." "excellent!" "very good!" "capital wine this!" "i say, huggins!" "well," said huggins. "what are you drinking?" "wine." "what wine?" "danged if i know," was the reply. "it's wine, i suppose; for i know it ain't beer nor spirits; so it must be wine." "are you sure it ain't bottled men's blood?" "eh?" "bottled blood, man! who knows what a vampyre drinks? it may be his wine. he may feast upon that before he goes to bed of a night, drink anybody's health, and make himself cheerful on bottled blood!" "oh, danged! i'm so sick; i wish i hadn't taken the stuff. it may be as you say, neighbour, and then we be cannibals." "or vampyres." "there's a pretty thing to think of." by this time some were drunk, some were partially so, and the remainder were crowding into the cellars to get their share of the wine. the servants had now slunk away; they were no longer noticed by the rioters, who, having nobody to oppose them, no longer thought of anything, save the searching after the vampyre, and the destruction of the property. several hours had been spent in this manner, and yet they could not find the object of their search. there was not a room, or cupboard, or a cellar, that was capable of containing a cat, that they did not search, besides a part of the rioters keeping a very strict watch on the outside of the house and all about the grounds, to prevent the possibility of the escape of the vampyre. there was a general cessation of active hostilities at that moment; a reaction after the violent excitement and exertion they had made to get in. then the escape of their victim, and the mysterious manner in which he got away, was also a cause of the reaction, and the rioters looked in each others' countenances inquiringly. above all, the discovery of the wine-cellar tended to withdraw them from violent measures; but this could not last long, there must be an end to such a scene, for there never was a large body of men assembled for an evil purpose, who ever were, for any length of time, peaceable. to prevent the more alarming effects of drunkenness, some few of the rioters, after having taken some small portion of the wine, became, from the peculiar flavour it possessed, imbued with the idea that it was really blood, and forthwith commenced an instant attack upon the wine and liquors, and they were soon mingling in one stream throughout the cellars. this destruction was loudly declaimed against by a large portion of the rioters, who were drinking; but before they could make any efforts to save the liquor, the work of destruction had not only been begun, but was ended, and the consequence was, the cellars were very soon evacuated by the mob. chapter liii. the destruction of sir francis varney's house by fire.--the arrival of the military, and a second mob. [illustration] thus many moments had not elapsed ere the feelings of the rioters became directed into a different channel from that in which it had so lately flowed. when urged about the house and grounds for the vampyre, they became impatient and angry at not finding him. many believed that he was yet about the house, while many were of opinion that he had flown away by some mysterious means only possessed by vampyres and such like people. "fire the house, and burn him out," said one. "fire the house!" "burn the den!" now arose in shouts from all present, and then the mob were again animated by the love of mischief that seemed to be the strongest feelings that animated them. "burn him out--burn him out!" were the only words that could be heard from any of the mob. the words ran through the house like wildfire, nobody thought of anything else, and all were seen running about in confusion. there was no want of good will on the part of the mob to the undertaking; far from it, and they proceeded in the work _con amore_. they worked together with right good will, and the result was soon seen by the heaps of combustible materials that were collected in a short time from all parts of the house. all the old dry wood furniture that could be found was piled up in a heap, and to these were added a number of faggots, and also some shavings that were found in the cellar. "all right!" exclaimed one man, in exultation. "yes," replied a second; "all right--all right! set light to it, and he will be smoked out if not burned." "let us be sure that all are out of the house," suggested one of the bystanders. "ay, ay," shouted several; "give them all a chance. search through the house and give them a warning." "very well; give me the light, and then when i come back i will set light to the fire at once, and then i shall know all is empty, and so will you too." this was at once agreed to by all, with acclamations, and the light being handed to the man, he ascended the stairs, crying out in a loud voice,-"come out--come out! the house is on fire!" "fire! fire! fire!" shouted the mob as a chorus, every now and then at intervals. in about ten minutes more, there came a cry of "all right; the house is empty," from up the stairs, and the man descended in haste to the hall. "make haste, lads, and fire away, for i see the red coats are leaving the town." "hurra! hurra!" shouted the infuriated mob. "fire--fire--fire the house! burn out the vampyre! burn down the house--burn him out, and see if he can stand fire." amidst all this tumult there came a sudden blaze upon all around, for the pile had been fired. "hurra!" shouted the mob--"hurra!" and they danced like maniacs round the fire; looking, in fact, like so many wild indians, dancing round their roasting victims, or some demons at an infernal feast. the torch had been put to twenty different places, and the flames united into one, and suddenly shot up with a velocity, and roared with a sound that caused many who were present to make a precipitate retreat from the hall. this soon became a necessary measure of self-preservation, and it required no urging to induce them to quit a place that was burning rapidly and even furiously. "get the poles and firewood--get faggots," shouted some of the mob, and, lo, it was done almost by magic. they brought the faggots and wood piled up for winter use, and laid them near all the doors, and especially the main entrance. nay, every gate or door belonging to the outhouses was brought forward and placed upon the fire, which now began to reach the upper stories. "hurra--fire! hurra--fire!" and a loud shout of triumph came from the mob as they viewed the progress of the flames, as they came roaring and tearing through the house doors and the windows. each new victory of the element was a signal to the mob for a cheer; and a hearty cheer, too, came from them. "where is the vampyre now?" exclaimed one. "ha! where is he?" said another. "if he be there," said the man, pointing to the flames, "i reckon he's got a warm berth of it, and, at the same time, very little water to boil in his kettle." "ha, ha! what a funny old man is bob mason; he's always poking fun; he'd joke if his wife were dying." "there is many a true word spoken in jest," suggested another; "and, to my mind, bob mason wouldn't be very much grieved if his wife were to die." "die?" said bob; "she and i have lived and quarrelled daily a matter of five-and-thirty years, and, if that ain't enough to make a man sick of being married, and of his wife, hand me, that's all. i say i am tired." this was said with much apparent sincerity, and several laughed at the old man's heartiness. "it's all very well," said the old man; "it's all very well to laugh about matters you don't understand, but i know it isn't a joke--not a bit on it. i tells you what it is, neighbour, i never made but one grand mistake in all my life." "and what was that?" "to tie myself to a woman." "why, you'd get married to-morrow if your wife were to die to-day," said one. "if i did, i hope i may marry a vampyre. i should have something then to think about. i should know what's o'clock. but, as for my old woman, lord, lord, i wish sir francis varney had had her for life. i'll warrant when the next natural term of his existence came round again, he wouldn't be in no hurry to renew it; if he did, i should say that vampyres had the happy lot of managing women, which i haven't got." "no, nor anybody else." a loud shout now attracted their attention, and, upon looking in the quarter whence it came, they descried a large body of people coming towards them; from one end of the mob could be seen a long string of red coats. "the red coats!" shouted one. "the military!" shouted another. it was plain the military who had been placed in the town to quell disturbances, had been made acquainted with the proceedings at sir francis varney's house, and were now marching to relieve the place, and to save the property. they were, as we have stated, accompanied by a vast concourse of people, who came out to see what they were going to see, and seeing the flames at sir francis varney's house, they determined to come all the way, and be present. the military, seeing the disturbance in the distance, and the flames issuing from the windows, made the best of their way towards the scene of tumult with what speed they could make. "here they come," said one. "yes, just in time to see what is done." "yes, they can go back and say we have burned the vampyre's house down--hurra!" "hurra!" shouted the mob, in prolonged accents, and it reached the ears of the military. the officer urged the men onwards, and they responded to his words, by exerting themselves to step out a little faster. "oh, they should have been here before this; it's no use, now, they are too late." "yes, they are too late." "i wonder if the vampyre can breathe through the smoke, and live in fire," said one. "i should think he must be able to do so, if he can stand shooting, as we know he can--you can't kill a vampyre; but yet he must be consumed, if the fire actually touches him, but not unless he can bear almost anything." "so he can." "hurra!" shouted the mob, as a tall flame shot through the top windows of the house. the fire had got the ascendant now, and no hopes could be entertained, however extravagant, of saving the smallest article that had been left in the mansion. "hurra!" shouted the mob with the military, who came up with them. "hurra!" shouted the others in reply. "quick march!" said the officer; and then, in a loud, commanding tone, he shouted, "clear the way, there! clear the way." "ay, there's room enough for you," said old mason; "what are you making so much noise about?" there was a general laugh at the officer, who took no notice of the words, but ordered his men up before the burning pile, which was now an immense mass of flame. the mob who had accompanied the military now mingled with the mob that had set the house of sir francis varney on fire ere the military had come up with them. "halt!" cried out the officer; and the men, obedient to the word of command, halted, and drew up in a double line before the house. there were then some words of command issued, and some more given to some of the subalterns, and a party of men, under the command of a sergeant, was sent off from the main body, to make a circuit of the house and grounds. the officer gazed for some moments upon the burning pile without speaking; and then, turning to the next in command, he said in low tones, as he looked upon the mob,-"we have come too late." "yes, much." "the house is now nearly gutted." "it is." "and those who came crowding along with us are inextricably mingled with the others who have been the cause of all this mischief: there's no distinguishing them one from another." "and if you did, you could not say who had done it, and who had not; you could prove nothing." "exactly." "i shall not attempt to take prisoners, unless any act is perpetrated beyond what has been done." "it is a singular affair." "very." "this sir francis varney is represented to be a courteous, gentlemanly man," said the officer. "no doubt about it, but he's beset by a parcel of people who do not mind cutting a throat if they can get an opportunity of doing so." "and i expect they will." "yes, when there is a popular excitement against any man, he had better leave this part at once and altogether. it is dangerous to tamper with popular prejudices; no man who has any value for his life ought to do so. it is a sheer act of suicide." chapter liv. the burning of varney's house.--a night scene.--popular superstition. [illustration] the officer ceased to speak, and then the party whom he had sent round the house and grounds returned, and gained the main body orderly enough, and the sergeant went forward to make his report to his superior officer. after the usual salutation, he waited for the inquiry to be put to him as to what he had seen. "well, scott, what have you done?" "i went round the premises, sir, according to your instructions, but saw no one either in the vicinity of the house, or in the grounds around it." "no strangers, eh?" "no, sir, none." "you saw nothing at all likely to lead to any knowledge as to who it was that has caused this catastrophe?" "no, sir." "have you learnt anything among the people who are the perpetrators of this fire?" "no, sir." "well, then, that will do, unless there is anything else that you can think of." "nothing further, sir, unless it is that i heard some of them say that sir francis varney has perished in the flames." "good heavens!" "so i heard, sir." "that must be impossible, and yet why should it be so? go back, scott, and bring me some person who can give me some information upon this point." the sergeant departed toward the people, who looked at him without any distrust, for he came single-handed, though they thought he came with the intention of learning what they knew of each other, and so stroll about with the intention of getting up accusations against them. but this was not the case, the officer didn't like the work well enough; he'd rather have been elsewhere. [illustration] at length the sergeant came to one man, whom he accosted, and said to him,-"do you know anything of yonder fire?" "yes: i do know it is a fire." "yes, and so do i." "my friend," said the sergeant, "when a soldier asks a question he does not expect an uncivil answer." "but a soldier may ask a question that may have an uncivil end to it." "he may; but it is easy to say so." "i do say so, then, now." "then i'll not trouble you any more." the sergeant moved on a pace or two more, and then, turning to the mob, he said,-"is there any one among you who can tell me anything concerning the fate of sir francis varney?" "burnt!" "did you see him burnt?" "no; but i saw him." "in the flames?" "no; before the house was on fire." "in the house?" "yes; and he has not been seen to leave it since, and we conclude he must have been burned." "will you come and say as much to my commanding officer? it is all i want." "shall i be detained?" "no." "then i will go," said the man, and he hobbled out of the crowd towards the sergeant. "i will go and see the officer, and tell him what i know, and that is very little, and can prejudice no one." "hurrah!" said the crowd, when they heard this latter assertion; for, at first, they began to be in some alarm lest there should be something wrong about this, and some of them get identified as being active in the fray. the sergeant led the man back to the spot, where the officer stood a little way in advance of his men. "well, scott," he said, "what have we here?" "a man who has volunteered a statement, sir." "oh! well, my man, can you say anything concerning all this disturbance that we have here?" "no, sir." "then what did you come here for?" "i understood the sergeant to want some one who could speak of sir francis varney." "well?" "i saw him." "where?" "in the house." "exactly; but have you not seen him out of it?" "not since; nor any one else, i believe." "where was he?" "upstairs, where he suddenly disappeared, and nobody can tell where he may have gone to. but he has not been seen out of the house since, and they say he could not have gone bodily out if they had not seen him." "he must have been burnt," said the officer, musingly; "he could not escape, one would imagine, without being seen by some one out of such a mob." "oh, dear no, for i am told they placed a watch at every hole, window, or door however high, and they saw nothing of him--not even fly out!" "fly out! i'm speaking of a man!" "and i of a vampire!" said the man carelessly. "a vampyre! pooh, pooh!" "oh no! sir francis varney is a vampyre! there can be no sort of doubt about it. you have only to look at him, and you will soon be satisfied of that. see his great sharp teeth in front, and ask yourself what they are for, and you will soon find the answer. they are to make holes with in the bodies of his victims, through which he can suck their blood!" the officer looked at the man in astonishment for a few moments, as if he doubted his own ears, and then he said,-"are you serious?" "i am ready to swear to it." "well, i have heard a great deal about popular superstition, and thought i had seen something of it; but this is decidedly the worst case that ever i saw or heard of. you had better go home, my man, than, by your presence, countenance such a gross absurdity." "for all that," said the man, "sir francis varney is a vampyre--a blood-sucker--a human blood-sucker!" "get away with you," said the officer, "and do not repeat such folly before any one." the man almost jumped when he heard the tone in which this was spoken, for the officer was both angry and contemptuous, when he heard the words of the man. "these people," he added, turning to the sergeant, "are ignorant in the extreme. one would think we had got into the country of vampires, instead of a civilised community." the day was going down now; the last rays of the setting sun glimmered upwards, and still shone upon the tree-tops. the darkness of night was still fast closing around them. the mob stood a motley mass of human beings, wedged together, dark and sombre, gazing upon the mischief that had been done--the work of their hands. the military stood at ease before the burning pile, and by their order and regularity, presented a contrast to the mob, as strongly by their bright gleaming arms, as by their dress and order. the flames now enveloped the whole mansion. there was not a window or a door from which the fiery element did not burst forth in clouds, and forked flames came rushing forth with a velocity truly wonderful. the red glare of the flames fell upon all objects around for some distance--the more especially so, as the sun had sunk, and a bank of clouds rose from beneath the horizon and excluded all his rays; there was no twilight, and there was, as yet, no moon. the country side was enveloped in darkness, and the burning house could be seen for miles around, and formed a rallying-point to all men's eyes. the engines that were within reach came tearing across the country, and came to the fire; but they were of no avail. there was no supply of water, save from the ornamental ponds. these they could only get at by means that were tedious and unsatisfactory, considering the emergency of the case. the house was a lone one, and it was being entirely consumed before they arrived, and therefore there was not the remotest chance of saving the least article. had they ever such a supply of water, nothing could have been effected by it. thus the men stood idly by, passing their remarks upon the fire and the mob. those who stood around, and within the influence of the red glare of the flames, looked like so many demons in the infernal regions, watching the progress of lighting the fire, which we are told by good christians is the doom of the unfortunate in spirit, and the woefully unlucky in circumstances. it was a strange sight that; and there were many persons who would, without doubt, have rather been snug by their own fire-side than they would have remained there but it happened that no one felt inclined to express his inclination to his neighbour, and, consequently, no one said anything on the subject. none would venture to go alone across the fields, where the spirit of the vampyre might, for all they knew to the contrary, be waiting to pounce upon them, and worry them. no, no; no man would have quitted that mob to go back alone to the village; they would sooner have stood there all night through. that was an alternative that none of the number would very willingly accept. the hours passed away, and the house that had been that morning a noble and well-furnished mansion, was now a smouldering heap of ruins. the flames had become somewhat subdued, and there was now more smoke than flames. the fire had exhausted itself. there was now no more material that could serve it for fuel, and the flames began to become gradually enough subdued. suddenly there was a rush, and then a bright flame shot upward for an instant, so bright and so strong, that it threw a flash of light over the country for miles; but it was only momentary, and it subsided. the roof, which had been built strong enough to resist almost anything, after being burning for a considerable time, suddenly gave way, and came in with a tremendous crash, and then all was for a moment darkness. 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. [illustration] 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. [illustration] 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 anybody 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. "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. [illustration] 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. [illustration] 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 may 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. [illustration] "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 demanding 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." "are you going to stand anything to drink," said jack, "my old buffer? do you recollect where you got your knob scuttled off beyrout--how you fell on your latter end and tried to recollect your church cateckis, you old brute?--i's ashamed of you. do you recollect the brown girl you bought for thirteen bob and a tanner, at the blessed society islands, and sold her again for a dollar, to a nigger seven feet two, in his natural pumps? you're a nice article, you is, to talk of marines and swabs, and shore-going lubbers, blow yer. do you recollect the little frenchman that told ye he'd pull your blessed nose, and i advised you to soap it? do you recollect sall at spithead, as you got in at a port hole of the state cabin, all but her behind?" "death and the devil!" said the admiral, breaking from the grasp of mr. chillingworth. "ay," said jack, "you'll come to 'em both one of these days, old cock, and no mistake." "i'll have his life, i'll have his life," roared the admiral. "nay, nay, sir," said mr. chillingworth, catching the admiral round the waist. "my dear sir, recollect, now, if i may venture to advise you, admiral bell, there's a lot of that fiery hollands you know, in the next room; set firm down to that, and finish him off. i'll warrant him, he'll be quiet enough." "what's that you say?" cried jack--"hollands!--who's got any?--next to rum and elizabeth baker, if i has an affection, it's hollands." "jack!" said the admiral. "ay, ay, sir!" said jack, instinctively. "come this way." jack staggered after him, and they all reached the room where the admiral and mr. chillingworth had been sitting before the alarm. "there!" said the admiral, putting the light upon the table, and pointing to the bottle; "what do you think of that?" "i never thinks under such circumstances," said jack. "here's to the wooden walls of old england!" he seized the bottle, and, putting its neck into his mouth, for a few moments nothing was heard but a gurgling sound of the liquor passing down his throat; his head went further and further back, until, at last, over he went, chair and bottle and all, and lay in a helpless state of intoxication on the floor. "so far, so good," said the admiral. "he's out of the way, at all events." "i'll just loosen his neckcloth," said mr. chillingworth, "and then we'll go and sit somewhere else; and i should recommend that, if anywhere, we take up our station in that chamber, once flora's, where the mysterious panelled portrait hangs, that bears so strong a resemblance to varney, the vampyre." "hush!" said the admiral. "what's that?" they listened for a moment intently; and then, distinctly, upon the gravel path outside the window, they heard a footstep, as if some person were walking along, not altogether heedlessly, but yet without any very great amount of caution or attention to the noise he might make. "hist!" said the doctor. "not a word. they come." "what do you say they for?" said the admiral. "because something seems to whisper me that mr. marchdale knows more of varney, the vampyre, than ever he has chosen to reveal. put out the light." "yes, yes--that'll do. the moon has risen; see how it streams through the chinks of the shutters." "no, no--it's not in that direction, or our light would have betrayed us. do you not see the beams come from that half glass-door leading to the greenhouse?" "yes; and there's the footstep again, or another." tramp, tramp came a footfall again upon the gravel path, and, as before, died away upon their listening ears. "what do you say now," said mr. chillingworth--"are there not two?" "if they were a dozen," said the admiral, "although we have lost one of our force, i would tackle them. let's creep on through the rooms in the direction the footsteps went." "my life on it," said mr. chillingworth as they left the apartment, "if this be varney, he makes for that apartment where flora slept, and which he knows how to get admission to. i've studied the house well, admiral, and to get to that window any one from here outside must take a considerable round. come on--we shall be beforehand." "a good idea--a good idea. be it so." just allowing themselves sufficient light to guide them on the way from the lantern, they hurried on with as much precipitation as the intricacies of the passage would allow, nor halted till they had reached the chamber were hung the portrait which bore so striking and remarkable a likeness to varney, the vampyre. they left the lamp outside the door, so that not even a straggling beam from it could betray that there were persons on the watch; and then, as quietly as foot could fall, they took up their station among the hangings of the antique bedstead, which has been before alluded to in this work as a remarkable piece of furniture appertaining to that apartment. "do you think," said the admiral, "we've distanced them?" "certainly we have. it's unlucky that the blind of the window is down." "is it? by heaven, there's a d----d strange-looking shadow creeping over it." mr. chillingworth looked almost with suspended breath. even he could not altogether get rid of a tremulous feeling, as he saw that the shadow of a human form, apparently of very large dimensions, was on the outside, with the arms spread out, as if feeling for some means of opening the window. it would have been easy now to have fired one of the pistols direct upon the figure; but, somehow or another, both the admiral and mr. chillingworth shrank from that course, and they felt much rather inclined to capture whoever might make his appearance, only using their pistols as a last resource, than gratuitously and at once to resort to violence. "who should you say that was?" whispered the admiral. "varney, the vampyre." "d----e, he's ill-looking and big enough for anything--there's a noise!" there was a strange cracking sound at the window, as if a pane of glass was being very stealthily and quietly broken; and then the blind was agitated slightly, confusing much the shadow that was cast upon it, as if the hand of some person was introduced for the purpose of effecting a complete entrance into the apartment. "he's coming in," whispered the admiral. "hush, for heaven's sake!" said mr. chillingworth; "you will alarm him, and we shall lose the fruit of all the labour we have already bestowed upon the matter; but did you not say something, admiral, about lying under the window and catching him by the leg?" "why, yes; i did." "go and do it, then; for, as sure as you are a living man, his leg will be in in a minute." "here goes," said the admiral; "i never suggest anything which i'm unwilling to do myself." whoever it was that now was making such strenuous exertions to get into the apartment seemed to find some difficulty as regarded the fastenings of the window, and as this difficulty increased, the patience of the party, as well as his caution deserted him, and the casement was rattled with violence. with a far greater amount of caution than any one from a knowledge of his character would have given him credit for, the admiral crept forward and laid himself exactly under the window. the depth of wood-work from the floor to the lowest part of the window-frame did not exceed above two feet; so that any one could conveniently step in from the balcony outride on to the floor of the apartment, which was just what he who was attempting to effect an entrance was desirous of doing. it was quite clear that, be he who he might, mortal or vampyre, he had some acquaintance with the fastening of the window; for now he succeeded in moving it, and the sash was thrown open. the blind was still an obstacle; but a vigorous pull from the intruder brought that down on the prostrate admiral; and then mr. chillingworth saw, by the moonlight, a tall, gaunt figure standing in the balcony, as if just hesitating for a moment whether to get head first or feet first into the apartment. had he chosen the former alternative he would need, indeed, to have been endowed with more than mortal powers of defence and offence to escape capture, but his lucky star was in the ascendancy, and he put his foot in first. he turned his side to the apartment and, as he did so, the blight moonlight fell upon his face, enabling mr. chillingworth to see, without the shadow of a doubt, that it was, indeed, varney, the vampyre, who was thus stealthily making his entrance into bannerworth hall, according to the calculation which had been made by the admiral upon that subject. the doctor scarcely knew whether to be pleased or not at this discovery; it was almost a terrifying one, sceptical as he was upon the subject of vampyres, and he waited breathless for the issue of the singular and perilous adventure. no doubt admiral bell deeply congratulated himself upon the success which was about to crown his stratagem for the capture of the intruder, be he who he might, and he writhed with impatience for the foot to come sufficiently near him to enable him to grasp it. his patience was not severely tried, for in another moment it rested upon his chest. "boarders a hoy!" shouted the admiral, and at once he laid hold of the trespasser. "yard-arm to yard-arm, i think i've got you now. here's a prize, doctor! he shall go away without his leg if he goes away now. eh! what! the light--d----e, he has--doctor, the light! the light! why what's this?--hilloa, there!" dr. chillingworth sprang into the passage, and procured the light--in another moment he was at the side of the admiral, and the lantern slide being thrown back, he saw at once the dilemma into which his friend had fallen. there he lay upon his back, grasping, with the vehemence of an embrace that had in it much of the ludicrous, a long boot, from which the intruder had cleverly slipped his leg, leaving it as a poor trophy in the hands of his enemies. "why you've only pulled his boot off," said the doctor; "and now he's gone for good, for he knows what we're about, and has slipped through your fingers." admiral bell sat up and looked at the boot with a rueful countenance. "done again!" he said. "yes, you are done," said the doctor; "why didn't you lay hold of the leg while you were about it, instead of the boot? admiral, are these your tactics?" "don't be a fool," said the admiral; "put out the light and give me the pistols, or blaze away yourself into the garden; a chance shot may do something. it's no use running after him; a stern chase is a long chase; but fire away." as if some parties below had heard him give the word, two loud reports from the garden immediately ensued, and a crash of glass testified to the fact that some deadly missile had entered the room. "murder!" said the doctor, and he fell flat upon his back. "i don't like this at all; it's all in your line, admiral, but not in mine." "all's right, my lad," said the admiral; "now for it." he saw lying in the moonlight the pistols which he and the doctor had brought into the room, and in another moment he, to use his own words, returned the broadside of the enemy. "d--n it!" he said, "this puts me in mind of old times. blaze away, you thieves, while i load; broadside to broadside. it's your turn now; i scorn to take an advantage. what the devil's that?" something very large and very heavy came bang against the window, sending it all into the room, and nearly smothering the admiral with the fragments. another shot was then fired, and in came something else, which hit the wall on the opposite side of the room, rebounding from thence on to the doctor, who gave a yell of despair. after that all was still; the enemy seemed to be satisfied that they had silenced the garrison. and it took the admiral a great deal of kicking and plunging to rescue himself from some superincumbent mass that was upon him, which seemed to him to be a considerable sized tree. "call this fair fighting," he shouted--"getting a man's legs and arms tangled up like a piece of indian matting in the branches of a tree? doctor, i say! hilloa! where are you?" "i don't know," said the doctor; "but there's somebody getting into the balcony--now we shall be murdered in cold blood!" "where's the pistols?" "fired off, of course; you did it yourself." bang came something else into the room, which, from the sound it made, closely resembled a brick, and after that somebody jumped clean into the centre of the floor, and then, after rolling and writhing about in a most singular manner, slowly got up, and with various preliminary hiccups, said,-"come on, you lubbers, many of you as like. i'm the tar for all weathers." "why, d----e," said the admiral, "it's jack pringle." "yes, it is," said jack, who was not sufficiently sober to recognise the admiral's voice. "i sees as how you've heard of me. come on, all of you." "why, jack, you scoundrel," roared the admiral, "how came you here? don't you know me? i'm your admiral, you horse-marine." "eh?" said jack. "ay--ay, sir, how came you here?" "how came you, you villain?" "boarded the enemy." "the enemy who you boarded was us; and hang me if i don't think you haven't been pouring broadsides into us, while the enemy were scudding before the wind in another direction." "lor!" said jack. "explain, you scoundrel, directly--explain." "well, that's only reasonable," said jack; and giving a heavier lurch than usual, he sat down with a great bounce upon the floor. "you see it's just this here,--when i was a coming of course i heard, just as i was a going, that ere as made me come all in consequence of somebody a going, or for to come, you see, admiral." "doctor," cried the admiral, in a great rage, "just help me out of this entanglement of branches, and i'll rid the world from an encumbrance by smashing that fellow." "smash yourself!" said jack. "you know you're drunk." "my dear admiral," said mr. chillingworth, laying hold of one of his legs, and pulling it very hard, which brought his face into a lot of brambles, "we're making a mess of this business." "murder!" shouted the admiral; "you are indeed. is that what you call pulling me out of it? you've stuck me fast." "i'll manage it," said jack. "i've seed him in many a scrape, and i've seed him out. you pull me, doctor, and i'll pull him. yo hoy!" jack laid hold of the admiral by the scuff of the neck, and the doctor laid hold of jack round the waist, the consequence of which was that he was dragged out from the branches of the tree, which seemed to have been thrown into the room, and down fell both jack and the doctor. at this instant there was a strange hissing sound heard below the window; then there was a sudden, loud report, as if a hand-grenade had gone off. a spectral sort of light gleamed into the room, and a tall, gaunt-looking figure rose slowly up in the balcony. "beware of the dead!" said a voice. "let the living contend with the living, the dead with the dead. beware!" the figure disappeared, as did also the strange, spectral-looking light. a death-like silence ensued, and the cold moonbeams streamed in upon the floor of the apartment, as if nothing had occurred to disturb the wrapped repose and serenity of the scene. chapter lix. the warning.--the new plan of operation.--the insulting message from varney. [illustration] so much of the night had been consumed in these operations, that by the time they were over, and the three personages who lay upon the floor of what might be called the haunted chamber of bannerworth hall, even had they now been disposed to seek repose, would have had a short time to do so before the daylight would have streamed in upon them, and roused them to the bustle of waking existence. it may be well believed what a vast amount of surprise came over the three persons in that chamber at the last little circumstance that had occurred in connection with the night's proceedings. there was nothing which had preceded that, that did not resemble a genuine attack upon the premises; but about that last mysterious appearance, with its curious light, there was quite enough to bother the admiral and jack pringle to a considerable effect, whatever might be the effect upon mr. chillingworth, whose profession better enabled him to comprehend, chemically, what would produce effects that, no doubt, astonished them amazingly. what with his intoxication and the violent exercise he had taken, jack was again thoroughly prostrate; while the admiral could not have looked more astonished had the evil one himself appeared in _propria persona_ and given him notice to quit the premises. he was, however, the first to speak, and the words he spoke were addressed to jack, to whom he said,-"jack, you lubber, what do you think of all that?" jack, however, was too far gone even to say "ay, ay, sir;" and mr. chillingworth, slowly getting himself up to his feet, approached the admiral. "it's hard to say so much, admiral bell," he said, "but it strikes me that whatever object this sir francis varney, or varney, the vampyre, has in coming into bannerworth hall, it is, at all events, of sufficient importance to induce him to go any length, and not to let even a life to stand in the way of its accomplishment." "well, it seems so," said the admiral; "for i'll be hanged if i can make head or tail of the fellow." "if we value our personal safety, we shall hesitate to continue a perilous adventure which i think can end only in defeat, if not in death." "but we don't value our personal safety," said the admiral. "we've got into the adventure, and i don't see why we shouldn't carry it out. it may be growing a little serious; but what of that? for the sake of that young girl, flora bannerworth, as well as for the sake of my nephew, charles holland, i will see the end of this affair, let it be what it may; but mind you, mr. chillingworth, if one man chooses to go upon a desperate service, that's no reason why he should ask another to do so." "i understand you," said mr. chillingworth; "but, having commenced the adventure with you, i am not the man to desert you in it. we have committed a great mistake." "a mistake! how?" "why, we ought to have watched outside the house, instead of within it. there can be no doubt that if we had lain in wait in the garden, we should have been in a better position to have accomplished our object." "well, i don't know, doctor, but it seems to me that if jack pringle hadn't made such a fool of himself, we should have managed very well: and i don't know now how he came to behave in the manner he did." "nor i," said mr. chillingworth. "but, at all events, so far as the result goes, it is quite clear that any further watching, in this house, for the appearance of sir francis varney, will now be in vain. he has nothing to do now but to keep quiet until we are tired out--a fact, concerning which he can easily obtain information--and then he immediately, without trouble, walks into the premises, to his own satisfaction." "but what the deuce can he want upon the premises?" "that question, admiral, induces me to think that we have made another mistake. we ought not to have attempted to surprise sir francis varney in coming into bannerworth hall, but to catch him as he came out." [illustration] "well, there's something in that," said the admiral. "this is a pretty night's business, to be sure. however, it can't be helped, it's done, and there's an end on't. and now, as the morning is near at hand, i certainly must confess i should like to get some breakfast, although i don't like that we should all leave the house together" "why," said mr. chillingworth, "as we have now no secret to keep with regard to our being here, because the principal person we wished to keep it from is aware of it, i think we cannot do better than send at once for henry bannerworth, tell him of the non-success of the effort we have made in his behalf, and admit him at once into our consultation of what is next to be done." "agreed, agreed, i think that, without troubling him, we might have captured this varney; but that's over now, and, as soon as jack pringle chooses to wake up again, i'll send him to the bannerworths with a message." "ay, ay, sir," said jack, suddenly; "all's right." "why, you vagabond," said the admiral, "i do believe you've been shamming!" "shamming what?" "being drunk, to be sure." "lor! couldn't do it," said jack; "i'll just tell you how it was. i wakened up and found myself shut in somewhere; and, as i couldn't get out of the door, i thought i'd try the window, and there i did get out. well, perhaps i wasn't quite the thing, but i sees two people in the garden a looking up at this ere room; and, to be sure, i thought it was you and the doctor. well, it warn't no business of mine to interfere, so i seed one of you climb up the balcony, as i thought, and then, after which, come down head over heels with such a run, that i thought you must have broken your neck. well, after that you fired a couple of shots in, and then, after that, i made sure it was you, admiral." "and what made you make sure of that?" "why, because you scuttled away like an empty tar-barrel in full tide." "confound you, you scoundrel!" "well, then, confound you, if it comes to that. i thought i was doing you good sarvice, and that the enemy was here, when all the while it turned out as you was and the enemy wasn't, and the enemy was outside and you wasn't." "but who threw such a confounded lot of things into the room?" "why, i did, of course; i had but one pistol, and, when i fired that off, i was forced to make up a broadside with what i could." "was there ever such a stupid!" said the admiral; "doctor, doctor, you talked of us making two mistakes; but you forgot a third and worse one still, and that was the bringing such a lubberly son of a sea-cook into the place as this fellow." "you're another," said jack; "and you knows it." "well, well," said mr. chillingworth, "it's no use continuing it, admiral; jack, in his way, did, i dare say, what he considered for the best." "i wish he'd do, then, what he considers for the worst, next time." "perhaps i may," said jack, "and then you will be served out above a bit. what 'ud become of you, i wonder, if it wasn't for me? i'm as good as a mother to you, you knows that, you old babby." "come, come, admiral," said mr. chillingworth: "come down to the garden-gate; it is now just upon daybreak, and the probability is that we shall not be long there before we see some of the country people, who will get us anything we require in the shape of refreshment; and as for jack, he seems quite sufficiently recovered now to go to the bannerworths'." "oh! i can go," said jack; "as for that, the only thing as puts me out of the way is the want of something to drink. my constitution won't stand what they call temperance living, or nothing with the chill off." "go at once," said the admiral, "and tell mr. henry bannerworth that we are here; but do not tell him before his sister or his mother. if you meet anybody on the road, send them here with a cargo of victuals. it strikes me that a good, comfortable breakfast wouldn't be at all amiss, doctor." "how rapidly the day dawns," remarked mr. chillingworth, as he walked into the balcony from whence varney, the vampire, had attempted to make good his entrance to the hall. just as he spoke, and before jack pringle could get half way over to the garden gate, there came a tremendous ring at the bell which was suspended over it. a view of that gate could not be commanded from the window of the haunted apartment, so that they could not see who it was that demanded admission. as jack pringle was going down at any rate, they saw no necessity for personal interference; and he proved that there was not, by presently returning with a note which he said had been thrown over the gate by a lad, who then scampered off with all the speed he could make. the note, exteriorly, was well got up, and had all the appearance of great care having been bestowed upon its folding and sealing. it was duly addressed to "admiral bell, bannerworth hall," and the word "immediate" was written at one corner. the admiral, after looking at it for some time with very great wonder, came at last to the conclusion that probably to open it would be the shortest way of arriving at a knowledge of who had sent it, and he accordingly did so. the note was as follows:- "my dear sir,--feeling assured that you cannot be surrounded with those means and appliances for comfort in the hall, in its now deserted condition, which you have a right to expect, and so eminently deserve, i flatter myself that i shall receive an answer in the affirmative, when i request the favour of your company to breakfast, as well as that of your learned friend. mr. chillingworth. "in consequence of a little accident which occurred last evening to my own residence, i am, _ad interim_, until the county build it up for me again, staying at a house called walmesley lodge, where i shall expect you with all the impatience of one soliciting an honour, and hoping that it will be conferred upon him. "i trust that any little difference of opinion on other subjects will not interfere to prevent the harmony of our morning's meal together. "believe me to be, my dear sir, with the greatest possible consideration, your very obedient, humble servant, "francis varney." the admiral gasped again, and looked at mr. chillingworth, and then at the note, and then at mr. chillingworth again, as if he was perfectly bewildered. "that's about the coolest piece of business," said mr. chillingworth, "that ever i heard of." "hang me," said the admiral, "if i sha'n't like the fellow at last. it is cool, and i like it because it is cool. where's my hat? where's my stick!" "what are you going to do?" "accept his invitation, to be sure, and breakfast with him; and, my learned friend, as he calls you, i hope you'll come likewise. i'll take the fellow at his word. by fair means, or by foul, i'll know what he wants here; and why he persecutes this family, for whom i have an attachment; and what hand he has in the disappearance of my nephew, charles holland; for, as sure as there's a heaven above us, he's at the bottom of that affair. where is this walmesley lodge?" "just in the neighbourhood; but--" "come on, then; come on." "but, really, admiral, you don't mean to say you'll breakfast with--with--" "a vampyre? yes, i would, and will, and mean to do so. here, jack, you needn't go to mr. bannerworth's yet. come, my learned friend, let's take time by the forelock." chapter lx. the interrupted breakfast at sir francis varney's. [illustration] notwithstanding all mr. chillingworth could say to the contrary, the admiral really meant to breakfast with sir francis varney. the worthy doctor could not for some time believe but that the admiral must be joking, when he talked in such a strain; but he was very soon convinced to the contrary, by the latter actually walking out and once more asking him, mr. chillingworth, if he meant to go with him, or not. this was conclusive, so the doctor said,-"well, admiral, this appears to me rather a mad sort of freak; but, as i have begun the adventure with you, i will conclude it with you." "that's right," said the admiral; "i'm not deceived in you, doctor; so come along. hang these vampyres, i don't know how to tackle them, myself. i think, after all, sir francis varney is more in your line than line is in mine." "how do you mean?" "why, couldn't you persuade him he's ill, and wants some physic? that would soon settle him, you know." "settle him!" said mr. chillingworth; "i beg to say that if i did give him any physic, the dose would be much to his advantage; but, however, my opinion is, that this invitation to breakfast is, after all, a mere piece of irony; and that, when we get to walmesley lodge, we shall not see anything of him; on the contrary, we shall probably find it's a hoax." "i certainly shouldn't like that, but still it's worth the trying. the fellow has really behaved himself in such an extraordinary manner, that, if i can make terms with him i will; and there's one thing, you know, doctor, that i think we may say we have discovered." "and what may that be? is it, not to make too sure of a vampyre, even when you have him by the leg?" "no, that ain't it, though that's a very good thing in its way: but it is just this, that sir francis varney, whoever he is and whatever he is, is after bannerworth hall, and not the bannerworth family. if you recollect, mr. chillingworth, in our conversation, i have always insisted upon that fact." "you have; and it seems to me to be completely verified by the proceedings of the night. there, then, admiral, is the great mystery--what can he want at bannerworth hall that makes him take such a world of trouble, and run so many fearful risks in trying to get at it?" "that is, indeed, the mystery; and if he really means this invitation to breakfast, i shall ask him plumply, and tell him, at the same time, that possibly his very best way to secure his object will be to be candid, vampyre as he is." "but really, admiral, you do not still cling to that foolish superstition of believing that sir francis varney is in reality a vampyre?" "i don't know, and i can't say; if anybody was to give me a description of a strange sort of fish that i had never seen, i wouldn't take upon myself to say there wasn't such a thing; nor would you, doctor, if you had really seen the many odd ones that i have encountered at various times." "well, well, admiral, i'm certainly not belonging to that school of philosophy which declares the impossible to be what it don't understand; there may be vampyres, and there may be apparitions, for all i know to the contrary; i only doubt these things, because i think, if they were true, that, as a phenomena of nature, they would have been by this time established by repeated instances without the possibility of doubt or cavil." "well, there's something in that; but how far have we got to go now?" "no further than to yon enclosure where you see those park-like looking gates, and that cedar-tree stretching its dark-green foliage so far into the road; that is walmesley lodge, whither you have been invited." "and you, my learned friend, recollect that you were invited too; so that you are no intruder upon the hospitality of varney the vampyre." "i say, admiral," said mr. chillingworth, when they reached the gates, "you know it is not quite the thing to call a man a vampyre at his own breakfast-table, so just oblige me by promising not to make any such remark to sir francis." "a likely thing!" said the admiral; "he knows i know what he is, and he knows i'm a plain man and a blunt speaker; however, i'll be civil to him, and more than that i can't promise. i must wring out of him, if i can, what has become of charles holland, and what the deuce he really wants himself." "well, well; come to no collision with him, while we're his guests." "not if i can help it." the doctor rang at the gate bell of walmesley lodge, and was in a few moments answered by a woman, who demanded their business. "is sir francis varney here?" said the doctor. "oh, ah! yes," she replied; "you see his house was burnt down, for something or other--i'm sure i don't know what--by some people--i'm sure i don't know who; so, as the lodge was to let, we have took him in till he can suit himself." "ah! that's it, is it?" said the admiral--"tell him that admiral bell and dr. chillingworth are here." "very well," said the woman; "you may walk in." "thank ye; you're vastly obliging, ma'am. is there anything going on in the breakfast line?" "well, yes; i am getting him some breakfast, but he didn't say as he expected company." the woman opened the garden gate, and they walked up a trimly laid out garden to the lodge, which was a cottage-like structure in external appearance, although within it boasted of all the comforts of a tolerably extensive house. she left them in a small room, leading from the hall, and was absent about five minutes; then she returned, and, merely saying that sir francis varney presented his compliments, and desired them to walk up stairs, she preceded them up a handsome flight which led to the first floor of the lodge. up to this moment, mr. chillingworth had expected some excuse, for, notwithstanding all he had heard and seen of sir francis varney, he could not believe that any amount of impudence would suffice to enable him to receive people as his guests, with whom he must feel that he was at such positive war. it was a singular circumstance; and, perhaps, the only thing that matched the cool impertinence of the invitation, was the acceptance of it under the circumstances by the admiral. sir francis varney might have intended it as a jest; but if he did so, in the first instance, it was evident he would not allow himself to be beaten with his own weapons. the room into which they were shown was a longish narrow one; a very wide door gave them admission to it, at the end, nearest the staircase, and at its other extremity there was a similar door opening into some other apartments of the house. sir francis varney sat with his back towards this second door, and a table, with some chairs and other articles of furniture, were so arranged before him, that while they seemed but to be carelessly placed in the position they occupied, they really formed a pretty good barrier between him and his visitors. the admiral, however, was too intent upon getting a sight of varney, to notice any preparation of this sort, and he advanced quickly into the room. and there, indeed, was the much dreaded, troublesome, persevering, and singular looking being who had caused such a world of annoyance to the family of the bannerworths, as well as disturbing the peace of the whole district, which had the misfortune to have him as an inhabitant. if anything, he looked thinner, taller, and paler than usual, and there seemed to be a slight nervousness of manner about him, as he slowly inclined his head towards the admiral, which was not quite intelligible. "well," said admiral bell, "you invited me to breakfast, and my learned friend; here we are." "no two human beings," said varney, "could be more welcome to my hospitality than yourself and dr. chillingworth. i pray you to be seated. what a pleasant thing it is, after the toils and struggles of this life, occasionally to sit down in the sweet companionship of such dear friends." he made a hideous face as he spoke, and the admiral looked as if he were half inclined to quarrel at that early stage of the proceedings. "dear friends!" he said; "well, well--it's no use squabbling about a word or two; but i tell you what it is, mr. varney, or sir francis varney, or whatever your d----d name is--" "hold, my dear sir," said varney--"after breakfast, if you please--after breakfast." he rang a hand-bell as he spoke, and the woman who had charge of the house brought in a tray tolerably covered with the materials for a substantial morning's meal. she placed it upon the table, and certainly the various articles that smoked upon it did great credit to her culinary powers. "deborah," said sir varney, in a mild sort of tone, "keep on continually bringing things to eat until this old brutal sea ruffian has satiated his disgusting appetite." the admiral opened his eyes an enormous width, and, looking at sir francis varney, he placed his two fists upon the table, and drew a long breath. "did you address those observations to me," he said, at length, "you blood-sucking vagabond?" "eh?" said sir francis varney, looking over the admiral's head, as if he saw something interesting on the wall beyond. "my dear admiral," said mr. chillingworth, "come away." "i'll see you d----d first!" said the admiral. "now, mr. vampyre, no shuffling; did you address those observations to me?" "deborah," said sir francis varney, in silvery tones, "you can remove this tray and bring on the next." "not if i know it," said the admiral "i came to breakfast, and i'll have it; after breakfast i'll pull your nose--ay, if you were fifty vampyres, i'd do it." "dr. chillingworth," said varney, without paying the least attention to what the admiral said, "you don't eat, my dear sir; you must be fatigued with your night's exertions. a man of your age, you know, cannot be supposed to roll and tumble about like a fool in a pantomime with impunity. only think what a calamity it would be if you were laid up. your patients would all get well, you know." "sir francis varney," said mr. chillingworth, "we're your guests; we come here at your invitation to partake of a meal. you have wantonly attacked both of us. i need not say that by so doing you cast a far greater slur upon your own taste and judgment than you can upon us." "admirably spoken," said sir francis varney, giving his hands a clap together that made the admiral jump again. "now, old bell, i'll fight you, if you think yourself aggrieved, while the doctor sees fair play." "old who?" shouted the admiral. "bell, bell--is not your name bell?--a family cognomen, i presume, on account of the infernal clack, clack, without any sense in it, that is the characteristic of your race." "you'll fight me?" said the admiral, jumping up. "yes; if you challenge me." "by jove i do; of course" "then i accept it; and the challenged party, you know well, or ought to know, can make his own terms in the encounter." "make what terms you please; i care not what they are. only say you will fight, and that's sufficient." "it is well," said sir francis varney, in a solemn tone. "nay, nay," interrupted mr. chillingworth; "this is boyish folly." "hold your row," said the admiral, "and let's hear what he's got to say." "in this mansion," said sir francis varney--"for a mansion it is, although under the unpretending name of a lodge--in this mansion there is a large apartment which was originally fitted up by a scientific proprietor of the place, for the purpose of microscopic and other experiments, which required a darkness total and complete, such a darkness as seems as if it could be felt--palpable, thick, and obscure as the darkness of the tomb, and i know what that is." "the devil you do!" said this admiral "it's damp, too, ain't it?" "the room?" "no; the grave." "oh! uncommonly, after autumnal rains. but to resume--this room is large, lofty, and perfectly empty." "well?" "i propose that we procure two scythes." "two what?" "scythes, with their long handles, and their convenient holding places." "well, i'll be hanged! what next do you propose?" "you may be hanged. the next is, that with these scythes we be both of us placed in the darkened room, and the door closed, and doubly locked upon us for one hour, and that then and there we do our best each to cut the other in two. if you succeed in dismembering me, you will have won the day; but i hope, from my superior agility"--here sir francis jumped upon his chair, and sat upon the back of it--"to get the better of you. how do you like the plan i have proposed? does it meet your wishes?" "curse your impudence!" said the admiral, placing his elbows upon the table and resting his chin in astonishment upon his two hands. "nay," interrupted sir francis, "you challenged me; and, besides, you'll have an equal chance, you know that. if you succeed in striking me first, down i go; whereas it i succeed in striking you first, down you go." as he spoke, sir francis varney stretched out his foot, and closed a small bracket which held out the flap of the table on which the admiral was leaning, and, accordingly, down the admiral went, tea-tray and all. mr. chillingworth ran to help him up, and, when they both recovered their feet, they found they were alone. chapter lxi. the mysterious stranger.--the particulars of the suicide at bannerworth hall. [illustration] "hilloa where the deuce is he?" said the admiral. "was there ever such a confounded take-in?" "well, i really don't know," said mr. chillingworth; "but it seems to me that he must have gone out of that door that was behind him: i begin, do you know, admiral, to wish--" "what?" "that we had never come here at all; and i think the sooner we get out of it the better." "yes; but i am not going to be hoaxed and humbugged in this way. i will have satisfaction, but not with those confounded scythes and things he talks about in the dark room. give me broad daylight and no favour; yardarm and yardarm; broadside and broadside; hand-grenades and marling-spikes." "well, but that's what he won't do. now, admiral, listen to me." "well, go on; what next?" "come away at once." "oh, you said that before." "yes; but i'm going to say something else. look round you. don't you think this a large, scientific-looking room?" "what of that?" "why, what if suppose it was to become as dark as the grave, and varney was to enter with his scythe, that he talks of, and begin mowing about our legs." "the devil! come along!" the door at which they entered was at this moment opened, and the old woman made her appearance. "please, sir," she said, "here's a mr. mortimer," in a loud voice. "oh, sir francis ain't here! where's he gone, gentlemen?" "to the devil!" said the admiral. "who may mr. mortimer be?" there walked past the woman a stout, portly-looking man, well dressed, but with a very odd look upon his face, in consequence of an obliquity of vision, which prevented the possibility of knowing which way he was looking. "i must see him," he said; "i must see him." mr. chillingworth started back as if in amazement. "good god!" he cried, "you here!" "confusion!" said mortimer; "are you dr.---dr.----" "the same. hush! there is no occasion to betray--that is, to state my secret." "and mine, too," said chillingworth. "but what brings you here?" "i cannot and dare not tell you. farewell!" he turned abruptly, and was leaving the room; but he ran against some one at the entrance, and in another moment henry bannerworth, heated and almost breathless by evident haste, made his appearance. "hilloa! bravo!" cried the admiral; "the more the merrier! here's a combined squadron! why, how came you here, mr. henry bannerworth?" "bannerworth!" said mortimer; "is that young man's name bannerworth?" "yes," said henry. "do you know me, sir?" "no, no; only i--i--must be off. does anybody know anything of sir francis varney?" "we did know something of him," said the admiral, "a little while ago; but he's taken himself off. don't you do so likewise. if you've got anything to say, stop and say it, like an englishman." "stuff! stuff!" said mortimer, impatiently. "what do you all want here?" "why, sir francis varney," said henry,--"and i care not if the whole world heard it--is the persecutor of my family." "how? in what way?" "he has the reputation of a vampyre; he has hunted me and mine from house and home." "indeed!" "yes," cried dr. chillingworth; "and, by some means or another, he seems determined to get possession of bannerworth hall." "well, gentlemen," said mortimer, "i promise you that i will inquire into this. mr. chillingworth, i did not expect to meet you. perhaps the least we say to each other is, after all, the better." "let me ask but one question," said dr. chillingworth, imploringly. "ask it." "did he live after--" "hush! he did." "you always told me to the contrary." "yes; i had an object; the game is up. farewell; and, gentlemen, as i am making my exit, let me do so with a sentiment:--society at large is divided into two great classes." "and what may they be?" said the admiral. "those who have been hanged, and those who have not. adieu!" he turned and left the room; and mr. chillingworth sunk into a chair, and said, in a low voice,-"it's uncommonly true; and i've found out an acquaintance among the former." "-d--n it! you seem all mad," said the admiral. "i can't make out what you are about. how came you here, mr. henry bannerworth?" "by mere accident i heard," said henry, "that you were keeping watch and ward in the hall. admiral, it was cruel, and not well done of you, to attempt such an enterprise without acquainting me with it. did you suppose for a moment that i, who had the greatest interest in this affair, would have shrunk from danger, if danger there be; or lacked perseverance, if that quality were necessary in carrying out any plan by which the safety and honour of my family might be preserved?" "nay, now, my young friend," said mr. chillingworth. "nay, sir; but i take it ill that i should have been kept out of this affair; and it should have been sedulously, as it were, kept a secret from me." "let him go on as he likes," said the admiral; "boys will be boys. after all, you know, doctor, it's my affair, and not yours. let him say what he likes; where's the odds? it's of no consequence." "i do not expect. admiral bell," said henry, "that it is to you; but it is to me." "psha!" "respecting you, sir, as i do--" "gammon!" "i must confess that i did expect--" "what you didn't get; therefore, there's an end of that. now, i tell you what, henry, sir francis varney is within this house; at least, i have reason to suppose so." "then," exclaimed henry, impetuously, "i will wring from him answers to various questions which concern my peace and happiness." "please, gentlemen," said the woman deborah, making her appearance, "sir francis varney has gone out, and he says i'm to show you all the door, as soon as it is convenient for you all to walk out of it." "i feel convinced," said mr. chillingworth, "that it will be a useless search now to attempt to find sir francis varney here. let me beg of you all to come away; and believe me that i do not speak lightly, or with a view to get you from here, when i say, that after i have heard something from you, henry, which i shall ask you to relate to me, painful though it may be, i shall be able to suggest some explanation of many things which appear at present obscure, and to put you in a course of freeing you from the difficulties which surround you, which, heaven knows, i little expected i should have it in my power to propose to any of you." "i will follow your advice, mr. chillingworth," said henry; "for i have always found that it has been dictated by good feeling as well as correct judgment. admiral bell, you will oblige me much by coming away with me now and at once." "well," remarked the admiral, "if the doctor has really something to say, it alters the appearance of things, and, of course, i have no objection." upon this, the whole three of them immediately left the place, and it was evident that mr. chillingworth had something of an uncomfortable character upon his mind. he was unusually silent and reserved, and, when he did speak, he seemed rather inclined to turn the conversation upon indifferent topics, than to add anything more to what he had said upon the deeply interesting one which held so foremost a place in all their minds. "how is flora, now," he asked of henry, "since her removal?" "anxious still," said henry; "but, i think, better." "that is well. i perceive that, naturally, we are all three walking towards bannerworth hall, and, perhaps, it is as well that on that spot i should ask of you, henry, to indulge me with a confidence such as, under ordinary circumstances, i should not at all feel myself justified in requiring of you." "to what does it relate?" said henry. "you may be assured, mr. chillingworth, that i am not likely to refuse my confidence to you, whom i have so much reason to respect as an attached friend of myself and my family." "you will not object, likewise, i hope," added mr. chillingworth, "to extend that confidence to admiral bell; for, as you well know, a truer and more warm-hearted man than he does not exist." "what do you expect for that, doctor?" said the admiral. "there is nothing," said henry, "that i could relate at all, that i should shrink from relating to admiral bell." "well, my boy," said the admiral, "and all i can reply to that is, you are quite right; for there can be nothing that you need shrink from telling me, so far as regards the fact of trusting me with it goes." "i am assured of that." "a british officer, once pledging his word, prefers death to breaking it. whatever you wish kept secret in the communication you make to me, say so, and it will never pass my lips." "why, sir, the fact is," said henry, "that what i am about to relate to you consists not so much of secrets as of matters which would be painful to my feelings to talk of more than may be absolutely required." "i understand you." "let me, for a moment," said mr chillingworth, "put myself right. i do not suspect, mr. henry bannerworth, that you fancy i ask you to make a recital of circumstances which must be painful to you from any idle motive. but let me declare that i have now a stronger impulse, which induces me to wish to hear from your own lips those matters which popular rumour may have greatly exaggerated or vitiated." "it is scarcely possible," remarked henry, sadly, "that popular rumour should exaggerate the facts." "indeed!" "no. they are, unhappily, of themselves, in their bare truthfulness, so full of all that can be grievous to those who are in any way connected with them, that there needs no exaggeration to invest them with more terror, or with more of that sadness which must ever belong to a recollection of them in my mind." in suchlike discourse as this, the time was passed, until henry bannerworth and his friends once more reached the hall, from which he, with his family, had so recently removed, in consequence of the fearful persecution to which they had been subjected. they passed again into the garden which they all knew so well, and then henry paused and looked around him with a deep sigh. in answer to an inquiring glance from mr. chillingworth, he said,-"is it not strange, now, that i should have only been away from here a space of time which may be counted by hours, and yet all seems changed. i could almost fancy that years had elapsed since i had looked at it." "oh," remarked the doctor, "time is always by the imagination measured by the number of events which are crowded into a given space of it, and not by its actual duration. come into the house; there you will find all just as you left it, henry, and you can tell us your story at leisure." "the air," said henry, "about here is fresh and pleasant. let us sit down in the summer-house yonder, and there i will tell you all. it has a local interest, too, connected with the tale." this was agreed to, and, in a few moments, the admiral, mr. chillingworth, and henry were seated in the same summer-house which had witnessed the strange interview between sir francis varney and flora bannerworth, in which he had induced her to believe that he felt for the distress he had occasioned her, and was strongly impressed with the injustice of her sufferings. henry was silent for some few moments, and then he said, with a deep sigh, as he looked mournfully around him,-[illustration] "it was on this spot that my father breathed his last, and hence have i said that it has a local interest in the tale i have to tell, which makes it the most fitting place in which to tell it." "oh," said the admiral, "he died here, did he?" "yes, where you are now sitting." "very good, i have seen many a brave man die in my time, and i hope to see a few more, although, i grant you, the death in the heat of conflict, and fighting for our country, is a vastly different thing to some shore-going mode of leaving the world." "yes," said henry, as if pursuing his own meditations, rather than listening to the admiral. "yes, it was from this precise spot that my father took his last look at the ancient house of his race. what we can now see of it, he saw of it with his dying eyes and many a time i have sat here and fancied the world of terrible thoughts that must at such a moment have come across his brain." "you might well do so," said the doctor. "you see," added henry, "that from here the fullest view you have of any of the windows of the house is of that of flora's room, as we have always called it, because for years she had had it as her chamber; and, when all the vegetation of summer is in its prime, and the vine which you perceive crawls over this summer-house is full of leaf and fruit, the view is so much hindered that it is difficult, without making an artificial gap in the clustering foliage, to see anything but the window." "so i should imagine," replied mr. chillingworth. "you, doctor," added henry, "who know much of my family, need not be told what sort of man my father was." "no, indeed." "but you, admiral bell, who do not know, must be told, and, however grievous it may be to me to have to say so, i must inform you that he was not a man who would have merited your esteem." "well," said the admiral, "you know, my boy, that can make no difference as regards you in anybody's mind, who has got the brains of an owl. every man's credit, character, and honour, to my thinking, is in his own most special keeping, and let your father be what he might, or who he might, i do not see that any conduct of his ought to raise upon your cheek the flush of shame, or cost you more uneasiness than ordinary good feeling dictates to the errors and feelings of a fellow creature." "if all the world," said henry, "would take such liberal and comprehensive views as you do, admiral, it would be much happier than it is; but such is not the case, and people are but too apt to blame one person for the evil that another has done." "ah, but," said mr. chillingworth, "it so happens that those are the people whose opinions are of the very least consequence." "there is some truth in that," said henry, sadly; "but, however, let me proceed; since i have to tell the tale, i could wish it over. my father, then, admiral bell, although a man not tainted in early life with vices, became, by the force of bad associates, and a sort of want of congeniality and sentiment that sprang up between him and my mother, plunged into all the excesses of his age." "these excesses were all of that character which the most readily lay hold strongly of an unreflecting mind, because they all presented themselves in the garb of sociality. "the wine cup is drained in the name of good fellowship; money which is wanted for legitimate purposes is squandered under the mask of a noble and free generosity, and all that the small imaginations of a number of persons of perverted intellects could enable them to do, has been done from time to time, to impart a kind of lustre to intemperance and all its dreadful and criminal consequences. "my father, having once got into the company of what he considered wits and men of spirit, soon became thoroughly vitiated. he was almost the only one of the set among whom he passed what he considered his highly convivial existence, who was really worth anything, pecuniarily speaking. there were some among them who might have been respectable men, and perchance carved their way to fortune, as well as some others who had started in life with good patrimonies; but he, my father, at the time he became associated with them, was the only one, as i say, who, to use a phrase i have heard myself from his lips concerning them, had got a feather to fly with. "the consequence of this was, that his society, merely for the sake of the animal gratification of drinking at his expense was courted, and he was much flattered, all of which he laid to the score of his own merits, which had been found out, and duly appreciated by these _bon vivants_, while he considered that the grave admonitions of his real friends proceeded from nothing in the world but downright envy and malice. "such a state of things as this could not last very long. the associates of my father wanted money as well as wine, so they introduced him to the gaming-table, and he became fascinated with the fearful vice to an extent which predicted his own destruction and the ruin of every one who was in any way dependent upon him. "he could not absolutely sell bannerworth hall, unless i had given my consent, which i refused; but he accumulated debt upon debt, and from time to time stripped the mansion of all its most costly contents. "with various mutations of fortune, he continued this horrible and baneful career for a long time, until, at last, he found himself utterly and irretrievably ruined, and he came home in an agony of despair, being so weak, and utterly ruined in constitution, that he kept his bed for many days. "it appeared, however, that something occurred at this juncture which gave him actually, or all events awakened a hope that he should possess some money, and be again in a position to try his fortune at the gaming-table. "he rose, and, fortifying himself once more with the strong stimulant of wine and spirits, he left his home, and was absent for about two months. "what occurred to him during that time we none of us ever knew, but late one night he came home, apparently much flurried in manner, and seeming as if something had happened to drive him half mad. "he would not speak to any one, but he shut himself up the whole of the night in the chamber where hangs the portrait that bears so strong a resemblance to sir francis varney, and there he remained till the morning, when he emerged, and said briefly that he intended to leave the country. "he was in a most fearful state of nervousness, and my mother tells me that he shook like one in an ague, and started at every little sound that occurred in the house, and glared about him so wildly that it was horrible to see him, or to sit in the same apartment with him. "she says that the whole morning passed on in this way till a letter came to him, the contents of which appeared to throw him into a perfect convulsion of terror, and he retired again to the room with the portrait, where he remained some hours, and then he emerged, looking like a ghost, so dreadfully pale and haggard was he. "he walked into the garden here, and was seen to sit down in this summer-house, and fix his eyes upon the window of that apartment." henry paused for a few moments, and then he added,-"you will excuse me from entering upon any details of what next ensued in the melancholy history. my father here committed suicide. he was found dying, and all i he words he spoke were, 'the money is hidden!' death claimed his victim, and, with a convulsive spasm, he resigned his spirit, leaving what he had intended to say hidden in the oblivion of the grave." "that was an odd affair," said the admiral. "it was, indeed. we have all pondered deeply, and the result was, that, upon the whole, we were inclined to come to an opinion that the words he so uttered were but the result of the mental disturbance that at such a moment might well be supposed to be ensuing in the mind, and that they related really to no foregone fact any more than some incoherent words uttered by a man in a dream might be supposed to do." "it may be so." "i do not mean," remarked mr. chillingworth, "for one moment to attempt to dispute, henry, the rationality of such an opinion as you have just given utterance to; but you forget that another circumstance occurred, which gave a colour to the words used by your father." "yes; i know to what you allude." "be so good as to state it to the admiral." "i will. on the evening of that same day there came a man here, who, in seeming ignorance of what had occurred, although by that time it was well known to all the neighbourhood, asked to see my father. "upon being told that he was dead, he started back, either with well acted or with real surprise, and seemed to be immensely chagrined. he then demanded to know if he had left any disposition of his property; but he got no information, and departed muttering the most diabolical oaths and curses that can be imagined. he mounted his horse, for he had ridden to the hall and his last words were, as i am told-"'where, in the name of all that's damnable, can he have put the money!'" "and did you never find out who this man was?" asked the admiral. "never." "it is an odd affair." "it is," said mr. chillingworth, "and full of mystery. the public mind was much taken up at the time with some other matters, or it would have made the death of mr. bannerworth the subject of more prolific comment than it did. as it was, however, a great deal was said upon the subject, and the whole comity was in a state of commotion for weeks afterwards." "yes," said henry; "it so happened that about that very time a murder was committed in the neighbourhood of london, which baffled all the exertions of the authorities to discover the perpetrators of. it was the murder of lord lorne." "oh! i remember," said the admiral; "the newspapers were full of it for a long time." "they were; and so, as mr. chillingworth says, the more exciting interest which that affair created drew off public attention, in a great measure, from my father's suicide, and we did not suffer so much from public remark and from impertinent curiosity as might have been expected." "and, in addition," said mr. chillingworth, and he changed colour a little as he spoke, "there was an execution shortly afterwards." "yes," said henry, "there was." "the execution of a man named angerstein," added mr. chillingworth, "for a highway robbery, attended with the most brutal violence." "true; all the affairs of that period of time are strongly impressed upon my mind," said henry; "but you do not seem well, mr. chillingworth." "oh, yes; i am quite well--you are mistaken." both the admiral and henry looked scrutinizingly at the doctor, who certainly appeared to them to be labouring under some great mental excitement, which he found it almost beyond his power to repress. "i tell you what it is, doctor," said the admiral; "i don't pretend, and never did, to see further through a tar-barrel than my neighbours; but i can see far enough to feel convinced that you have got something on your mind, and that it somehow concerns this affair." "is it so?" said henry. "i cannot if i would," said mr. chillingworth; "and i may with truth add, that i would not, if i could, hide from you that i have something on my mind connected with this affair; but let me assure you it would be premature of me to tell you of it." "premature be d----d!" said the admiral; "out with it." "nay, nay, dear sir; i am not now in a position to say what is passing through my mind." "alter your position, then, and be blowed!" cried jack pringle, suddenly stepping forward, and giving the doctor such a push, that he nearly went through one of the sides of the summer-house. "why, you scoundrel!" cried the admiral, "how came you here?" "on my legs," said jack. "do you think nobody wants to know nothing but yourself? i'm as fond of a yarn as anybody." "but if you are," said mr. chillingworth, "you had no occasion to come against me as if you wanted to move a house." "you said as you wasn't in a position to say something as i wanted to hear, so i thought i'd alter it for you." "is this fellow," said the doctor, shaking his head, as he accosted the admiral, "the most artful or stupid?" "a little of both," said admiral bell--"a little of both, doctor. he's a great fool and a great scamp." "the same to you," said jack; "you're another. i shall hate you presently, if you go on making yourself so ridiculous. now, mind, i'll only give you a trial of another week or so, and if you don't be more purlite in your d--n language, i'll leave you." away strolled jack, with his hands in his pockets, towards the house, while the admiral was half choked with rage, and could only glare after him, without the ability to say a word. under any other circumstances than the present one of trouble, and difficulty; and deep anxiety, henry bannerworth must have laughed at these singular little episodes between jack and the admiral; but his mind was now by far too much harassed to permit him to do so. "let him go, let him go, my dear sir," said mr. chillingworth to the admiral, who showed some signs of an intention to pursue jack; "he no doubt has been drinking again." "i'll turn him off the first moment i catch him sober enough to understand me," said the admiral. "well, well; do as you please; but now let me ask a favour of both of you." "what is it?" "that you will leave bannerworth hall to me for a week." "what for?" "i hope to make some discoveries connected with it which shall well reward you for the trouble." "it's no trouble," said henry; "and for myself, i have amply sufficient faith, both in your judgment and in your friendship, doctor, to accede to any request which you may make to me." "and i," said the admiral. "be it so--be it so. for one week, you say?" "yes--for one week. i hope, by the end of that time, to have achieved something worth the telling you of; and i promise you that, if i am at all disappointed in my expectation, that i will frankly and freely communicate to you all i know and all i suspect." "then that's a bargain." "it is." "and what's to be done at once?" "why, nothing, but to take the greatest possible care that bannerworth hall is not left another hour without some one in it; and in order that such should be the case, i have to request that you two will remain here until i go to the town, and make preparations for taking quiet possession of it myself, which i will do in the course of two hours, at most." "don't be longer," said the admiral, "for i am so desperately hungry, that i shall certainly begin to eat somebody, if you are." "depend upon me." "very well," said henry; "you may depend we will wait here until you come back." the doctor at once hurried from the garden, leaving henry and the admiral to amuse themselves as best they might, with conjectures as to what he was really about, until his return. chapter lxii. the mysterious meeting in the ruin again.--the vampyre's attack upon the constable. [illustration] it is now necessary that we return once more to that mysterious ruin, in the intricacies of which varney, when pursued by the mob, had succeeded in finding a refuge which defied all the exertions which were made for his discovery. our readers must be well aware, that, connected with that ruin, are some secrets of great importance to our story; and we will now, at the solemn hour of midnight, take another glance at what is doing within its recesses. at that solemn hour it is not probable that any one would seek that gloomy place from choice. some lover of the picturesque certainly might visit it; but such was not the inciting cause of the pilgrimage with those who were soon to stand within its gloomy precincts. other motives dictated their presence in that spot--motives of rapine; peradventure of murder itself. as the neighbouring clocks sounded the hour of twelve, and the faint strokes were borne gently on the wind to that isolated ruin, there might have been seen a tall man standing by the porch of what had once been a large doorway to some portion of the ruin. his form was enveloped in a large cloak, which was of such ample material that he seemed well able to wrap it several times around him, and then leave a considerable portion of it floating idly in the gentle wind. he stood as still, as calm, and as motionless as a statue, for a considerable time, before any degree of impatience began to show itself. then he took from his pocket a large antique watch, the white face of which just enabled him to see what the time was, and, in a voice which had in it some amount of petulance and anger, he said,-"not come yet, and nearly half an hour beyond the time! what can have detained him? this is, indeed, trifling with the most important moments of a man's existence." even as he spoke, he heard, from some distance off, the sound of a short, quick footstep. he bent forwards to listen, and then, in a tone of satisfaction, he said,-"he comes--he comes!" but he who thus waited for some confederate among these dim and old grey ruins, advanced not a step to meet him. on the contrary, such seemed the amount of cold-blooded caution which he possessed, that the nearer the man--who was evidently advancing--got to the place, the further back did he who had preceded him shrink into the shadow of the dim and crumbling walls, which had, for some years now past, seemed to bend to the passing blast, and to be on the point of yielding to the destroying hand of time. and yet, surely he needed not have been so cautious. who was likely, at such an hour as that, to come to the ruins, but one who sought it by appointment? and, moreover, the manner of the advancing man should have been quite sufficient to convince him who waited, that so much caution was unnecessary; but it was a part and parcel of his nature. about three minutes more sufficed to bring the second man to the ruin, and he, at once, and fearlessly, plunged into its recesses. "who comes?" said the first man, in a deep, hollow voice. "he whom you expect," was the reply. "good," he said, and at once he now emerged from his hiding-place, and they stood together in the nearly total darkness with which the place was enshrouded; for the night was a cloudy one, and there appeared not a star in the heavens, to shed its faint light upon the scene below. for a few moments they were both silent, for he who had last arrived had evidently made great exertions to reach the spot, and was breathing laboriously, while he who was there first appeared, from some natural taciturnity of character, to decline opening the conversation. at length the second comer spoke, saying,-"i have made some exertion to get here to my time, and yet i am beyond it, as you are no doubt aware." "yes, yes." "well, such would not have been the case; but yet, i stayed to bring you some news of importance." "indeed!" "it is so. this place, which we have, now for some time had as a quiet and perfectly eligible one of meeting, is about to be invaded by one of those restless, troublesome spirits, who are never happy but when they are contriving something to the annoyance of others who do not interfere with them." "explain yourself more fully." "i will. at a tavern in the town, there has happened some strange scenes of violence, in consequence of the general excitement into which the common people have been thrown upon the dreadful subject of vampyres." "well." "the consequence is, that numerous arrests have taken place, and the places of confinement for offenders against the laws are now full of those whose heated and angry imaginations have induced them to take violent steps to discover the reality or the falsehood of rumours which so much affected them, their wives, and their families, that they feared to lie down to their night's repose." the other laughed a short, hollow, restless sort of laugh, which had not one particle of real mirth in it. "go on--go on," he said. "what did they do?" "immense excesses have been committed; but what made me, first of all, stay beyond my time, was that i overheard a man declare his intentions this night, from twelve till the morning, and for some nights to come, to hold watch and ward for the vampyre." "indeed!" "yes. he did but stay, at the earnest solicitation of his comrades, to take yet another glass, ere he came upon his expedition." "he must be met. the idiot! what business is it of his?" "there are always people who will make everything their business, whether it be so or not." "there are. let us retire further into the recesses of the ruin, and there consider as well what is to be done regarding more important affairs, as with this rash intruder here." they both walked for some twenty paces, or so, right into the ruin, and then he who had been there first, said, suddenly, to his companion,-"i am annoyed, although the feeling reaches no further than annoyance, for i have a natural love of mischief, to think that my reputation has spread so widely, and made so much noise." "your reputation as a vampyre, sir francis varney, you mean?" "yes; but there is no occasion for you to utter my name aloud, even here where we are alone together." "it came out unawares." "unawares! can it be possible that you have so little command over yourself as to allow a name to come from your lips unawares?" "sometimes." "i am surprised." "well, it cannot be helped. what do you now propose to do?" "nay, you are my privy councillor. have you no deep-laid, artful project in hand? can you not plan and arrange something which may yet have the effect of accomplishing what at first seemed so very simple, but which has, from one unfortunate circumstance and another, become full of difficulty and pregnant with all sorts of dangers?" "i must confess i have no plan." "i listen with astonishment." "nay, now, you are jesting." "when did you ever hear of me jesting?" "not often, i admit. but you have a fertile genius, and i have always, myself, found it easier to be the executive than to plan an elaborate course of action for others." "then you throw it all on me?" "i throw a weight, naturally enough, upon the shoulders which i think the best adapted to sustain it." "be it so, then--be it so." "you are, i presume, from what you say, provided with a scheme of action which shall present better hopes of success, at less risk, i hope. look what great danger we have already passed through." "yes, we have." "i pray you avoid that in the next campaign." "it is not the danger that annoys and troubles me, but it is that, notwithstanding it, the object is as far off as ever from being attained." "and not only so, but, as is invariably the case under such circumstances, we have made it more difficult of execution because we have put those upon their guard thoroughly who are the most likely to oppose us." "we have--we have." "and placed the probability of success afar off indeed." "and yet i have set my life upon the cast, and i will stand the hazard. i tell you i will accomplish this object, or i will perish in the attempt." "you are too enthusiastic." "not at all. nothing has been ever done, the execution of which was difficult, without enthusiasm. i will do what i intend, or bannerworth hall shall become a heap of ruins, where fire shall do its worst work of devastation, and i will myself find a grave in the midst." "well, i quarrel with no man for chalking out the course he intends to pursue; but what do you mean to do with the prisoner below here?" "kill him." "what?" "i say kill him. do you not understand me?" "i do, indeed." "when everything else is secured, and when the whole of that which i so much court, and which i will have, is in my possession, i will take his life, or you shall. ay, you are just the man for such a deed. a smooth-faced, specious sort of roan are you, and you like not danger. there will be none in taking the life of a man who is chained to the floor of a dungeon." "i know not why," said the other, "you take a pleasure on this particular night, of all others, in saying all you can which you think will be offensive to me." "now, how you wrong me. this is the reward of confidence." "i don't want such confidence." "why, you surely don't want me to flatter you." "no; but--" "psha! hark you. that admiral is the great stumbling-block in my way. i should ere this have had undisturbed possession of bannerworth hall but for him. he must be got out of the way somehow." "a short time will tire him out of watching. he is one of those men of impulse who soon become wearied of inaction." "ay, and then the bannerworths return to the hall." "it may be so." "i am certain of it. we have been out-generalled in this matter, although i grant we did all that men could do to give us success." "in what way would you get rid of this troublesome admiral?" "i scarcely know. a letter from his nephew might, if well put together, get him to london." "i doubt it. i hate him mortally. he has offended me more than once most grievously." "i know it. he saw through you." "i do not give him so much credit. he is a suspicious man, and a vain and a jealous one." "and yet he saw through you. now, listen to me. you are completely at fault, and have no plan of operations whatever in your mind. what i want you to do is, to disappear from the neighbourhood for a time, and so will i. as for our prisoner here below, i cannot see what else can be done with him than--than--" "than what? do you hesitate?" "i do." "then what is it you were about to say?" "i cannot but feel that all we have done hitherto, as regards this young prisoner of ours, has failed. he has, with a determined obstinacy, set at naught, as well you know, all threats." "he has." "he has refused to do one act which could in any way aid me in my objects. in fact, from the first to the last, he has been nothing but an expense and an encumbrance to us both." "all that is strictly true." "and yet, although you, as well as i, know of a marvellously ready way of getting rid of such encumbrances, i must own, that i shrink with more than a feeling of reluctance from the murder of the youth." "you contemplated it then?" asked the other. "no; i cannot be said to have contemplated it. that is not the proper sort of expression to use." "what is then?" "to contemplate a deed seems to me to have some close connexion to the wish to do it." "and you have no such wish?" "i have no such wish, and what is more i will not do it." "then that is sufficient; and the only question that remains for you to confide, is, what you will do. it is far easier in all enterprises to decide upon what we will not do, than upon what we will. for my own part i must say that i can perceive no mode of extricating ourselves from this involvement with anything like safety." "then it must be done with something like danger." "as you please." "you say so, and your words bear a clear enough signification; but from your tone i can guess how much you are dissatisfied with the aspect of affairs." "dissatisfied!" "yes; i say, dissatisfied. be frank, and own that which it is in vain to conceal from me. i know you too well; arch hypocrite as you are, and fully capable of easily deceiving many, you cannot deceive me." "i really cannot understand you." "then i will take care that you shall." "how?" "listen. i will not have the life of charles holland taken." "who wishes to take it?" "you." "there, indeed, you wrong me. unless you yourself thought that such an act was imperatively called for by the state of affairs, do you think that i would needlessly bring down upon my head the odium as well as the danger of such a deed? no, no. let him live, if you are willing; he may live a thousand years for all i care." "'tis well. i am, mark me, not only willing, but i am determined that he shall live so far as we are concerned. i can respect the courage that, even when he considered that his life was at stake, enabled him to say no to a proposal which was cowardly and dishonourable, although it went far to the defeat of my own plans and has involved me in much trouble." "hush! hush!" "what is it?" "i fancy i hear a footstep." "indeed; that were a novelty in such a place as this." "and yet not more than i expected. have you forgotten what i told you when i reached here to-night after the appointed hour?" "truly; i had for the moment. do you think then that the footstep which now meets our ears, is that of the adventurer who boasted that he could keep watch for the vampyre?" "in faith do i. what is to be done with such a meddling fool?" "he ought certainly to be taught not to be so fond of interfering with other people's affairs." "certainly." "perchance the lesson will not be wholly thrown away upon others. it may be worth while to take some trouble with this poor valiant fellow, and let him spread his news so as to stop any one else from being equally venturous and troublesome." "a good thought." "shall it be done?" "yes; if you will arrange that which shall accomplish such a result." "be it so. the moon rises soon." "it does." "ah, already i fancy i see a brightening of the air as if the mellow radiance of the queen of night were already quietly diffusing itself throughout the realms of space. come further within the ruins." they both walked further among the crumbling walls and fragments of columns with which the place abounded. as they did so they paused now and then to listen, and more than once they both heard plainly the sound of certain footsteps immediately outside the once handsome and spacious building. varney, the vampyre, who had been holding this conversation with no other than marchdale, smiled as he, in a whispered voice, told the latter what to do in order to frighten away from the place the foolhardy man who thought that, by himself, he should be able to accomplish anything against the vampyre. it was, indeed, a hair-brained expedition, for whether sir francis varney was really so awful and preternatural a being as so many concurrent circumstances would seem to proclaim, or not, he was not a likely being to allow himself to be conquered by anyone individual, let his powers or his courage be what they might. what induced this man to become so ventursome we shall now proceed to relate, as well as what kind of reception he got in the old ruins, which, since the mysterious disappearance of sir francis varney within their recesses, had possessed so increased a share of interest and attracted so much popular attention and speculation. chapter lxiii. the guests at the inn, and the story of the dead uncle. [illustration] as had been truly stated by mr. marchdale, who now stands out in his true colours to the reader as the confidant and abettor of sir francis varney, there had assembled on that evening a curious and a gossipping party at the inn where such dreadful and such riotous proceedings had taken place, which, in their proper place, we have already duly and at length recorded. it was not very likely that, on that evening, or for many and many an evening to come, the conversation in the parlour of the inn would be upon any other subject than that of the vampyre. indeed, the strange, mysterious, and horrible circumstances which had occurred, bade fair to be gossipping stock in trade for many a year. never before had a subject presenting so many curious features arisen. never, within the memory of that personage who is supposed to know everything, had there occurred any circumstance in the county, or set of circumstances, which afforded such abundant scope for conjecture and speculation. everybody might have his individual opinion, and be just as likely to be right as his neighbours; and the beauty of the affair was, that such was the interest of the subject itself, that there was sure to be a kind of reflected interest with every surmise that at all bore upon it. [illustration] on this particular night, when marchdale was prowling about, gathering what news he could, in order that he might carry it to the vampyre, a more than usually strong muster of the gossips of the town took place. indeed, all of any note in the talking way were there, with the exception of one, and he was in the county gaol, being one of the prisoners apprehended by the military when they made the successful attack upon the lumber-room of the inn, after the dreadful desecration of the dead which had taken place. the landlord of the inn was likely to make a good thing of it, for talking makes people thirsty; and he began to consider that a vampyre about once a-year would be no bad thing for the blue lion. "it's shocking," said one of the guests; "it's shocking to think of. only last night, i am quite sure i had such a fright that it added at least ten years to my age." "a fright!" said several. "i believe i speak english--i said a fright." "well, but had it anything to do with the vampyre?" "everything." "oh! do tell us; do tell us all about it. how was it? did he come to you? go on. well, well." the first speaker became immediately a very important personage in the room; and, when he saw that, he became at once a very important personage in his own eyes likewise; and, before he would speak another word, he filled a fresh pipe, and ordered another mug of ale. "it's no use trying to hurry him," said one. "no," he said, "it isn't. i'll tell you in good time what a dreadful circumstance has made me sixty-three to-day, when i was only fifty-three yesterday." "was it very dreadful?" "rather. you wouldn't have survived it at all." "indeed!" "no. now listen. i went to bed at a quarter after eleven, as usual. i didn't notice anything particular in the room." "did you peep under the bed?" "no, i didn't. well, as i was a-saying, to bed i went, and i didn't fasten the door; because, being a very sound sleeper, in case there was a fire, i shouldn't hear a word of it if i did." "no," said another. "i recollect once--" "be so good as allow me to finish what i know, before you begin to recollect anything, if you please. as i was saying, i didn't lock the door, but i went to bed. somehow or another, i did not feel at all comfortable, and i tossed about, first on one side, and then on the other; but it was all in vain; i only got, every moment, more and more fidgetty." "and did you think of the vampyre?" said one of the listeners. "i thought of nothing else till i heard my clock, which is on the landing of the stairs above my bed-room, begin to strike twelve." "ah! i like to hear a clock sound in the night," said one; "it puts one in mind of the rest of the world, and lets one know one isn't all alone." "very good. the striking of the clock i should not at all have objected to; but it was what followed that did the business." "what, what?" "fair and softly; fair and softly. just hand me a light, mr. sprigs, if you please. i'll tell you all, gentlemen, in a moment or two." with the most provoking deliberation, the speaker re-lit his pipe, which had gone out while he was talking, and then, after a few whiffs, to assure himself that its contents had thoroughly ignited, he resumed,-"no sooner had the last sound of it died away, than i heard something on the stairs." "yes, yes." "it was as if some man had given his foot a hard blow against one of the stairs; and he would have needed to have had a heavy boot on to do it. i started up in bed and listened, as you may well suppose, not in the most tranquil state of mind, and then i heard an odd, gnawing sort of noise, and then another dab upon one of the stairs." "how dreadful!" "it was. what to do i knew not, or what to think, except that the vampyre had, by some means, got in at the attic window, and was coming down stairs to my room. that seemed the most likely. then there was another groan, and then another heavy step; and, as they were evidently coming towards my door, i felt accordingly, and got out of bed, not knowing hardly whether i was on my head or my heels, to try and lock my door." "ah, to be sure." "yes; that was all very well, if i could have done it; but a man in such a state of mind as i was in is not a very sharp hand at doing anything. i shook from head to foot. the room was very dark, and i couldn't, for a moment or two, collect my senses sufficient really to know which way the door lay." "what a situation!" "it was. dab, dab, dab, came these horrid footsteps, and there was i groping about the room in an agony. i heard them coming nearer and nearer to my door. another moment, and they must have reached it, when my hand struck against the lock." "what an escape!" "no, it was not." "no?" "no, indeed. the key was on the outside, and you may well guess i was not over and above disposed to open the door to get at it." "no, no." "i felt regularly bewildered, i can tell you; it seemed to me as if the very devil himself was coming down stairs hopping all the way upon one leg." "how terrific!" "i felt my senses almost leaving me; but i did what i could to hold the door shut just as i heard the strange step come from the last stair on to the landing. then there was a horrid sound, and some one began trying the lock of my door." "what a moment!" "yes, i can tell you it was a moment. such a moment as i don't wish to go through again. i held the door as close as i could, and did not speak. i tried to cry out help and murder, but i could not; my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my strength was fast failing me." "horrid, horrid!" "take a drop of ale." "thank you. well, i don't think this went on above two or three minutes, and all the while some one tried might and main to push open the door. my strength left me all at once; i had only time to stagger back a step or two, and then, as the door opened, i fainted away." "well, well!" "ah, you wouldn't have said well, if you had been there, i can tell you." "no; but what become of you. what happened next? how did it end? what was it?" "why, what exactly happened next after i fainted i cannot tell you; but the first thing i saw when i recovered was a candle." "yes, yes." "and then a crowd of people." "ah, ah!" "and then dr. web." "gracious!" "and. mrs. bulk, my housekeeper. i was in my own bed, and when i opened my eyes i heard dr. webb say,-"'he will be better soon. can no one form any idea of what it is all about. some sudden fright surely could alone have produced such an effect.'" "'the lord have mercy upon me!' said i. "upon this everybody who had been called in got round the bed, and wanted to know what had happened; but i said not a word of it; but turning to mrs. bulk, i asked her how it was she found out i had fainted. "'why, sir,' says she, 'i was coming up to bed as softly as i could, because i knew you had gone to rest some time before. the clock was striking twelve, and as i went past it some of my clothes, i suppose, caught the large weight, but it was knocked off, and down the stairs it rolled, going with such a lump from one to the other, and i couldn't catch it because it rolled so fast, that i made sure you would be awakened; so i came down to tell you what it was, and it was some time before i could get your room door open, and when i did i found you out of bed and insensible.'" there was a general look of disappointment when this explanation was given, and one said,-"then it was not the vampire?" "certainly not." "and, after all, only a clock weight." "that's about it." "why didn't you tell us that at first?" "because that would have spoilt the story." there was a general murmur of discontent, and, after a few moments one man said, with some vivacity,-"well, although our friend's vampyre has turned out, after all, to be nothing but a confounded clock-weight, there's no disputing the fact about sir francis varney being a vampyre, and not a clock-weight." "very true--very true." "and what's to be done to rid the town of such a man?" "oh, don't call him a man." "well, a monster." "ah, that's more like. i tell you what, sir, if you had got a light, when you first heard the noise in your room, and gone out to see what it was, you would have spared yourself much fright." "ah, no doubt; it's always easy afterwards to say, if you had done this, and if you had done the other, so and so would have been the effect; but there is something about the hour of midnight that makes men tremble." "well," said one, who had not yet spoken, "i don't see why twelve at night should be a whit more disagreeable than twelve at day." "don't you?" "not i." "now, for instance, many a party of pleasure goes to that old ruin where sir francis varney so unaccountably disappeared in broad daylight. but is there any one here who would go to it alone, and at midnight?" "yes." "who?" "i would." "what! and after what has happened as regards the vampyre in connection with it?" "yes, i would." "i'll bet you twenty shilling you won't." "and i--and i," cried several. "well, gentlemen," said the man, who certainly shewed no signs of fear, "i will go, and not only will i go and take all your bets, but, if i do meet the vampyre, then i'll do my best to take him prisoner." "and when will you go?" "to-night," he cried, and he sprang to his feet; "hark ye all, i don't believe one word about vampyres. i'll go at once; it's getting late, and let any one of you, in order that you may be convinced i have been to the place, give me any article, which i will hide among the ruins; and tell you where to find it to-morrow in broad daylight." "well," said one, "that's fair, tom eccles. here's a handkerchief of mine; i should know it again among a hundred others." "agreed; i'll leave it in the ruins." the wagers were fairly agreed upon; several handkerchiefs were handed to tom eccles; and at eleven o'clock he fairly started, through the murky darkness of the night, to the old ruin where sir francis varney and marchdale were holding their most unholy conference. it is one thing to talk and to accept wagers in the snug parlour of an inn, and another to go alone across a tract of country wrapped in the profound stillness of night to an ancient ruin which, in addition to the natural gloom which might well be supposed to surround it, has superadded associations which are anything but of a pleasant character. tom eccles, as he was named, was one of those individuals who act greatly from impulse. he was certainly not a coward, and, perhaps, really as free from superstition as most persons, but he was human, and consequently he had nerves, and he had likewise an imagination. he went to his house first before he started on his errand to the ruins. it was to get a horse-pistol which he had, and which he duly loaded and placed in his pocket. then he wrapped himself up in a great-coat, and with the air of a man quite determined upon something desperate he left the town. the guests at the inn looked after him as he walked from the door of that friendly establishment, and some of them, as they saw his resolved aspect, began to quake for the amount of the wagers they had laid upon his non-success. however, it was resolved among them, that they would stay until half-past twelve, in the expectation of his return, before they separated. to while away the time, he who had been so facetious about his story of the clock-weight, volunteered to tell what happened to a friend of his who went to take possession of some family property which he became possessed of as heir-at-law to an uncle who had died without a will, having an illegitimate family unprovided for in every shape. "ah! nobody cares for other people's illegitimate children, and, if their parents don't provide for them, why, the workhouse is open for them, just as if they were something different from other people." "so they are; if their parents don't take care of them, and provide for them, nobody else will, as you say, neighbour, except when they have a fitz put to their name, which tells you they are royal bastards, and of course unlike anybody else's." "but go on--let's know all about it; we sha'n't hear what he has got to say at all, at this rate." "well, as i was saying, or about to say, the nephew, as soon as he heard his uncle was dead, comes and claps his seal upon everything in the house." "but, could he do so?" inquired one of the guests. "i don't see what was to hinder him," replied a third. "he could do so, certainly." "but there was a son, and, as i take it, a son's nearer than a nephew any day." "but the son is illegitimate." "legitimate, or illegitimate, a son's a son; don't bother me about distinction of that sort; why, now, there was old weatherbit--" "order, order." "let's hear the tale." "very good, gentlemen, i'll go on, if i ain't to be interrupted; but i'll say this, that an illegitimate son is no son, in the eyes of the law; or at most he's an accident quite, and ain't what he is, and so can't inherit." "well, that's what i call making matters plain," said one of the guests, who took his pipe from his mouth to make room for the remark; "now that is what i likes." "well, as i have proved then," resumed the speaker, "the nephew was the heir, and into the house he would come. a fine affair it was too--the illegitimates looking the colour of sloes; but he knew the law, and would have it put in force." "law's law, you know." "uncommonly true that; and the nephew stuck to it like a cobbler to his last--he said they should go out, and they did go out; and, say what they would about their natural claims, he would not listen to them, but bundled them out and out in a pretty short space of time." "it was trying to them, mind you, to leave the house they had been born in with very different expectations to those which now appeared to be their fate. poor things, they looked ruefully enough, and well they might, for there was a wide world for them, and no prospect of a warm corner. "well, as i was saying, he had them all out and the house clear to himself. "now," said he, "i have an open field and no favour. i don't care for no--eh! what?" "there was a sudden knocking, he thought, the door, and went and opened it, but nothing was to be seen. "oh! i see--somebody next door; and if it wasn't, it don't matter. there's nobody here. i'm alone, and there's plenty of valuables in the house. that is what i call very good company. i wouldn't wish for better." he turned about, looked over room after room, and satisfied himself that he was alone--that the house was empty. at every room he entered he paused to think over the value--what it was worth, and that he was a very fortunate man in having dropped into such a good thing. "ah! there's the old boy's secretary, too--his bureau--there'll be something in that that will amuse me mightily; but i don't think i shall sit up late. he was a rum old man, to say the least of it--a very odd sort of man." with that he gave himself a shrug, as if some very uncomfortable feeling had come over him. "i'll go to bed early, and get some sleep, and then in daylight i can look after these papers. they won't be less interesting in the morning than they are now." there had been some rum stories about the old man, and now the nephew seemed to think he might have let the family sleep on the premises for that night; yes, at that moment he could have found it in his heart to have paid for all the expense of their keep, had it been possible to have had them back to remain the night. but that wasn't possible, for they would not have done it, but sooner have remained in the streets all night than stay there all night, like so many house-dogs, employed by one who stepped in between them and their father's goods, which were their inheritance, but for one trifling circumstance--a mere ceremony. the night came on, and he had lights. true it was he had not been down stairs, only just to have a look. he could not tell what sort of a place it was; there were a good many odd sort of passages, that seemed to end nowhere, and others that did. there were large doors; but they were all locked, and he had the keys; so he didn't mind, but secured all places that were not fastened. he then went up stairs again, and sat down in the room where the bureau was placed. "i'll be bound," said one of the guests, "he was in a bit of a stew, notwithstanding all his brag." "oh! i don't believe," said another, "that anything done that is dangerous, or supposed to be dangerous, by the bravest man, is any way wholly without some uncomfortable feelings. they may not be strong enough to prevent the thing proposed to be done from being done, but they give a disagreeable sensation to the skin." "you have felt it, then?" "ha! ha! ha!" "why, at that time i slept in the churchyard for a wager, i must say i felt cold all over, as if my skin was walking about me in an uncomfortable manner." "but you won your wager?" "i did." "and of course you slept there?" "to be sure i did." "and met with nothing?" "nothing, save a few bumps against the gravestones." "those were hard knocks, i should say." "they were, i assure you; but i lay there, and slept there, and won my wager." "would you do it again?" "no." "and why not?" "because of the rheumatism." "you caught that?" "i did; i would give ten times my wager to get rid of them. i have them very badly." "come, order, order--the tale; let's hear the end of that, since it has begun." "with all my heart. come, neighbour." "well, as i said, he was fidgetty; but yet he was not a man to be very easily frightened or overcome, for he was stout and bold. "when he shut himself up in the room, he took out a bottle of some good wine, and helped himself to drink; it was good old wine, and he soon felt himself warmed and, comforted. he could have faced the enemy. "if one bottle produces such an effect," he muttered, "what will two do?" this was a question that could only be solved by trying it, and this he proceeded to do. but first he drew a brace of long barrelled pistols from his coat pocket, and taking a powder-flask and bullets from his pocket also, he loaded them very carefully. "there," said he, "are my bull-dogs; and rare watch-dogs they are. they never bark but they bite. now, if anybody does come, it will be all up with them. tricks upon travellers ain't a safe game when i have these; and now for the other bottle." he drew the other bottle, and thought, if anything, it was better than the first. he drank it rather quick, to be sure, and then he began to feel sleepy and tired. "i think i shall go to bed," he said; "that is, if i can find my way there, for it does seem to me as if the door was travelling. never mind, it will make a call here again presently, and then i'll get through." so saying he arose. taking the candle in his hand, he walked with a better step than might have been expected under the circumstance. true it was the candle wagged to and fro, and his shadow danced upon the wall; but still, when he got to the bed, he secured his door, put the light in a safe place, threw himself down, and was fast asleep in a few moments, or rather he fell into a doze instantaneously. how long he remained in this state he knew not, but he was suddenly awakened by a loud bang, as though something heavy and flat had fallen upon the floor--such, for instance, as a door, or anything of that sort. he jumped up, rubbed his eyes, and could even then hear the reverberations through the house. "what is that?" he muttered; "what is that?" he listened, and thought he could hear something moving down stairs, and for a moment he was seized with an ague fit; but recollecting, i suppose, that there were some valuables down stairs that were worth fighting for, he carefully extinguished the light that still burned, and softly crept down stairs. when he got down stairs he thought he could hear some one scramble up the kitchen stairs, and then into the room where the bureau was. listening for a moment to ascertain if there were more than one, and then feeling convinced there was not, he followed into the parlour, when he heard the cabinet open by a key. this was a new miracle, and one he could not understand; and then he heard the papers begin to rattle and rustle; so, drawing out one of the pistols, he cocked it, and walked in. the figure instantly began to jump about; it was dressed in white--in grave-clothes. he was terribly nervous, and shook, so he feared to fire the pistol; but at length he did, and the report was followed by a fall and a loud groan. this was very dreadful--very dreadful; but all was quiet, and he lit the candle again, and approached the body to examine it, and ascertain if he knew who it was. a groan came from it. the bureau was open, and the figure clutched firmly a will in his hand. the figure was dressed in grave-clothes, and he started up when he saw the form and features of his own uncle, the man who was dead, who somehow or other had escaped his confinement, and found his way up, here. he held his will firmly; and the nephew was so horrified and stunned, that he threw down the light, and rushed out of the room with a shout of terror, and never returned again. * * * * * the narrator concluded, and one of the guests said,-"and do you really believe it?"--"no, no--to be sure not." "you don't?"--"why should i? my friend was, out of all hand, one of the greatest liars i ever came near; and why, therefore, should i believe him? i don't, on my conscience, believe one word of it." it was now half-past twelve, and, as tom eccles came not back, and the landlord did not feel disposed to draw any more liquor, they left the inn, and retired to their separate houses in a great state of anxiety to know the fate of their respective wagers. chapter lxiv. the vampire in the moonlight.--the false friend. [illustration] part of the distance being accomplished towards the old ruins, tom eccles began to feel that what he had undertaken was not altogether such child's-play as he had at first imagined it to be. somehow or another, with a singular and uncomfortable sort of distinctness, there came across his mind every story that he had remembered of the wild and the wonderful. all the long-since forgotten tales of superstition that in early childhood he had learned, came now back upon him, suggesting to his mind a thousand uncomfortable fancies of the strangest description. it was not likely that when once a man, under such circumstances, got into such a frame of mind, he would readily get out of it again, while he continued surrounded by such scenes as had first called them into existence. no doubt, had he turned about, and faced the inn again instead of the old ruins he would soon have shaken off these "thick coming fancies;" but such a result was no to be expected, so long as he kept on towards the dismal place he had pledged himself to reach. as he traversed meadow after meadow he began to ask himself some questions which he found that he could not answer exactly in a consolatory manner, under the present state of things. among these question was the very pertinent one of,--"it's no argument against vampyres, because i don't see the use of 'em--is it?" this he was compelled to answer as he had put it; and when, in addition, he began to recollect that, without the shadow of a doubt, sir francis varney the supposed vampyre, had been chased across the fields to that very ruin whither he was bound, and had then and there disappeared, he certainly found himself in decidedly uncomfortable and most unpromising situation. "no," he said, "no. hang it, i won't go back now, to be made the laughing-stock of the whole town, which i should be. come what may of it, i will go on as i have commenced; so i shall put on as stout a heart as i can." then, having come to this resolve, he strove might and main to banish from his mind those disagreeable reminiscences that had been oppressing him, to turn his attention to subjects of a different complexion. during the progress of making this endeavour, which was rather futile, he came within sight of the ruins. then he slackened his pace a little, telling himself, with a pardonable self-deceit, that it was common, ordinary caution only, which induced him to do so, and nothing at all in the shape of fear. "time enough," he remarked, "to be afraid, when i see anything to be afraid of, which i don't see as yet. so, as all's right, i may as well put a good face upon the matter." he tried to whistle a tune, but it turned out only a melancholy failure; so he gave that up in despair, and walked on until he got within a hundred yards, or thereabouts, of the old ruins. he thus proceeded, and bending his ear close to the ground, he listened attentively for several minutes. somehow, he fancied that a strange, murmuring sound came to his ears; but he was not quite sure that it proceeded from the ruins, because it was just that sort of sound that might come from a long way off, being mellowed by distance, although, perhaps, loud enough at its source. "well, well," he whispered to himself, "it don't matter much, after all. go i must, and hide the handkerchiefs somewhere, or else be laughed at, besides losing my wages. the former i don't like, and the latter i cannot afford." thus clinching the matter by such knock-down arguments, he walked on until he was almost within the very shadow of the ruins, and, probably, it was at this juncture that his footsteps may have been heard by marchdale and sir francis varney. then he paused again; but all was profoundly still, and he began to think that the strange sort of murmuring noise which he had heard must have come from far off and not at all from any person or persons within the ruins. "let me see," he said to himself; "i have five handkerchiefs to hide among the old ruins somewhere, and the sooner i do so the better, because then i will get away; for, as regards staying here to watch, heaven knows how long, for sir francis varney, i don't intend to do it, upon second thoughts and second thoughts, they say, are generally best." with the most careful footsteps now, as if he were treading upon some fragile substance, which he feared to injure, he advanced until he was fairly within the precincts of the ancient place, which now bore so ill a reputation. he then made to himself much the same remark that sir francis varney had made to marchdale, with respect to the brightening up of the sky, in consequence of its being near the time for the moon to rise from the horizon, and he saw more clearly around him, although he could not find any good place to hide the handkerchiefs in. "i must and will," he said, "hide them securely; for it would, indeed, be remarkably unpleasant, after coming here and winning my wages, to have the proofs that i had done so taken away by some chance visitor to the place." he at length saw a tolerably large stone, which stood, in a slant position, up against one of the walls. its size attracted him. he thought, if his strength was sufficient to move it, that it would be a good thing to do so, and to place the handkerchiefs beneath it; for, at all events, it was so heavy that it could not be kicked aside, and no one, without some sort of motive to do so, beyond the mere love of labour, would set about moving it from its position. "i may go further and fare worse," he said to himself; "so here shall all the handkerchiefs lie, to afford a proof that i have been here." he packed them into a small compass, and then stooped to roll aside the heavy stone, when, at the moment, before he could apply his strength to that purpose, he heard some one, in his immediate neighbourhood, say,--"hist!" this was so sudden, and so utterly unexpected, that he not only ceased his exertions to move the stone, but he nearly fell down in his surprise. "hist--hist!" said the voice again. "what--what," gasped tom eccles--"what are you?"--"hush--hush--hush!" the perspiration broke out upon his brow, and he leaned against the wall for support, as he managed to say, faintly,-"well, hush--what then?"--"hist!" "well, i hear you. where are you?" "here at hand. who are you?" "tom eccles. who are you?"--"a friend. have you seen anything?" "no; i wish i could. i should like to see you if i could."--"i'm coming." there was a slow and cautious footstep, and marchdale advanced to where tom eccles was standing. "come, now," said the latter, when he saw the dusky-looking form stalking towards him; "till i know you better, i'll be obliged to you to keep off. i am well armed. keep your distance, be you friend or foe." "armed!" exclaimed marchdale, and he at once paused.--"yes, i am." "but i am a friend. i have no sort of objection frankly to tell you my errand. i am a friend of the bannerworth family, and have kept watch here now for two nights, in the hopes of meeting with varney, the vampyre." "the deuce you have: and pray what may your name be?"--"marchdale." "if you be mr. marchdale, i know you by sight: for i have seen you with mr. henry bannerworth several times. come out from among the shadows, and let us have a look at you; but, till you do, don't come within arm's length of me. i am not naturally suspicious; but we cannot be too careful." "oh! certainly--certainly. the silver edge of the moon is now just peeping up from the east, and you will be able to see me well, if you step from the shadow of the wall by which you now are." this was a reasonable enough proposition, and tom eccles at once acceded to it, by stepping out boldly into the partial moonlight, which now began to fall upon the open meadows, tinting the grass with a silvery refulgence, and rendering even minute objects visible. the moment he saw marchdale he knew him, and, advancing frankly to him, he said,-"i know you, sir, well." "and what brings you here?"--"a wager for one thing, and a wish to see the vampyre for another." "indeed!"--"yes; i must own i have such a wish, along with a still stronger one, to capture him, if possible; and, as there are now two of us, why may we not do it?" "as for capturing him," said marchdale, "i should prefer shooting him."--"you would?" "i would, indeed. i have seen him once shot down, and he is now, i have no doubt, as well as ever. what were you doing with that huge stone i saw you bending over?"--"i have some handkerchiefs to hide here, as a proof that i have to-night really been to this place." "oh, i will show you a better spot, where there is a crevice in which you can place them with perfect safety. will you walk with me into the ruins?"--"willingly." "it's odd enough," remarked marchdale, after he had shown tom eccles where to hide the handkerchiefs, "that you and i should both be here upon so similar an errand."--"i'm very glad of it. it robs the place of its gloom, and makes it ten times more endurable than it otherwise would be. what do you propose to do if you see the vampyre?" "i shall try a pistol bullet on him. you say you are armed?"--"yes." "with pistols?"--"one. here it is." "a huge weapon; loaded well, of course?"--"oh, yes, i can depend upon it; but i did not intend to use it, unless assailed." "'tis well. what is that?"--"what--what?" "don't you see anything there? come farther back. look--look. at the corner of that wall there i am certain there is the flutter of a human garment."--"there is--there is." "hush! keep close. it must be the vampyre."--"give me my pistol. what are you doing with it?" "only ramming down the charge more firmly for you. take it. if that be varney the vampyre, i shall challenge him to surrender the moment he appears; and if he does not, i will fire upon him, and do you do so likewise."--"well, i--i don't know." "you have scruples?"--"i certainly have." "well, well--don't you fire, then, but leave it to me. there; look--look. now have you any doubt? there he goes; in his cloak. it is--it is----"--"varney, by heavens!" cried tom eccles. [illustration] "surrender!" shouted marchdale. at the instant sir francis varney sprang forward, and made off at a rapid pace across the meadows. "fire after him--fire!" cried marchdale, "or he will escape. my pistol has missed fire. he will be off." on the impulse of the moment, and thus urged by the voice and the gesture of his companion, tom eccles took aim as well as he could, and fired after the retreating form of sir francis varney. his conscience smote him as he heard the report and saw the flash of the large pistol amid the half sort of darkness that was still around. the effect of the shot was then to him painfully apparent. he saw varney stop instantly; then make a vain attempt to stagger forward a little, and finally fall heavily to the earth, with all the appearance of one killed upon the spot. "you have hit him," said marchdale--"you have hit him. bravo!"--"i have--hit him." "yes, a capital shot, by jove!"--"i am very sorry." "sorry! sorry for ridding the world of such a being! what was in your pistol?"--"a couple of slugs." "well, they have made a lodgment in him, that's quite clear. let's go up and finish him at once."--"he seems finished." "i beg your pardon there. when the moonbeams fall upon him he'll get up and walk away as if nothing was the matter."--"will he?" cried tom, with animation--"will he?" "certainly he will."--"thank god for that. now, hark you, mr. marchdale: i should not have fired if you had not at the moment urged me to do so. now, i shall stay and see if the effect which you talk of will ensue; and although it may convince me that he is a vampyre, and that there are such things, he may go off, scot free, for me." "go off?"--"yes; i don't want to have even a vampyre's blood upon my hands." "you are exceedingly delicate."--"perhaps i am; it's my way, though. i have shot him--not you, mind; so, in a manner of speaking, he belongs to me. now, mark, me: i won't have him touched any more to-night, unless you think there's a chance of making a prisoner of him without violence." "there he lies; you can go and make a prisoner of him at once, dead as he is; and if you take him out of the moonlight--" "i understand; he won't recover."--"certainly not." "but, as i want him to recover, that don't suit me."--"well, i cannot but honour your scruples, although i do not actually share in them; but i promise you that, since such is your wish, i will take no steps against the vampyre; but let us come up to him and see if he be really dead, or only badly wounded." tom eccles hang back a little from this proposal; but, upon being urged again by marchdale, and told that he need not go closer than he chose, he consented, and the two of them approached the prostrate form of sir francis varney, which lay upon its face in the faint moonlight, which each moment was gathering strength and power. "he lies upon his face," said marchdale. "will you go and turn him over?"--"who--i? god forbid i should touch him." "well--well, i will. come on." they halted within a couple of yards of the body. tom eccles would not go a step farther; so marchdale advanced alone, and pretended to be, with great repugnance, examining for the wound. "he is quite dead," he said; "but i cannot see the hurt."--"i think he turned his head as i fired." "did he? let us see." marchdale lifted up the head, and disclosed such a mass of clotted-looking blood, that tom eccles at once took to his heels, nor stopped until he was nearly as far off as the ruins. marchdale followed him more slowly, and when he came up to him, he said,-"the slugs have taken effect on his face."--"i know it--i know it. don't tell me." "he looks horrible."--"and i am a murderer." "psha! you look upon this matter too seriously. think of who and what he was, and then you will soon acquit yourself of being open to any such charge."--"i am bewildered, mr. marchdale, and cannot now know whether he be a vampyre or not. if he be not, i have murdered, most unjustifiably, a fellow-creature." "well, but if he be?"--"why, even then i do not know but that i ought to consider myself as guilty. he is one of god's creatures if he were ten times a vampyre." "well, you really do take a serious view of the affair."--"not more serious than it deserves." "and what do you mean to do?"--"i shall remain here to await the result of what you tell me will ensue, if he be a real vampire. even now the moonbeams are full upon him, and each moment increasing in intensity. think you he will recover?" "i do indeed."--"then here will i wait." "since that is you resolve, i will keep you company. we shall easily find some old stone in the ruins which will serve us for a seat, and there at leisure we can keep our eyes upon the dead body, and be able to observe if it make the least movement." this plan was adopted, and they sat down just within the ruins, but in such a place that they had a full view of the dead body, as it appeared to be, of sir francis varney, upon which the sweet moonbeams shone full and clear. tom eccles related how he was incited to come upon his expedition, but he might have spared himself that trouble, as marchdale had been in a retired corner of the inn parlour before he came to his appointment with varney, and heard the business for the most part proposed. half-an-hour, certainly not more, might have elapsed; when suddenly tom eccles uttered an exclamation, partly of surprise and partly of terror,-"he moves; he moves!" he cried. "look at the vampyre's body." marchdale affected to look with an all-absorbing interest, and there was sir francis varney, raising slowly one arm with the hand outstretched towards the moon, as if invoking that luminary to shed more of its beams upon him. then the body moved slowly, like some one writhing in pain, and yet unable to move from the spot on which it lay. from the head to the foot, the whole frame seemed to be convulsed, and now and then as the ghastly object seemed to be gathering more strength, the limbs were thrown out with a rapid and a frightful looking violence. it was truly to one, who might look upon it as a reality and no juggle, a frightful sight to see, and although marchdale, of course, tolerably well preserved his equanimity, only now and then, for appearance sake, affecting to be wonderfully shocked, poor tom eccles was in such a state of horror and fright that he could not, if he would, have flown from the spot, so fascinated was he by the horrible spectacle. this was a state of things which continued for many minutes, and then the body showed evident symptoms of so much returning animation, that it was about to rise from his gory bed and mingle once again with the living. "behold!" said marchdale--"behold!"--"heaven have mercy upon us!" "it is as i said; the beams of the moon have revived the vampyre. you perceive now that there can be no doubt."--"yes, yes, i see him; i see him." sir francis varney now, as if with a great struggle, rose to his feet, and looked up at the bright moon for some moments with such an air and manner that it would not have required any very great amount of imagination to conceive that he was returning to it some sort of thanksgiving for the good that it had done to him. he then seemed for some moments in a state of considerable indecision as to which way he should proceed. he turned round several times. then he advanced a step or two towards the house, but apparently his resolution changed again, and casting his eyes upon the ruins, he at once made towards them. this was too much for the philosophy as well as for the courage of tom eccles. it was all very well to look on at some distance, and observe the wonderful and inexplicable proceedings of the vampyre; but when he showed symptoms of making a nearer acquaintance, it was not to be borne. "why, he's coming here," said tom.--"he seems so indeed," remarked marchdale. "do you mean to stay?"--"i think i shall." "you do, do you?"--"yes, i should much like to question him, and as we are two to one i think we really can have nothing to fear." "do you? i'm altogether of a different opinion. a man who has more lives than a cat don't much mind at what odds he fights. you may stay if you like."--"you do not mean to say that you will desert me?" "i don't see a bit how you call it deserting you; if we had come out together on this adventure, i would have stayed it out with you; but as we came separate and independent, we may as well go back so."--"well, but--" "good morning?" cried tom, and he at once took to his heels towards the town, without staying to pay any attention to the remonstrances of marchdale, who called after him in vain. sir francis varney, probably, had tom eccles not gone off so rapidly, would have yet taken another thought, and gone in another direction than that which led him to the ruins, and tom, if he had had his senses fully about him, as well as all his powers of perception, would have seen that the progress of the vampyre was very slow, while he continued to converse with marchdale, and that it was only when he went off at good speed that sir francis varney likewise thought it prudent to do so. "is he much terrified?" said varney, as he came up to marchdale.--"yes, most completely." "this then, will make a good story in the town."--"it will, indeed, and not a little enhance your reputation." "well, well; it don't much matter now; but if by terrifying people i can purchase for myself anything like immunity for the past, i shall be satisfied."--"i think you may now safely reckon that you have done so. this man who has fled with so much precipitation, had courage." "unquestionably."--"or else he would have shrunk from coming here at all." "true, but his courage and presence arose from his strong doubts as to the existence of such beings as vampyres."--"yes, and now that he is convinced, his bravery has evaporated along with his doubts; and such a tale as he has now to tell, will be found sufficient to convert even the most sceptical in the town." "i hope so."--"and yet it cannot much avail you." "not personally, but i must confess that i am not dead to all human opinions, and i feel some desire of revenge against those dastards who by hundreds have hunted me, burnt down my mansion, and sought my destruction."--"that i do not wonder at." "i would fain leave among them a legacy of fear. such fear as shall haunt them and their children for years to come. i would wish that the name of varney, the vampire, should be a sound of terror for generations."--"it will be so." "it shall."--"and now, then, for a consideration of what is to be done with our prisoner. what is your resolve upon that point?" "i have considered it while i was lying upon yon green sward waiting for the friendly moonbeams to fall upon my face, and it seems to me that there is no sort of resource but to----"--"kill him?" "no, no."--"what then?" "to set him free."--"nay, have you considered the immense hazard of doing so? think again; i pray you think again. i am decidedly of opinion that he more than suspects who are his enemies; and, in that case, you know what consequences would ensue; besides, have we not enough already to encounter? why should we add another young, bold, determined spirit to the band which is already arrayed against us?" "you talk in vain, marchdale; i know to what it all tends; you have a strong desire for the death of this young man."--"no; there you wrong me. i have no desire for his death, for its own sake; but, where great interests are at stake, there must be sacrifices made." "so there must; therefore, i will make a sacrifice, and let this young prisoner free from his dungeon."--"if such be your determination, i know well it is useless to combat with it. when do you purpose giving him his freedom?" "i will not act so heedlessly as that your principles of caution shall blame me. i will attempt to get from him some promise that he will not make himself an active instrument against me. perchance, too, as bannerworth hall, which he is sure to visit, wears such an air of desertion, i may be able to persuade him that the bannerworth family, as well as his uncle, have left this part of the country altogether; so that, without making any inquiry for them about the neighbourhood, he may be induced to leave at once."--"that would be well." "good; your prudence approves of the plan, and therefore it shall be done."--"i am rather inclined to think," said marchdale, with a slight tone of sarcasm, "that if my prudence did not approve of the plan, it would still be done." "most probably," said varney, calmly.--"will you release him to-night?" "it is morning, now, and soon the soft grey light of day will tint the east. i do not think i will release him till sunset again now. has he provision to last him until then?"--"he has." "well, then, two hours after sunset i will come here and release him from his weary bondage, and now i must go to find some place in which to hide my proscribed head. as for bannerworth hall, i will yet have it in my power; i have sworn to do so, i will keep my oath."--"the accomplishment of our purpose, i regret to say, seems as far off as ever." "not so--not so. as i before remarked, we must disappear, for a time, so as to lull suspicion. there will then arise a period when bannerworth hall will neither be watched, as it is now, nor will it be inhabited,--a period before the bannerworth family has made up its mind to go back to it, and when long watching without a result has become too tiresome to be continued at all; then we can at once pursue our object."--"be it so." "and now, marchdale, i want more money."--"more money!" "yes; you know well that i have had large demands of late."--"but i certainly had an impression that you were possessed, by the death of some one, with very ample means." "yes, but there is a means by which all is taken from me. i have no real resources but what are rapidly used up, so i must come upon you again."--"i have already completely crippled myself as regards money matters in this enterprise, and i do certainly hope that the fruits will not be far distant. if they be much longer delayed, i shall really not know what to do. however, come to the lodge where you have been staying, and then i will give you, to the extent of my ability, whatever sum you think your present exigencies require." "come on, then, at once. i would certainly, of course, rather leave this place now, before daybreak. come on, i say, come on." sir francis varney and marchdale walked for some time in silence across the meadows. it was evident that there was not between these associates the very best of feelings. marchdale was always smarting under an assumption of authority over him, on the part of sir francis varney, while the latter scarcely cared to conceal any portion of the contempt with which he regarded his hypocritical companion. some very strong band of union, indeed, must surely bind these two strange persons together! it must be something of a more than common nature which induces marchdale not only to obey the behests of his mysterious companion, but to supply him so readily with money as we perceive he promises to do. and, as regards varney, the vampyre, he, too, must have some great object in view to induce him to run such a world of risk, and take so much trouble as he was doing with the bannerworth family. what his object is, and what is the object of marchdale, will, now that we have progressed so far in our story, soon appear, and then much that is perfectly inexplicable, will become clear and distinct, and we shall find that some strong human motives are at the bottom of it all. chapter lxv. varney's visit to the dungeon of the lonely prisoner in the ruins. [illustration] evident it was that marchdale was not near so scrupulous as sir francis varney, in what he chose to do. he would, without hesitation, have sacrificed the life of that prisoner in the lonely dungeon, whom it would be an insult to the understanding of our readers, not to presume that they had, long ere this, established in their minds to be charles holland. his own safety seemed to be the paramount consideration with marchdale, and it was evident that he cared for nothing in comparison with that object. it says much, however, for sir francis varney, that he did not give in to such a blood-thirsty feeling, but rather chose to set the prisoner free, and run all the chances of the danger to which he might expose himself by such a course of conduct, than to insure safety, comparatively, by his destruction. sir francis varney is evidently a character of strangely mixed feelings. it is quite evident that he has some great object in view, which he wishes to accomplish almost at any risk; but it is equally evident, at the same time, that he wishes to do so with the least possible injury to others, or else he would never have behaved as he had done in his interview with the beautiful and persecuted flora bannerworth, or now suggested the idea of setting charles holland free from the dreary dungeon in which he had been so long confined. we are always anxious and willing to give every one credit for the good that is in them; and, hence, we are pleased to find that sir francis varney, despite his singular, and apparently preternatural capabilities, has something sufficiently human about his mind and feelings, to induce him to do as little injury as possible to others in the pursuit of his own objects. of the two, vampyre as he is, we prefer him much to the despicable and hypocritical, marchdale, who, under the pretence of being the friend of the bannerworth family, would freely have inflicted upon them the most deadly injuries. it was quite clear that he was most dreadfully disappointed that sir francis varney, would not permit him to take the life of charles holland, and it was with a gloomy and dissatisfied air that he left the ruins to proceed towards the town, after what we may almost term the altercation he had had with varney the vampyre upon that subject. it must not be supposed that sir francis varney, however, was blind to the danger which must inevitably accrue from permitting charles holland once more to obtain his liberty. what the latter would be able to state would be more than sufficient to convince the bannerworths, and all interested in their fortunes, that something was going on of a character, which, however, supernatural it might seem to be, still seemed to have some human and ordinary objects for its ends. sir francis varney thought over all this before he proceeded, according to his promise, to the dungeon of the prisoner; but it would seem as if there was considerable difficulty, even to an individual of his long practice in all kinds of chicanery and deceit, in arriving at any satisfactory conclusion, as to a means of making charles holland's release a matter of less danger to himself, than it would be likely to be, if, unfettered by obligation, he was at once set free. at the solemn hour of midnight, while all was still, that is, to say, on the night succeeding the one, on which he had had the interview with marchdale, we have recorded, sir francis varney alone sought the silent ruins. he was attired, as usual, in his huge cloak, and, indeed, the chilly air of the evening warranted such protection against its numerous discomforts. had any one seen him, however, that evening, they would have observed an air of great doubt, and irresolution upon his brow, as if he were struggling with some impulses which he found it extremely difficult to restrain. "i know well," he muttered, as he walked among the shadow of the ruins, "that marchdale's reasoning is coldly and horribly correct, when he says that there is danger in setting this youth free; but, i am about to leave this place, and not to show myself for some time, and i cannot reconcile myself to inflicting upon him the horror of a death by starvation, which must ensue." it was a night of more than usual dullness, and, as sir francis varney removed the massy stone, which hid the narrow and tortuous entrance to the dungeons, a chilly feeling crept over him, and he could not help supposing, that even then marchdale might have played him false, and neglected to supply the prisoner food, according to his promise. hastily he descended to the dungeons, and with a step, which had in it far less of caution, than had usually characterised his proceedings, he proceeded onwards until he reached that particular dungeon, in which our young friend, to whom we wished so well, had been so long confined from the beautiful and cheering light of day, and from all that his heart's best affections most cling to. "speak," said sir francis varney, as he entered the dungeon--"if the occupant of this dreary place live, let him answer one who is as much his friend as he has been his enemy." "i have no friend," said charles holland, faintly; "unless it be one who would come and restore me to liberty." "and how know you that i am not he?" "your voice sounds like that of one of my persecutors. why do you not place the climax to your injuries by at once taking away life. i should be better pleased that you would do so, than that i should wear out the useless struggle of existence in so dreary and wretched an abode as this." "young man," said sir francis varney, "i have come to you on a greater errand of mercy than, probably, you will ever give me credit for. there is one who would too readily have granted your present request, and who would at once have taken that life of which you profess to be so wearied; but which may yet present to you some of its sunniest and most beautiful aspects." "your tones are friendly," said charles; "but yet i dread some new deception. that you are one of those who consigned me by stratagem, and by brute force, to this place of durance, i am perfectly well assured, and, therefore, any good that may be promised by you, presents itself to me in a very doubtful character." "i cannot be surprised," said sir francis varney, "at such sentiments arising from your lips; but, nevertheless, i am inclined to save you. you have been detained here because it was supposed by being so, a particular object would be best obtained by your absence. that object, however has failed, notwithstanding, and i do not feel further inclined to protract your sufferings. have you any guess as to the parties who have thus confined you?"--"i am unaccustomed to dissemble, and, therefore i will say at once that i have a guess." "in which way does it tend?"-"against sir francis varney, called the vampyre." "does it not strike you that this may be a dangerous candour?"--"it may, or it may not be; i cannot help it. i know i am at the mercy of my foes, and i do not believe that anything i can say or do will make my situation worse or better." "you are much mistaken there. in other hands than mine, it might make it much worse; but it happens to be one of my weaknesses, that i am charged with candour, and that i admire boldness of disposition."--"indeed! and yet can behave in the manner you have done towards me." "yes. there are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. i am the more encouraged to set you free, because, if i procure from you a promise, which i intend to attempt, i am inclined to believe that you will keep it."--"i shall assuredly keep whatever promise i may make. propound your conditions, and if they be such as honour and honesty will permit me to accede to, i will do so willingly and at once. heaven knows i am weary enough of this miserable imprisonment." "will you promise me then, if i set you free, not to mention your suspicions that it is to sir francis varney you owe this ill turn, and not to attempt any act of vengeance against him as a retaliation for it."--"i cannot promise so much as that. freedom, indeed, would be a poor boon, if i were not permitted freely to converse of some of the circumstances connected with my captivity." "you object?"--"i do to the former of your propositions, but not to the latter. i will promise not to go at all out of my way to execute any vengeance upon you; but i will not promise that i will not communicate the circumstances of my forced absence from them, to those friends whose opinion i so much value, and to return to whom is almost as dear to me as liberty itself." sir francis varney was silent for a few moments, and then he said, in a tone of deep solemnity,-"there are ninety-nine persons out of a hundred who would take your life for the independence of your tongue; but i am as the hundredth one, who looks with a benevolent eye at your proceedings. will you promise me, if i remove the fetters which now bind your limbs, that you will make no personal attack upon me; for i am weary of personal contention, and i have no disposition to endure it. will you make me this promise?"--"i promise?"--"i will." without another word, but trusting implicitly to the promise which had been given to him, sir francis varney produced a small key from his pocket, and unlocked with it a padlock which confined the chains about the prisoner. with ease, charles holland was then enabled to shake them off, and then, for the first time, for some weeks, he rose to his feet, and felt all the exquisite relief of being comparatively free from bondage. "this is delightful, indeed," he said. "it is," said sir francis varney--"it is but a foretaste of the happiness you will enjoy when you are entirely free. you see that i have trusted you." "you have trusted me as you might trust me, and you perceive that i have kept my word." "you have; and since you decline to make me the promise which i would fain have from you, to the effect that you would not mention me as one of the authors of your calamity, i must trust to your honour not to attempt revenge for what you have suffered." "that i will promise. there can be but little difficulty to any generous mind in giving up such a feeling. in consequence of your sparing me what you might still further have inflicted, i will let the past rest, and as if it had never happened really to me; and speak of it to others, but as a circumstance which i wish not to revert to, but prefer should be buried in oblivion." "it is well; and now i have a request to make of you, which, perhaps, you will consider the hardest of all." "name it. i feel myself bound to a considerable extent to comply with whatever you may demand of me, that is not contrary to honourable principle." "then it is this, that, comparatively free as you are, and in a condition, as you are, to assert your own freedom, you will not do so hastily, or for a considerable period; in fact, i wish and expect that you should wait yet awhile, until it shall suit me to say that it is my pleasure that you shall be free." "that is, indeed, a hard condition to man who feels, as you yourself remark, that he can assert his freedom. it is one which i have still a hope you will not persevere in. "nay, young man, i think that i have treated you with generosity, to make you feel that i am not the worst of foes you could have had. all i require of you is, that you should wait here for about an hour. it is now nearly one o'clock; will you wait until you hear it strike two before you actually make a movement to leave this place?" charles holland hesitated for some moments, and then he said,-"do not fancy that i am not one who appreciates the singular trust you have reposed in me; and, however repugnant to me it may be to remain here, a voluntary prisoner, i am inclined to do so, if it be but to convince you that the trust you have reposed in me is not in vain, and that i can behave with equal generosity to you as you can to me." "be it so," said sir francis varney; "i shall leave you with a full reliance that you will keep your word; and now, farewell. when you think of me, fancy me rather one unfortunate than criminal, and tell yourself that even varney the vampyre had some traits in his character, which, although they might not raise your esteem, at all events did not loudly call for your reprobation." "i shall do so. oh! flora, flora, i shall look upon you once again, after believing and thinking that i had bidden you a long and last adieu. my own beautiful flora, it is joy indeed to think that i shall look upon that face again, which, to my perception, is full of all the majesty of loveliness." sir francis varney looked coldly on while charles uttered this enthusiastic speech. "remember," he said, "till two o'clock;" and he walked towards the door of the dungeon. "you will have no difficulty in finding your way out from this place. doubtless you already perceive the entrance by which i gained admission." "had i been free," said charles, "and had the use of my limbs, i should, long ere this, have worked my way to life and liberty." "'tis well. goodnight." varney walked from the place, and just closed the door behind him. with a slow and stately step he left the ruins, and charles holland found himself once more alone, but in a much more enviable condition than for many weeks he could have called his. chapter lxvi. flora bannerworth's apparent inconsistency.--the admiral's circumstances and advice.--mr. chillingworth's mysterious absence. [illustration] for a brief space let us return to flora bannerworth, who had suffered so much on account of her affections, as well as on account of the mysterious attack that had been made upon her by the reputed vampyre. after leaving bannerworth hall for a short time, she seemed to recover her spirits; but this was a state of things which did not last, and only showed how fallacious it was to expect that, after the grievous things that had happened, she would rapidly recover her equanimity. it is said, by learned physiologists, that two bodily pains cannot endure at the same space of time in the system; and, whether it be so or not, is a question concerning which it would be foreign to the nature of our work, to enter into anything like an elaborate disquisition. certainly, however, so far as flora bannerworth was concerned, she seemed inclined to show that, mentally, the observation was a true one, for that, now she became released from a continued dread of the visits of the vampyre, her mind would, with more painful interest than ever, recur to the melancholy condition, probably, of charles holland, if he were alive, and to soul-harrowing reflections concerning him, if he were dead. she could not, and she did not, believe, for one moment, that his desertion of her had been of a voluntary character. she knew, or fancied she knew, him by far too well for that; and she more than once expressed her opinion, to the effect that she was perfectly convinced his disappearance was a part and parcel of all that train of circumstances which had so recently occurred, and produced such a world of unhappiness to her, as well as to the whole of the bannerworth family. "if he had never loved me," she said to her brother henry, "he would have been alive and well; but he has fallen a victim to the truth of a passion, and to the constancy of an affection which, to my dying day, i will believe in." now that mr. marchdale had left the place there was no one to dispute this proposition with flora, for all, as well as she, were fully inclined to think well of charles holland. it was on the very morning which preceded that evening when sir francis varney called upon charles holland in the manner we have related, with the gratifying news that, upon certain conditions, he might be released, that flora bannerworth, when the admiral came to see them, spoke to him of charles holland, saying,-"now, sir, that i am away from bannerworth hall, i do not, and cannot feel satisfied; for the thought that charles may eventually come back, and seek us there, still haunts me. fancy him, sir, doing so, and seeing the place completely deserted." "well, there's something in that," said the admiral; "but, however, he's hardly such a goose, if it were so to happen, to give up the chase--he'd find us out somehow." "you think he would, sir? or, do you not think that despair would seize upon him, and that, fancying we had all left the spot for ever, he might likewise do so; so that we should lose him more effectually than we have done at present?" "no; hardly," said the admiral; "he couldn't be such a goose as that. why, when i was of his age, if i had secured the affections of a young girl like you, i'd have gone over all the world, but i'd have found out where she was; and what i mean to say is, if he's half such a goose as you think him, he deserves to lose you." "did you not tell me something, sir, of mr. chillingworth talking of taking possession of the hall for a brief space of time?" "why, yes, i did; and i expect he is there now; in fact, i'm sure he's there, for he said he would be." "no, he ain't," said jack pringle, at that moment entering the room; "you're wrong again, as you always are, somehow or other." "what, you vagabond, are you here, you mutinous rascal?"--"ay, ay, sir; go on; don't mind me. i wonder what you'd do, sir, if you hadn't somebody like me to go on talking about." "why, you infernal rascal, i wonder what you'd do if you had not an indulgent commander, who puts up even with real mutiny, and says nothing about it. but where have you been? did you go as i directed you, and take some provisions to bannerworth hall?" "yes, i did; but i brought them back again; there's nobody there, and don't seem likely to be, except a dead body." "a dead body! whose body can that be!"--"tom somebody; for i'm d----d if it ain't a great he cat." "you scoundrel, how dare you alarm me in such a way? but do you mean to tell me that you did not see dr. chillingworth at the hall?"--"how could i see him, if he wasn't there?" "but he was there; he said he would be there."--"then he's gone again, for there's nobody there that i know of in the shape of a doctor. i went through every part of the ship--i mean the house--and the deuce a soul could i find; so as it was rather lonely and uncomfortable, i came away again. 'who knows,' thought i, 'but some blessed vampyre or another may come across me.'" "this won't do," said the old admiral, buttoning up his coat to the chin; "bannerworth hall must not be deserted in this way. it is quite clear that sir francis varney and his associates have some particular object in view in getting possession of the place. here, you jack."--"ay, ay, sir." [illustration] "just go back again, and stay at the hall till somebody comes to you. even such a stupid hound as you will be something to scare away unwelcome visitors. go back to the hall, i say. what are you staring at?"--"back to bannerworth hall!" said jack. "what! just where i've come from; all that way off, and nothing to eat, and, what's worse, nothing to drink. i'll see you d----d first." the admiral caught up a table-fork, and made a rush at jack; but henry bannerworth interfered. "no, no," he said, "admiral; no, no--not that. you must recollect that you yourself have given this, no doubt, faithful fellow of your's liberty to do and say a great many things which don't look like good service; but i have no doubt, from what i have seen of his disposition, that he would risk his life rather than, that you should come to any harm." "ay, ay," said jack; "he quite forgets when the bullets were scuttling our nobs off cape ushant, when that big frenchman had hold of him by the _skirf_ of his neck, and began pummelling his head, and the lee scuppers were running with blood, and a bit of joe wiggins's brains had come slap in my eye, while some of jack marling's guts was hanging round my neck like a nosegay, all in consequence of grape-shot--then he didn't say as i was a swab, when i came up, and bored a hole in the frenchman's back with a pike. ay, it's all very well now, when there's peace, and no danger, to call jack pringle a lubberly rascal, and mutinous. i'm blessed if it ain't enough to make an old pair of shoes faint away." "why, you infernal scoundrel," said the admiral, "nothing of the sort ever happened, and you know it. jack, you're no seaman."--"werry good," said jack; "then, if i ain't no seaman, you are what shore-going people calls a jolly fat old humbug." "jack, hold your tongue," said henry bannerworth; "you carry these things too far. you know very well that your master esteems you, and you should not presume too much upon that fact."--"my master!" said jack; "don't call him my master. i never had a master, and don't intend. he's my admiral, if you like; but an english sailor don't like a master." "i tell you what it is, jack," said the admiral; "you've got your good qualities, i admit."--"ay, ay, sir--that's enough; you may as well leave off well while you can." "but i'll just tell you what you resemble more than anything else."--"chew me up! what may that be, sir?" "a french marine."--"a what! a french marine! good-bye. i wouldn't say another word to you, if you was to pay me a dollar a piece. of all the blessed insults rolled into one, this here's the worstest. you might have called me a marine, or you might have called me a frenchman, but to make out that i'm both a marine and a frenchman, d--me, if it isn't enough to make human nature stand on an end! now, i've done with you." "and a good job, too," said the admiral. "i wish i'd thought of it before. you're worse than a third day's ague, or a hot and a cold fever in the tropics."--"very good," said jack; "i only hope providence will have mercy upon you, and keep an eye upon you when i'm gone, otherwise, i wonder what will become of you? it wasn't so when young belinda, who you took off the island of antiggy, in the ingies, jumped overboard, and i went after her in a heavy swell. howsomdever, never mind, you shook hands with me then; and while a bushel of the briny was weeping out of the corner of each of your blinkers, you says, says you,--" "hold!" cried the admiral, "hold! i know what i said, jack. it's cut a fathom deep in my memory. give us your fist, jack, and--and--"--"hold yourself," said jack; "i know what you're going to say, and i won't hear you say it--so there's an end of it. lor bless you! i knows you. i ain't a going to leave you. don't be afraid; i only works you up, and works you down again, just to see if there's any of that old spirit in you when we was aboard the victory. don't you recollect, admiral?" "yes--yes; enough, jack."--"why, let me see--that was a matter of forty years ago, nearly, when i was a youngster." "there--there, jack--that'll do. you bring the events of other years fresh upon my memory. peace--peace. i have not forgotten; but still, to hear what you know of them, if recited, would give the old man a pang."--"a pang," said jack; "i suppose that's some dictionary word for a punch in the eye. that would be mutiny with a vengeance; so i'm off." "go, go."--"i'm a going; and just to please you, i'll go to the hall, so you sha'n't say that you told me to do anything that i didn't." away went jack, whistling an air, that might have been popular when he and the admiral were young, and henry bannerworth could not but remark that an appearance of great sadness came over the old man, when jack was gone. "i fear, sir," he said, "that heedless sailor has touched upon some episode in your existence, the wounds of which are still fresh enough to give you pain."--"it is so," said the old admiral; "just look at me, now. do i look like the hero of a romantic love story?" "not exactly, i admit."--"well, notwithstanding that, jack pringle has touched a chord that vibrates in my heart yet," replied the admiral. "have you any objection to tell me of it?"--"none, whatever; and perhaps, by the time i have done, the doctor may have found his way back again, or jack may bring us some news of him. so here goes for a short, but a true yarn." chapter lxvii. the admiral's story of the beautiful belinda. [illustration] just at this moment flora bannerworth stole into the room from whence she had departed a short time since; but when she saw that old admiral bell was looking so exceedingly serious, and apparently about to address henry upon some very important subject, she would have retired, but he turned towards her, and said,-"my story, my dear, i've no objection to your hearing, and, like all women folks, a love story never comes amiss to you; so you may as well stay and hear it."--"a love story," said flora; "you tell a love story, sir?" "yes, my dear, and not only tell it, but be the hero of it, likewise; ain't you astonished?"--"i am, indeed." "well, you'll be more astonished then before i've done; so just listen. as jack pringle says, it was the matter of about somewhere forty years ago, that i was in command of the victory frigate, which was placed upon the west indian station, during a war then raging, for the protection of our ports and harbours in that vicinity. we'd not a strong force in that quarter, therefore, i had to cut about from place to place, and do the best i could. after a time, though, i rather think that we frightened off the enemy, during which time i chiefly anchored off the island of antigua, and was hospitably received at the house of a planter, of the name of marchant, who, in fact, made his house my home, and introduced me to all the _elite_ of the society of the island. ah! miss flora, you've no idea, to look at me now, what i was then; i held a captain's commission, and was nearly the youngest man in the service, with such a rank. i was as slender, ay, as a dancing master. these withered and bleached locks were black as the raven's plume. ay, ay, but no matter: the planter had a daughter." "and you loved her?" said flora--"loved her," said the old man, and the flush of youthful animation come to his countenance; "loved her, do you say! i adored her; i worshipped her; she was to me--but what a d----d old fool, i am; we'll skip that if you please." "nay, nay," said flora; "that is what i want to hear."--"i haven't the least doubt of that, in the world; but that's just what you won't hear; none of your nonsense, miss flora; the old man may be a fool, but he isn't quite an idiot." "he's neither," said flora; "true feelings can never disgrace any one."--"perhaps not; but, however, to make a long story short, somehow or other, one day, belinda was sitting alone, and i rudely pounced upon her; i rather think then i must have said something that i oughtn't to have said, for it took her so aback; i was forced, somehow or other, to hold her up, and then i--i--yes; i'm sure i kissed her; and so, i told her i loved her; and then, what do you think she said?" "why," said flora, "that she reciprocated the passion."--"d--n my rags," said jack, who at the moment came into the room, "i suppose that's the name of some shell or other." "you here, you villain!" said the admiral; "i thought you were gone."--"so i was," said jack, "but i came back for my hat, you see." away he went again, and the admiral resumed his story. "well, miss flora," he said, "you haven't made a good guess, as she didn't say anything at all, she only clung to me like some wild bird to its mother's breast, and cried as if her heart would break."--"indeed!" "yes; i didn't know the cause of her emotion, but at last i got it out of her."--"what was it?" "oh, a mere trifle; she was already married to somebody else, that's all; some d----d fellow, who had gone trading about the islands, a fellow she didn't care a straw about, that was old enough to be her father." "and you left her?"--"no, i didn't. guess again. i was a mad-headed youngster. i only felt--i didn't think. i persuaded her to come away with me. i took her aboard my ship, and set sail with her. a few weeks flew like hours; but one day we were hailed by a vessel, and when we neared her, she manned a boat and brought a letter on board, addressed to belinda. it was from her father, written in his last moments. it began with a curse and ended with a blessing. there was a postscript in another hand, to say the old man died of grief. she read it by my side on the quarter-deck. it dropped from her grasp, and she plunged into the sea. jack pringle went after her; but i never saw her again." "gracious heavens! what a tragedy!"--"yes, tolerable," said the old man. he arose and took his hat and placed it on his head. he gave the crown of it a blow that sent it nearly over his eyes. he thrust his hands deep into his breeches pockets, clenched his teeth, and muttered something inaudible as he strode from the apartment. "who would have thought, henry," said flora, "that such a man as admiral bell had been the hero of such an adventure?"--"ay, who indeed; but it shows that we never can judge from appearances, flora; and that those who seem to us the most heart-whole may have experienced the wildest vicissitudes of passion." "and we must remember, likewise, that this was forty years ago, henry, which makes a material difference in the state of the case as regards admiral bell." "it does indeed--more than half a lifetime; and yet how evident it was that his old feelings clung to him. i can well imagine the many hours of bitter regret which the memory of this his lost love must have given him." "true--true. i can feel something for him; for have i not lost one who loved me--a worse loss, too, than that which admiral bell relates; for am i not a prey to all the horrors of uncertainty? whereas he knew the worst, and that, at all events, death had claimed its victim, leaving nothing to conjecture in the shape of suffering, so that the mind had nothing to do but to recover slowly, but surely, as it would from the shock which it had received." "that is worse than you, flora; but rather would i have you cherish hope of soon beholding charles holland, probably alive and well, than fancy any great disaster has come over him." "i will endeavour to do so," replied flora. "i long to hear what has become of dr. chillingworth. his disappearance is most singular; for i fully suspected that he had some particular object in view in getting possession for a short time of bannerworth hall; but now, from jack pringle's account, he appears not to be in it, and, in fact, to have disappeared completely from the sight of all who knew him." "yes," said flora; "but he may have done that, brother, still in furtherance of his object." "it may be so, and i will hope that it is so. keep yourself close, sister, and see no one, while i proceed to his house to inquire if they have heard anything of him. i will return soon, be assured; and, in the meantime, should you see my brother, tell him i shall be at home in an hour or so, and not to leave the cottage; for it is more than likely that the admiral has gone to bannerworth hall, so that you may not see anything of him for some time." chapter lxviii. marchdale's attempted villany, and the result. [illustration] varney the vampyre left the dungeon of charles holland amid the grey ruins, with a perfect confidence the young man would keep his word, and not attempt to escape from that place until the time had elapsed which he had dictated to him. and well might he have that confidence, for having once given his word that he would remain until he heard the clock strike two from a neighbouring church, charles holland never dreamt for a moment of breaking it. to be sure it was a weary time to wait when liberty appeared before him; but he was the soul of honour, and the least likely man in all the world to infringe in the slightest upon the condition which he had, of his own free will, acceded to. sir francis varney walked rapidly until he came nearly to the outskirts of the town, and then he slackened his pace, proceeding more cautiously, and looking carefully about him, as if he feared to meet any one who might recognise him. he had not proceeded far in this manner, when he became conscious of the cautious figure of a man gliding along in the opposite direction to that which he was taking. a suspicion struck him, from the general appearance, that it was marchdale, and if so he wondered to see him abroad at such a time. still he would not be quite certain; but he hurried forward, so as to meet the advancing figure, and then his suspicions were confirmed; and marchdale, with some confusion in his looks and manners, accosted him. "ah, sir francis varney," he said, "you are out late."-"why, you know i should be out late," said varney, "and you likewise know the errand upon which i was to be out." "oh, i recollect; you were to release your prisoner."-"yes, i was." "and have you done so?"-"oh, no." "oh, indeed. i--i am glad you have taken better thoughts of it. good night--good night; we shall meet to-morrow."-"adieu," said sir francis varney; and he watched the retreating figure of marchdale, and then he added, in a low tone to himself,-"i know his object well. his craven spirit shrinks at the notion, a probable enough one, i will admit, that charles holland has recognised him, and that, if once free, he would denounce him to the bannerworths, holding him up to scorn in his true colours, and bringing down upon his head, perhaps, something more than detestation and contempt. the villain! he is going now to take the life of the man whom he considers chained to the ground. well, well, they must fight it out together. charles holland is sufficiently free to take his own part, although marchdale little thinks that such is the case." marchdale walked on for some little distance, and then he turned and looked after sir francis varney. "indeed!" he said; "so you have not released him to-night, but i know well will do so soon. i do not, for my part, admire this romantic generosity which sets a fox free at the moment that he's the most dangerous. it's all very well to be generous, but it is better to be just first, and that i consider means looking after one's self first. i have a poniard here which will soon put an end to the troubles of the prisoner in his dungeon--its edge is keen and sharp, and will readily find a way to his heart." he walked on quite exultingly and carelessly now, for he had got into the open country, and it was extremely unlikely that he would meet anybody on his road to the ruins. it did not take many minutes, sharp walking now to bring him close to the spot which he intended should become such a scene of treacherous slaughter, and just then he heard from afar off something like the muttering of thunder, as if heaven itself was proclaiming its vengeance against the man who had come out to slay one of its best and noblest creatures. "what is that'" said marchdale, shrinking back a moment; "what is that--an approaching storm? it must be so, for, now i recollect me, the sun set behind a bank of clouds of a fiery redness, and as the evening drew in there was every appearance in the heavens of some ensuing strife of the elements." he listened for a few moments, and fixed his eyes intently in the direction of the horizon from where the muttering sounds had proceeded. he had not long to wait before he saw a bright flash of blue lightning, which for one instant illumined the sky; then by the time he could have counted twelve there came the thunder which the flash preceded, and he felt terribly anxious to complete his enterprize, so that he might get back to the town and be safely housed before the storm, which was evidently approaching, should burst upon him. "it is sweeping on apace," he said; "why did i not come earlier?" even as he spoke he plunged among the recesses of the ruins, and searching about for the old stone which covered the entrance to the dungeon, he was surprised to find it rolled from its place, and the aperture open. "what is the meaning of this?" he said; "how negligent of sir francis varney; or perhaps, after all, he was only jesting with me, and let the prisoner go. if that should be the case, i am foiled indeed; but surely he could not be so full of indiscretion." again came a dazzling flash of lightning, which now, surrounded by the ruins as he was, made him shrink back and cover his eyes for a moment; and then followed a peal of thunder with not half the duration of time between it and the flash which had characterized the previous electric phenomenon. "the storm approaches fast," said marchdale; "i must get my work done quickly, if indeed my victim be here, which i begin seriously to doubt." he descended the intricate winding passage to the vault below, which served the purpose of a dungeon, and when he got very nearly into the depth of its recesses, he called aloud, saying,-"ho! what ho! is there any one here?"--"yes," said charles holland, who fancied it might be his former visitor returned. "have you come to repent of your purpose?" "ah!" said marchdale to himself, "sir francis, after all, has told me the truth--the prisoner is still here." the light from without was not near sufficient to send the least ray into the depths of that dungeon; so that marchdale, when he entered the place, could see nothing but an absolute blackness. it was not so, however, with charles holland, whose eyes had been now so long accustomed to the place that he could see in it as if a dim twilight irradiated it, and he at once, in his visitor, saw his worst foe, and not the man who had comparatively set him free. he saw, too, that the hand of his visitor grasped a weapon, which marchdale thought that, favoured by the darkness, he might carry openly in perfect security. "where are you?" said marchdale; "i cannot see you."--"here!" said charles, "you may feel my grip;" and he sprung upon him in an instant. the attack was so sudden and so utterly unexpected, that marchdale was thrown backwards, and the dagger wrested from his grasp, during the first impulse which charles holland had thrown into his attack. moreover, his head struck with such violence against the earthern floor, that it produced a temporary confusion of his faculties, so that, had charles holland been so inclined, he might, with marchdale's own weapon, have easily taken his life. the young man did, on the impulse of the moment, raise it in his hand, but, on the impulse of another thought, he cast it from him, exclaiming-"no, no! not that; i should be as bad as he, or nearly so. this villain has come to murder me, but yet i will not take his life for the deed. what shall i do with him? ha! a lucky thought--chains!" he dragged marchdale to the identical spot of earth on which he had lain so long; and, as sir francis varney had left the key of the padlock which bound the chains together in it, he, in a few moments, had succeeded in placing the villain marchdale in the same durance from which he had himself shortly since escaped. "remain there," he said, "until some one comes to rescue you. i will not let you starve to death, but i will give you a long fast; and, when i come again, it shall be along with some of the bannerworth family, to show them what a viper they have fostered in their hearts." marchdale was just sufficiently conscious now to feel all the realities of his situation. in vain he attempted to rise from his prostrate position. the chains did their duty, keeping down a villain with the same means that they had held in ignominious confinement a true man. he was in a perfect agony, inasmuch as he considered that he would be allowed to remain there to starve to death, thus achieving for himself a more horrible death than any he had ever thought of inflicting. "villain!" exclaimed charles holland, "you shall there remain; and, let you have what mental sufferings you may, you richly deserve them." he heeded not the cries of marchdale--he heeded not his imprecations any more than he did his prayers; and the arch hypocrite used both in abundance. charles was but too happy once more to look upon the open sky, although it was then in darkness, to heed anything that marchdale, in the agony to which he was now reduced, might feel inclined to say; and, after glancing around him for some few moments, when he was free of the ruins, and inhaling with exquisite delight the free air of the surrounding meadows, he saw, by the twinkling of the lights, in which direction the town lay, and knowing that by taking a line in that path, and then after a time diverging a little to the right, he should come to bannerworth hall, he walked on, never in his whole life probably feeling such an enjoyment of the mere fact of existence as at such a moment as that of exquisite liberty. our readers may with us imagine what it is to taste the free, fresh air of heaven, after being long pent up, as he, charles holland, had been, in a damp, noisome dungeon, teeming with unwholesome exhalations. they may well suppose with what an amount of rapture he now found himself unrestrained in his movements by those galling fetters which had hung for so long a period upon his youthful limbs, and which, not unfrequently in the despair of his heart, he had thought he should surely die in. and last, although not least in his dear esteem, did the rapturous thought of once more looking in the sweet face of her he loved come cross him with a gush of delight. "yes!" he exclaimed, as he quickened his pace; "yes! i shall be able to tell flora bannerworth how well and how truly i love her. i shall be able to tell her that, in my weary and hideous imprisonment, the thought alone of her has supported me." as he neared the hall, he quickened his pace to such an extent, that soon he was forced to pause altogether, as the exertion he had undertaken pretty plainly told him that the imprisonment, scanty diet, and want of exercise, which had been his portion for some time past, had most materially decreased his strength. his limbs trembled, and a profuse perspiration bedewed his brow, although the night was rather cold than otherwise. "i am very weak," he said; "and much i wonder now that i succeeded in overcoming that villain marchdale; who, if i had not done so, would most assuredly have murdered me." and it was a wonder; for marchdale was not an old man, although he might be considered certainly as past the prime of life, and he was of a strong and athletic build. but it was the suddenness of his attack upon him which had given charles holland the great advantage, and had caused the defeat of the ruffian who came bent on one of the most cowardly and dastardly murders that could be committed--namely, upon an unoffending man, whom he supposed to be loaded with chains, and incapable of making the least efficient resistance. charles soon again recovered sufficient breath and strength to proceed towards the hall, and now warned, by the exhaustion which had come over him that he had not really anything like strength enough to allow him to proceed rapidly, he walked with slow and deliberate steps. this mode of proceeding was more favourable to reflection than the wild, rapid one which he had at first adopted, and in all the glowing colours of youthful and ingenious fancy did he depict to himself the surprise and the pleasure that would beam in the countenance of his beloved flora when she should find him once again by her side. of course, he, charles, could know nothing of the contrivances which had been resorted to, and which the reader may lay wholly to the charge of marchdale, to blacken his character, and to make him appear faithless to the love he had professed. had he known this, it is probable that indignation would have added wings to his progress, and he would not have been able to proceed at the leisurely pace he felt that his state of physical weakness dictated to him. and now he saw the topmost portion at bannerworth hall pushing out from amongst the trees with which the ancient pile was so much surrounded, and the sight of the home of his beloved revived him, and quickened the circulation of the warm blood in his veins. "i shall behold her now," he said--"i shall behold her how! a few minutes more, and i shall hold her to my heart--that heart which has been ever hers, and which carried her image enshrined in its deepest recesses, even into the gloom of a dungeon!" but let us, while charles holland is indulging in these delightful anticipations--anticipations which, we regret, in consequence of the departure of the bannerworths from the hall, will not be realized so soon as he supposes--look back upon the discomfited hypocrite and villain, marchdale, who occupies his place in the dungeon of the old ruins. until charles holland actually had left the strange, horrible, and cell-like place, he could scarcely make up his mind that the young man entertained a serious intention of leaving him there. perhaps he did not think any one could be so cruel and so wicked as he himself; for the reader will no doubt recollect that his, marchdale's, counsel to varney, was to leave charles holland to his fate, chained down as he was in the dungeon, and that fate would have been the horrible one of being starved to death in the course of a few days. when now, however, he felt confident that he was deserted--when he heard the sound of charles holland's retreating footsteps slowly dying away in the distance, until not the faintest echo of them reached his ears, he despaired indeed; and the horror he experienced during the succeeding ten minutes, might be considered an ample atonement for some of his crimes. his brain was in a complete whirl; nothing of a tangible nature, but that he was there, chained down, and left to starve to death, came across his intellect. then a kind of madness, for a moment or two, took possession of him; he made a tremendous effort to burst asunder the bands that held him. but it was in vain. the chains--which had been placed upon charles holland during the first few days of his confinement, when he had a little recovered from the effects of the violence which had been committed upon him at the time when he was captured--effectually resisted marchdale. they even cut into his flesh, inflicting upon him some grievous wounds; but that was all he achieved by his great efforts to free himself, so that, after a few moments, bleeding and in great pain, he, with a deep groan, desisted from the fruitless efforts he had better not have commenced. then he remained silent for a time, but it was not the silence of reflection; it was that of exhaustion, and, as such, was not likely to last long; nor did it, for, in the course of another five minutes, he called out loudly. perhaps he thought there might be a remote chance that some one traversing the meadows would hear him; and yet, if he had duly considered the matter, which he was not in a fitting frame of mind to do, he would have recollected that, in choosing a dungeon among the underground vaults of these ruins, he had, by experiment, made certain that no cry, however loud, from where he lay, could reach the upper air. and thus had this villain, by the very precautions which he had himself taken to ensure the safe custody of another, been his own greatest enemy. "help! help! help!" he cried frantically "varney! charles holland! have mercy upon me, and do not leave me here to starve! help, oh, heaven! curses on all your heads--curses! oh, mercy--mercy--mercy!" in suchlike incoherent expressions did he pass some hours, until, what with exhaustion and a raging thirst that came over him, he could not utter another word, but lay the very picture of despair and discomfited malice and wickedness. chapter lxix. flora bannerworth and her mother.--the episode of chivalry. [illustration] gladly we turn from such a man as marchdale to a consideration of the beautiful and accomplished flora bannerworth, to whom we may, without destroying in any way the interest of our plot, predict a much happier destiny than, probably, at that time, she considers as at all likely to be hers. she certainly enjoyed, upon her first removal from bannerworth hall, greater serenity of mind than she had done there; but, as we have already remarked of her, the more her mind was withdrawn, by change of scene, from the horrible considerations which the attack of the vampyre had forced upon her, the more she reverted to the fate of charles holland, which was still shrouded in so much gloom. she would sit and converse with her mother upon that subject until she worked up her feelings to a most uncomfortable pitch of excitement, and then mrs. bannerworth would get her younger brother to join them, who would occasionally read to her some compositions of his own, or of some favourite writer whom he thought would amuse her. [illustration] it was on the very evening when sir francis varney had made up his mind to release charles holland, that young bannerworth read to his sister and his mother the following little chivalric incident, which he told them he had himself collated from authentic sources:-"the knight with the green shield," exclaimed one of a party of men-at-arms, who were drinking together at an ancient hostel, not far from shrewsbury--"the knight with the green shield is as good a knight as ever buckled on a sword, or wore spurs."--"then how comes it he is not one of the victors in the day's tournament?" exclaimed another.--"by the bones of alfred!" said a third, "a man must be judged of by his deserts, and not by the partiality of his friends. that's my opinion, friends."--"and mine, too," said another. "that is all very true, and my opinion would go with yours, too; but not in this instance. though you may accuse me of partiality, yet i am not so; for i have seen some of the victors of to-day by no means forward in the press of battle-men who, i will not say feared danger, but who liked it not so well but they avoided it as much as possible." "ay, marry, and so have i. the reason is, 'tis much easier to face a blunted lance, than one with a spear-head; and a man may practise the one and thrive in it, but not the other; for the best lance in the tournament is not always the best arm in the battle." "and that is the reason of my saying the knight with the green shield was a good knight. i have seen him in the midst of the melee, when men and horses have been hurled to the ground by the shock; there he has behaved himself like a brave knight, and has more than once been noticed for it." "but how canne he to be so easily overthrown to-day? that speaks something."--"his horse is an old one." "so much the better," said another; "he's used to his work, and as cunning as an old man."--"but he has been wounded more than once, and is weakened very much: besides, i saw him lose his footing, else he had overthrown his opponent. "he did not seem distressed about his accident, at all events, but sat contented in the tent."--"he knows well that those who know him will never attribute his misadventure either to want of courage or conduct; moreover, he seems to be one of those who care but little for the opinion of men who care nothing for him." "and he's right. well, dear comrades, the health of green knight, or the knight with a green shield, for that's his name, or the designation he chooses to go by."--"a health to the knight with the green shield!" shouted the men-at-arms, as they lifted their cups on high. "who is he?" inquired one of the men-at-arms, of him who had spoken favourably of the stranger.--"i don't know." "and yet you spoke favourably of him a few seconds back, and said what a brave knight he was!"--"and so i uphold him to be; but, i tell you what, friend, i would do as much for the greatest stranger i ever met. i have seen him fight where men and horses have bit the dust in hundreds; and that, in my opinion, speaks out for the man and warrior; he who cannot, then, fight like a soldier, had better tilt at home in the castle-yard, and there win ladies' smiles, but not the commendation of the leader of the battle." "that's true: i myself recollect very well sir hugh de colbert, a very accomplished knight in the castle-yard; but his men were as fine a set of fellows as ever crossed a horse, to look at, but they proved deficient at the moment of trial; they were broken, and fled in a moment, and scarce one of them received a scratch." "then they hadn't stood the shock of the foeman?"--"no; that's certain." "but still i should like to know the knight,--to know his name very well."--"i know it not; he has some reason for keeping it secret, i suppose; but his deeds will not shame it, be it what it may. i can bear witness to more than one foeman falling beneath his battle-axe." "indeed!"--"yes; and he took a banner from the enemy in the last battle that was fought." "ah, well! he deserves a better fortune to-morrow. who is to be the bridegroom of the beautiful bertha, daughter of lord de cauci?"--"that will have to be decided: but it is presumed that sir guthrie de beaumont is the intended." "ah! but should he not prove the victor?"--"it's understood; because it's known he is intended by the parents of the lady, and none would be ungallant enough to prevail against him,--save on such conditions as would not endanger the fruits of victory." "no?"--"certainly not; they would lay the trophies at the foot of the beauty worshipped by the knights at the tournament." "so, triumphant or not, he's to be the bridegroom; bearing off the prize of valour whether or no,--in fact, deserve her or not,--that's the fact."--"so it is, so it is." "and a shame, too, friends; but so it is now; but yet, if the knight's horse recovers from the strain, and is fit for work to-morrow, it strikes me that the green shield will give some work to the holiday knight." * * * * * there had been a grand tournament held near shrewsbury castle, in honour of the intended nuptials of the beautiful lady bertha de cauci. she was the only daughter of the earl de cauci, a nobleman of some note; he was one of an ancient and unblemished name, and of great riches. the lady was beautiful, but, at the same time, she was an unwilling bride,--every one could see that; but the bridegroom cared not for that. there was a sealed sorrow on her brow,--a sorrow that seemed sincere and lasting; but she spoke not of it to any one,--her lips were seldom parted. she loved another. yes; she loved one who was far away, fighting in the wars of his country,--one who was not so rich in lands as her present bridegroom. when he left her, she remembered his promise; it was, to fight on till he earned a fortune, or name that should give him some right to claim her hand, even from her imperious father. but alas! he came not; and what could she do against the commands of one who would be obeyed? her mother, too, was a proud, haughty woman, one whose sole anxiety was to increase the grandeur and power of her house by such connections. thus it was pressed on by circumstances, she could no longer hold out, more especially as she heard nothing of her knight. she knew not where he was, or indeed if he were living or dead. she knew not he was never named. this last circumstance, indeed, gave her pain; for it assured her that he whom she loved had been unable to signalize himself from among other men. that, in fact, he was unknown in the annals of fame, as well as the probability that he had been slain in some of the earlier skirmishes of the war. this, if it had happened, caused her some pain to think upon; not but such events were looked upon with almost indifference by females, save in such cases where their affections were engaged, as on this occasion. but the event was softened by the fact that men were continually falling by the hand of man in such encounters, but at the same time it was considered an honourable and praiseworthy death for a soldier. he was wounded, but not with the anguish we now hear of; for the friends were consoled by the reflection that the deceased warrior died covered with glory. bertha, however, was young, and as yet she knew not the cause of her absent knight's silence, or why he had not been heard of among the most forward in the battle. "heaven's will be done," she exclaimed; "what can i do? i must submit to my father's behests; but my future life will be one of misery and sorrow." she wept to think of the past, and to dream of the future; both alike were sorrowful to think upon--no comfort in the past and no joy in the future. thus she wept and sorrowed on the night of the first tournament; there was to be a second, and that was to be the grand one, where her intended bridegroom was to show himself off in her eyes, and take his part in the sport. * * * * * bertha sat late--she sat sorrowing by the light of the lamps and the flickering flame of the fire, as it rose and fell on the hearth and threw dancing shadows on the walls. "oh, why, arthur home, should you thus be absent? absent, too, at such a time when you are more needed than ever. alas, alas! you may no longer be in the land of the living. your family is great and your name known--your own has been spoken with commendation from the lips of your friend; what more of fame do you need? but i am speaking without purpose. heaven have mercy on me." as she spoke she looked up and saw one of her women in waiting standing by. "well, what would you?"--"my lady, there is one who would speak with you," said the hand-maiden. "with me?"--"yes, my lady; he named you the lady bertha de cauci." "who and what is he?" she inquired, with something like trepidation, of the maiden.--"i know not, my lady." "but gave he not some token by which i might know who i admit to my chamber?"--"none," replied the maiden. "and what does he bear by way of distinguishing himself? what crest or device doth he bear?"--"merely a green shield." "the unsuccessful knight in the tournament to-day. heaven's! what can he desire with me; he is not--no, no, it cannot be--it cannot be."--"will you admit him, lady?" "indeed, i know not what to do; but yet he may have some intelligence to give me. yes, yes, admit him; but first throw some logs on the fire." the attendant did as she was desired, and then quitted the room for the purpose of admitting the stranger knight with the green shield. in a few moments she could hear the stride of the knight as he entered the apartment, and she thought the step was familiar to her ear--she thought it was the step of sir arthur home, her lover. she waited anxiously to see the door open, and then the stranger entered. his form and bearing was that of her lover, but his visor was down, and she was unable to distinguish the features of the stranger. his armour was such as had seen many a day's hard wear, and there were plenty of marks of the battle about him. his travel-worn accoutrements were altogether such as bespoke service in the field. "sir, you desired to see me; say wherefore you do so, and if it is news you bring." the knight answered not, but pointed to the female attendant, as if he desired she would withdraw. "you may retire," said bertha; "be within call, and let me know if i am threatened with interruption." the attendant retired, and then the knight and lady were left alone. the former seemed at a loss how to break silence for some moments, and then he said,-"lady ----" "oh, heavens! 'tis he!" exclaimed bertha, as she sprang to her feet; "it is sir arthur home!" "it is," exclaimed the knight, pulling up his visor, and dropping on one knee he encircled his arm round the waist of the lady, and at the same moment he pressed her lips to his own. the first emotion of joy and surprise over, bertha checked her transports, and chid the knight for his boldness. "nay, chide me not, dear bertha; i am what i was when i left you, and hope to find you the same." "am i not?" said bertha.--"truly i know not, for you seem more beautiful than you were then; i hope that is the only change." "if there be a change, it is only such as you see. sorrow and regret form the principal causes."--"i understand you." "my intended nuptials ----" "yes, i have heard all. i came here but late in the morning; and my horse was jaded and tired, and my impatience to attend the tournament caused me a disaster which it is well it came not on the second day." "it is, dear arthur. how is it i never heard your name mentioned, or that i received no news from any one about you during the wars that have ended?"--"i had more than one personal enemy, bertha; men who would have been glad to see me fall, and who, in default of that, would not have minded bribing an assassin to secure my death for them at any risk whatever." "heavens! and how did you escape such a death from such people, arthur?"--"by adopting such a device as that i wear. the knight of the green shield i'm called." "i saw you to-day in the tournament."--"and there my tired and jaded horse gave way; but to-morrow i shall have, i hope, a different fortune." "i hope so too."--"i will try; my arm has been good in battle, and i see not why it should be deficient in peaceful jousts." "certainly not. what fortune have you met with since you left england?"--"i was of course known but to a few; among those few were the general under whom i served and my more immediate officers, who i knew would not divulge my secret." "and they did not?"--"no; kept it nobly, and kept their eyes upon me in battle; and i have reaped a rich harvest in force, honour, and riches, i assure you." "thank heaven!" said bertha.--"bertha, if i be conqueror, may i claim you in the court-yard before all the spectators?" "you may," said bertha, and she hung her head.--"moreover," said sir arthur, "you will not make a half promise, but when i demand you, you will at once come down to me and accept me as your husband; if i be the victor then he cannot object to the match." "but he will have many friends, and his intended bride will have many more, so that you may run some danger among so many enemies."--"never fear for me, bertha, because i shall have many friends of distinction there too--many old friends who are tried men in battle, and whose deeds are a glory and honour to them; besides, i shall have my commander and several gentlemen who would at once interfere in case any unfair advantage was attempted to be taken of my supposed weakness." "have you a fresh horse?" inquired bertha.--"i have, or shall have by the morning; but promise me you will do what i ask you, and then my arm will be nerved to its utmost, and i am sure to be victorious." "i do promise," said bertha; "i hope you may be as successful as you hope to be, arthur; but suppose fortune should declare against you; suppose an accident of any kind were to happen, what could be done then?"--"i must be content to hide myself for ever afterwards, as a defeated knight; how can i appear before your friends as the claimant of your hand?" "i will never have any other."--"but you will be forced to accept this guthrie de beaumont, your father's chosen son-in-law." "i will seek refuge in a cloister."--"will you fly with me, bertha, to some sequestered spot, where we can live in each others society?" "yes," said bertha, "anything, save marriage with guthrie de beaumont."--"then await the tournament of to-morrow," said sir arthur, "and then this may be avoided; in the meantime, keep up a good heart and remember i am at hand." * * * * * these two lovers parted for the present, after a protracted interview, bertha to her chamber, and the knight of the green shield to his tent. the following morning was one of great preparation; the lists had been enlarged, and the seats made more commodious, for the influx of visitors appeared to be much greater than had been anticipated. moreover, there were many old warriors of distinction to be present, which made the bridegroom look pale and feel uncomfortable as to the results of the tournament. the tilting was to begin at an early hour, and then the feasting and revelry would begin early in the evening, after the tilting had all passed off. in that day's work there were many thrown from their saddles, and many broke their lances. the bridegroom tilted with several knights, and came off victorious, or without disadvantage to either. the green knight, on the contrary, tilted with but few, and always victorious, and such matches were with men who had been men of some name in the wars, or at least in the tilt yard. the sports drew to a close, and when the bridegroom became the challenger, the knight of the green shield at once rode out quietly to meet him. the encounter could not well be avoided, and the bridegroom would willingly have declined the joust with a knight who had disposed of his enemies so easily, and so unceremoniously as he had. the first encounter was enough; the bridegroom was thrown to a great distance, and lay insensible on the ground, and was carried out of the field. there was an immediate sensation among the friends of the bridegroom, several of whom rode out to challenge the stranger knight for his presumption. in this, however, they had misreckoned the chances, for the challenged accepted their challenges with alacrity and disposed of them one by one with credit to himself until the day was concluded. the stranger was then asked to declare who he was, upon which he lifted his visor, and said, "i am sir arthur home, and claim the lady bertha as my bride, by the laws of arms, and by those of love." * * * * * again the tent was felled, and again the hostelry was tenanted by the soldier, who declared for one side and then for the other, as the cups clanged and jingled together. "said i not," exclaimed one of the troopers, "that the knight with a green shield was a good knight?"--"you did," replied the other. "and you knew who he was?" said another of the troopers.--"not i, comrades; i had seen him fight in battle, and, therefore, partly guessed how it would be if he had any chance with the bridegroom. i'm glad he has won the lady." it was true, the lady bertha was won, and sir arthur home claimed his bride, and then they attempted to defeat his claim; yet bertha at once expressed herself in his favour, to strongly that they were, however reluctantly compelled, to consent at last. at this moment, a loud shout as from a multitude of persons came upon their ears and flora started from her seat in alarm. the cause of the alarm we shall proceed to detail. chapter lxx. the funeral of the stranger of the inn.--the popular commotion, and mrs. chillingworth's appeal to the mob.--the new riot.--the hall in danger. [illustration] as yet the town was quiet; and, though there was no appearance of riot or disturbance, yet the magistracy had taken every precaution they deemed needful, or their position and necessities warranted, to secure the peace of the town from the like disturbance to that which had been, of late, a disgrace and terror of peaceably-disposed persons. the populace were well advertised of the fact, that the body of the stranger was to be buried that morning in their churchyard; and that, to protect the body, should there be any necessity for so doing, a large body of constables would be employed. there was no disposition to riot; at least, none was visible. it looked as if there was some event about to take place that was highly interesting to all parties, who were peaceably assembling to witness the interment of nobody knew who. the early hour at which persons were assembling, at different points, clearly indicated that there was a spirit of curiosity about the town, so uncommon that none would have noticed it but for the fact of the crowd of people who hung about the streets, and there remained, listless and impatient. the inn, too, was crowded with visitors, and there were many who, not being blessed with the strength of purse that some were, were hanging about in the distance, waiting and watching the motions of those who were better provided. "ah!" said one of the visitors, "this is a disagreeable job in your house, landlord."--"yes, sir; i'd sooner it had happened elsewhere, i assure you. i know it has done me no good." "no; no man could expect any, and yet it is none the less unfortunate for that."--"i would sooner anything else happen than that, whatever it might be. i think it must be something very bad, at all events; but i dare say i shall never see the like again." "so much the better for the town," said another; "for, what with vampyres and riots, there has been but little else stirring than mischief and disturbances of one kind and another." "yes; and, what between varneys and bannerworths, we have had but little peace here." "precisely. do you know it's my opinion that the least thing would upset the whole town. any one unlucky word would do it, i am sure," said a tall thin man. "i have no doubt of it," said another; "but i hope the military would do their duty under such circumstances, for people's lives and property are not safe in such a state of things."--"oh, dear no." "i wonder what has become of varney, or where he can have gone to."--"some thought he must have been burned when they burned his house," replied the landlord. "but i believe it generally understood he's escaped, has he not? no traces of his body were found in the ruins."--"none. oh! he's escaped, there can be no doubt of that. i wish i had some fortune depending upon the fact; it would be mine, i am sure." "well, the lord keep us from vampyres and suchlike cattle," said an old woman. "i shall never sleep again in my bed with any safety. it frightens one out of one's life to think of it. what a shame the men didn't catch him and stake him!" the old woman left the inn as soon as she had spoke this christian speech. "humane!" said a gentleman, with a sporting coat on. "the old woman is no advocate for half measures!" "you are right, sir," said the landlord; "and a very good look-out she keeps upon the pot, to see it's full, and carefully blows the froth off!"--"ah! i thought as much." "how soon will the funeral take place, landlord?" inquired a person, who had at that moment entered the inn.--"in about an hour's time, sir." "oh! the town seems pretty full, though it is very quiet. i suppose it is more as a matter of curiosity people congregate to see the funeral of this stranger?" "i hope so, sir." "the time is wearing on, and if they don't make a dust, why then the military will not be troubled." "i do not expect anything more, sir," said the landlord; "for you see they must have had their swing out, as the saying is, and be fully satisfied. they cannot have much more to do in the way of exhibiting their anger or dislike to vampyres--they all have done enough." "so they have--so they have." "granted," said an old man with a troublesome cough; "but when did you ever know a mob to be satisfied? if they wanted the moon and got it, they'd find out it would be necessary to have the stars also." "that's uncommonly true," said the landlord. "i shouldn't be surprised if they didn't do something worse than ever."--"nothing more likely," said the little old man. "i can believe anything of a mob--anything--no matter what." the inn was crowded with visitors, and several extra hands were employed to wait upon the customers, and a scene of bustle and activity was displayed that was never before seen. it would glad the heart of a landlord, though he were made of stone, and landlords are usually of much more malleable materials than that. however, the landlord had hardly time to congratulate himself, for the bearers were come now, and the undertaker and his troop of death-following officials. there was a stir among the people, who began now to awaken from the lethargy that seemed to have come over them while they were waiting for the moment when it should arrive, that was to place the body under the green sod, against which so much of their anger had been raised. there was a decent silence that pervaded the mob of individuals who had assembled. death, with all its ghastly insignia, had an effect even upon the unthinking multitude, who were ever ready to inflict death or any violent injury upon any object that came in their way--they never hesitated; but even these, now the object of their hatred was no more, felt appalled. 'tis strange what a change comes over masses of men as they gaze upon a dead body. it may be that they all know that to that complexion they must come at last. this may be the secret of the respect offered to the dead. the undertakers are men, however, who are used to the presence of death--it is their element; they gain a living by attending upon the last obsequies of the dead; they are used to dead bodies, and care not for them. some of them are humane men, that is, in their way; and even among them are men who wouldn't be deprived of the joke as they screwed down the last screw. they could not forbear, even on this occasion, to hold their converse when left alone. "jacobs," said one who was turning a long screw, "jacobs, my boy, do you take the chair to-night?"--"yes," said jacobs who was a long lugubrious-looking man, "i do take the chair, if i live over this blessed event." "you are not croaking, jacobs, are you? well, you are a lively customer, you are."--"lively--do you expect people to be lively when they are full dressed for a funeral? you are a nice article for your profession. you don't feel like an undertaker, you don't." "don't, jacobs, my boy. as long as i look like one when occasion demands; when i have done my job i puts my comfort in my pocket, and thinks how much more pleasanter it is to be going to other people's funerals than to our own, and then only see the difference as regards the money." "true," said jacobs with a groan; "but death's a melancholy article, at all events."--"so it is." "and then when you come to consider the number of people we have buried--how many have gone to their last homes--and how many more will go the same way."--"yes, yes; that's all very well, jacob. you are precious surly this morning. i'll come to-night. you're brewing a sentimental tale as sure as eggs is eggs." "well, that is pretty certain; but as i was saying how many more are there--" "ah, don't bother yourself with calculations that have neither beginning nor end, and which haven't one point to go. come, jacob, have you finished yet?"--"quite," said jacob. they now arranged the pall, and placed all in readiness, and returned to a place down stairs where they could enjoy themselves for an odd half hour, and pass that time away until the moment should arrive when his reverence would be ready to bury the deceased, upon consideration of the fees to be paid upon the occasion. the tap-room was crowded, and there was no room for the men, and they were taken into the kitchen, where they were seated, and earnestly at work, preparing for the ceremony that had so shortly to be performed. "any better, jacobs?"--"what do you mean?" inquired jacobs, with a groan. "it's news to me if i have been ill." "oh, yes, you were doleful up stairs, you know."--"i've a proper regard for my profession--that's the difference between you and i, you know." "i'll wager you what you like, now, that i'll handle a corpse and drive a screw in a coffin as well as you, now, although you are so solid and miserable."--"so you may--so you may." "then what do you mean by saying i haven't a proper regard for my profession?"--"i say you haven't, and there's the thing that shall prove it--you don't look it, and that's the truth." "i don't look like an undertaker! indeed i dare say i don't if i ain't dressed like one."--"nor when you are," reiterated jacob. "why not, pray?"--"because you have always a grin on your face as broad as a gridiron--that's why." this ended the dispute, for the employer of the men suddenly put his head in, saying,-"come, now, time's up; you are wanted up stairs, all of you. be quick; we shall have his reverence waiting for us, and then we shall lose his recommendation." "ready sir," said the round man, taking up his pint and finishing it off at a draught, at the same moment he thrust the remains of some bread and cheese into his pocket. jacob, too, took his pot, and, having finished it, with great gravity followed the example of his more jocose companion, and they all left the kitchen for the room above, where the corpse was lying ready for interment. there was an unusual bustle; everybody was on the tip-top of expectation, and awaiting the result in a quiet hurry, and hoped to have the first glimpse of the coffin, though why they should do so it was difficult to define. but in this fit of mysterious hope and expectation they certainly stood. "will they be long?" inquired a man at the door of one inside,--"will they be long before they come?"--"they are coming now," said the man. "do you all keep quiet; they are knocking their heads against the top of the landing. hark! there, i told you so." the man departed, hearing something, and being satisfied that he had got some information. "now, then," said the landlord, "move out of the way, and allow the corpse to pass out. let me have no indecent conduct; let everything be as it should be." the people soon removed from the passage and vicinity of the doorway, and then the mournful procession--as the newspapers have it--moved forward. they were heard coming down stairs, and thence along the passage, until they came to the street, and then the whole number of attendants was plainly discernible. how different was the funeral of one who had friends. he was alone; none followed, save the undertaker and his attendants, all of whom looked solemn from habit and professional motives. even the jocose man was as supernaturally solemn as could be well imagined; indeed, nobody knew he was the same man. "well," said the landlord, as he watched them down the street, as they slowly paced their way with funereal, not sorrowful, solemnity--"well, i am very glad that it is all over." "it has been a sad plague to you," said one. "it has, indeed; it must be to any one who has had another such a job as this. i don't say it out of any disrespect to the poor man who is dead and gone--quite the reverse; but i would not have such another affair on my hands for pounds." "i can easily believe you, especially when we come to consider the disagreeables of a mob." "you may say that. there's no knowing what they will or won't do, confound them! if they'd act like men, and pay for what they have, why, then i shouldn't care much about them; but it don't do to have other people in the bar." "i should think not, indeed; that would alter the scale of your profits, i reckon." "it would make all the difference to me. business," added the landlord, "conducted on that scale, would become a loss; and a man might as well walk into a well at once." "so i should say. have many such occurrences as these been usual in this part of the country?" inquired the stranger. "not usual at all," said the landlord; "but the fact is, the whole neighbourhood has run distracted about some superhuman being they call a vampyre." "indeed!"--"yes; and they suspected the unfortunate man who has been lying up-stairs, a corpse, for some days." "oh, the man they have just taken in the coffin to bury?" said the stranger. "yes, sir, the same." "well, i thought perhaps somebody of great consequence had suddenly become defunct."--"oh, dear no; it would not have caused half the sensation; people have been really mad." "it was a strange occurrence, altogether, i believe, was it?" inquired the stranger.--"indeed it was, sir. i hardly know the particulars, there have been so many tales afloat; though they all concur in one point, and that is, it has destroyed the peace of one family." "who has done so?"--"the vampyre." "indeed! i never heard of such an animal, save as a fable, before; it seems to me extraordinary." "so it would do to any one, sir, as was not on the spot, to see it; i'm sure i wouldn't." * * * * * in the meantime, the procession, short as it was of itself, moved along in slow time through a throng of people who ran out of their houses on either side of the way, and lined the whole length of the town. many of these closed in behind, and followed the mourners until they were near the church, and then they made a rush to get into the churchyard. as yet all had been conducted with tolerable propriety, the funeral met with no impediment. the presence of death among so many of them seemed some check upon the licence of the mob, who bowed in silence to the majesty of death. who could bear ill-will against him who was now no more? man, while he is man, is always the subject of hatred, fear, or love. some one of these passions, in a modified state, exists in all men, and with such feelings they will regard each other; and it is barely possible that any one should not be the object of some of these, and hence the stranger's corpse was treated with respect. in silence the body proceeded along the highway until it came to the churchyard, and followed by an immense multitude of people of all grades. the authorities trembled; they knew not what all this portended. they thought it might pass off; but it might become a storm first; they hoped and feared by turns, till some of them fell sick with apprehension. there was a deep silence observed by all those in the immediate vicinity of the coffin, but those farther in the rear found full expression for their feelings. "do you think," said an old man to another, "that he will come to life again, eh?"--"oh, yes, vampyres always do, and lay in the moonlight, and then they come to life again. moonlight recovers a vampyre to life again." "and yet the moonlight is cold."--"ah, but who's to tell what may happen to a vampyre, or what's hot or what's cold?" "certainly not; oh, dear, no."--"and then they have permission to suck the blood of other people, to live themselves, and to make other people vampyres, too." "the lord have mercy upon us!"--"ay, but they have driven a stake through this one, and he can't get in moonlight or daylight; it's all over--he's certainly done for; we may congratulate ourselves on this point." "so we may--so we may." they now neared the grave, the clergyman officiating as usual on such occasions. there was a large mob of persons on all sides, with serious faces, watching the progress of the ceremony, and who listened in quietness. there was no sign of any disturbance amongst the people, and the authorities were well pleased; they congratulated themselves upon the quietness and orderliness of the assemblage. the service was ended and the coffin lowered, and the earth was thrown on the coffin-lid with a hollow sound. nobody could hear that sound unmoved. but in a short while the sound ceased as the grave became filled; it was then trodden carefully down. there were no relatives there to feel affected at the last scene of all. they were far away, and, according to popular belief upon the subject, they must have been dead some ages. * * * * * the mob watched the last shovel-full of earth thrown upon the coffin, and witnessed the ramming down of the soil, and the heaping of it over at top to make the usual monument; for all this was done speedily and carefully, lest there should be any tendency to exhume the body of the deceased. the people were now somewhat relieved, as to their state of solemnity and silence. they would all of them converse freely on the matter that had so long occupied their thoughts. they seemed now let loose, and everybody found himself at liberty to say or do something, no matter if it were not very reasonable; that is not always required of human beings who have souls, or, at least it is unexpected; and were it expected, the expectation would never be realized. the day was likely to wear away without a riot, nay, even without a fight; a most extraordinary occurrence for such a place under the existing circumstances; for of late the populace, or, perhaps, the townspeople, were extremely pugnacious, and many were the disputes that were settled by the very satisfactory application of the knuckles to the head of the party holding a contrary opinion. thus it was they were ready to take fire, and a hubbub would be the result of the slightest provocation. but, on the present occasion, there was a remarkable dearth of, all subjects of the nature described. who was to lead israel out to battle? alas! no one on the present occasion. such a one, however, appeared, at least, one who furnished a ready excuse for a disturbance. suddenly, mrs chillingworth appeared in the midst of a large concourse of people. she had just left her house, which was close at hand, her eyes red with weeping, and her children around her on this occasion. the crowd made way for her, and gathered round her to see what was going to happen. "friends and neighbours," she said "can any of you relieve the tears of a distressed wife and mother, have any of you seen anything of my husband, mr. chillingworth?" "what the doctor?" exclaimed one.--"yes; mr. chillingworth, the surgeon. he has not been home two days and a night. i'm distracted!--what can have become of him i don't know, unless--" here mrs chillingworth paused, and some person said,-"unless what, mrs chillingworth? there are none but friends here, who wish the doctor well, and would do anything to serve him--unless what? speak out." "unless he's been destroyed by the vampyre. heaven knows what we may all come to! here am i and my children deprived of our protector by some means which we cannot imagine. he never, in all his life, did the same before." "he must have been spirited away by some of the vampyres. i'll tell you what, friend," said one to another, "that something must be done; nobody's safe in their bed." "no; they are not, indeed. i think that all vampyres ought to be burned and a stake run through them, and then we should be safe." "ay; but you must destroy all those who are even suspected of being vampyres, or else one may do all the mischief."--"so he might." "hurrah!" shouted the mob. "chillingworth for ever! we'll find the doctor somewhere, if we pull down the whole town." there was an immense commotion among the populace, who began to start throwing stones, and do all sorts of things without any particular object, and some, as they said, to find the doctor, or to show how willing they were to do so if they knew how. mrs. chillingworth, however, kept on talking to the mob, who continued shouting; and the authorities anticipated an immediate outbreak of popular opinion, which is generally accompanied by some forcible demonstration, and on this occasion some one suggested the propriety of burning down bannerworth hall; because they had burned down the vampyre's home, and they might as well burn down that of the injured party, which was carried by acclamation; and with loud shouts they started on their errand. this was a mob's proceeding all over, and we regret very much to say, that it is very much the characteristic of english mobs. what an uncommonly strange thing it is that people in multitudes seem completely to get rid of all reason--all honour--all common ordinary honesty; while, if you were to take the same people singly, you would find that they were reasonable enough, and would shrink with a feeling quite approaching to horror from anything in the shape of very flagrant injustice. this can only be accounted for by a piece of cowardice in the human race, which induces them when alone, and acting with the full responsibility of their actions, to shrink from what it is quite evident they have a full inclination to do, and will do when, having partially lost their individuality in a crowd, they fancy, that to a certain extent they can do so with impunity. the burning of sir francis varney's house, although it was one of those proceedings which would not bear the test of patient examination, was yet, when we take all the circumstances into consideration, an act really justifiable and natural in comparison with the one which was now meditated. bannerworth hall had never been the residence even of anyone who had done the people any injury or given them any offence, so that to let it become a prey to the flames was but a gratuitous act of mischief. it was, however, or seemed to be, doomed, for all who have had any experience in mobs, must know how extremely difficult it is to withdraw them from any impulse once given, especially when that impulse, as in the present instance, is of a violent character. "down with bannerworth hall!" was the cry. "burn it--burn it," and augmented by fresh numbers each minute, the ignorant, and, in many respects, ruffianly assemblage, soon arrived within sight of what had been for so many years the bane of the bannerworths, and whatever may have been the fault of some of that race, those faults had been of a domestic character, and not at all such as would interfere with the public weal. the astonished, and almost worn-out authorities, hastily, now, after having disposed of their prisoners, collected together what troops they could, and by the time the misguided, or rather the not guided at all populace, had got halfway to bannerworth hall, they were being outflanked by some of the dragoons, who, by taking a more direct route, hoped to reach bannerworth hall first, and so perhaps, by letting the mob see that it was defended, induce them to give up the idea of its destruction on account of the danger attendant upon the proceeding by far exceeding any of the anticipated delight of the disturbance. [illustration] chapter lxxi. the strange meeting at the hall between mr. chillingworth and the mysterious friend of varney. [illustration] when we praise our friend mr. chillingworth for not telling his wife where he was going, in pursuance of a caution and a discrimination so highly creditable to him, we are quite certain that he has no such excuse as regards the reader. therefore we say at once that he had his own reasons now for taking up his abode at bannerworth hall for a time. these reasons seemed to be all dependant upon the fact of having met the mysterious man at sir francis varney's; and although we perhaps would have hoped that the doctor might have communicated to henry bannerworth all that he knew and all that he surmised, yet have we no doubt that what he keeps to himself he has good reasons for so keeping, and that his actions as regards it are founded upon some very just conclusions. he has then made a determination to take possession of, and remain in, bannerworth hall according to the full and free leave which the admiral had given him so to do. what results he anticipated from so lonely and so secret a watch we cannot say, but probably they will soon exhibit themselves. it needed no sort of extraordinary discrimination for any one to feel it once that not the least good, in the way of an ambuscade, was likely to be effected by such persons as admiral bell or jack pringle. they were all very well when fighting should actually ensue, but they both were certainly remarkably and completely deficient in diplomatic skill, or in that sort of patience which should enable them at all to compete with the cunning, the skill, and the nice discrimination of such a man as sir francis varney. if anything were to be done in that way it was unquestionably to be done by some one alone, who, like the doctor, would, and could, remain profoundly quiet and await the issue of events, be they what they might, and probably remain a spy and attempt no overt act which should be of a hostile character. this unquestionably was the mode, and perhaps we should not be going too far when we say it was the only mode which could be with anything like safety relied upon as one likely to lead really to a discovery of sir francis varney's motives in making such determined exertions to get possession of bannerworth hall. that night was doomed to be a very eventful one, indeed; for on it had charles holland been, by a sort of wild impulsive generosity of sir francis varney, rescued from the miserable dungeon in which he had been confined, and on that night, too, he, whom we cannot otherwise describe than as the villain marchdale, had been, in consequence of the evil that he himself meditated, and the crime with which he was quite willing to stain his soul, been condemned to occupy charles's position. on that night, too, had the infuriated mob determined upon the destruction of bannerworth hall, and on that night was mr. chillingworth waiting with what patience he could exert, at the hall, for whatever in the chapter of accidents might turn up of an advantageous character to that family in whose welfare and fortunes he felt so friendly and so deep an interest. let us look, then, at the worthy doctor as he keeps his solitary watch. he did not, as had been the case when the admiral shared the place with him in the hope of catching varney on that memorable occasion when he caught only his boot, sit in a room with a light and the means and appliances for making the night pass pleasantly away; but, on the contrary, he abandoned the house altogether, and took up a station in that summer-house which has been before mentioned as the scene of a remarkable interview between flora bannerworth and varney the vampyre. alone and in the dark, so that he could not be probably seen, he watched that one window of the chamber where the first appearance of the hideous vampyre had taken place, and which seemed ever since to be the special object of his attack. by remaining from twilight, and getting accustomed to the gradually increasing darkness of the place, no doubt the doctor was able to see well enough without the aid of any artificial light whether any one was in the place besides himself. "night after night," he said, "will i watch here until i have succeeded in unravelling this mystery; for that there is some fearful and undreamt of mystery at the bottom of all these proceedings i am well convinced." when he made such a determination as this, dr. chillingworth was not at all a likely man to break it, so there, looking like a modern statue in the arbour, he sat with his eyes fixed upon the balcony and the window of what used to be called flora's room for some hours. the doctor was a contemplative man, and therefore he did not so acutely feel the loneliness of his position as many persons would have done; moreover, he was decidedly not of a superstitious turn of mind, although certainly we cannot deny an imagination to him. however, if he really had harboured some strange fears and terrors they would have been excusable, when we consider how many circumstances had combined to make it almost a matter of demonstration that sir francis varney was something more than mortal. what quantities of subjects the doctor thought over during his vigil in that garden it is hard to say, but never in his whole life, probably, had he such a glorious opportunity for the most undisturbed contemplation of subjects requiring deep thought to analyze, than as he had then. at least he felt that since his marriage he had never been so thoroughly quiet, and left so completely to himself. it is to be hoped that he succeeded in settling any medical points of a knotty character that might be hovering in his brain, and certain it is that he had become quite absorbed in an abstruse matter connected with physiology, when his ears were startled, and he was at once aroused to a full consciousness of where he was, and why he had come there, by the distant sound of a man's footstep. it was a footstep which seemed to be that of a person who scarcely thought it at all necessary to use any caution, and the doctor's heart leaped within him as in the lowest possible whisper he said to himself,-"i am successful--i am successful. it is believed now that the hall is deserted, and no doubt that is sir francis varney come with confidence, to carry out his object in so sedulously attacking it, be that object what it may." elated with this idea, the doctor listened intently to the advancing footstep, which each moment sounded more clearly upon his ears. it was evidently approaching from the garden entrance towards the house, and he thought, by the occasional deadened sound of the person's feet, be he whom he might, that he could not see his way very well, and, consequently, frequently strayed from the path, on to some of the numerous flower-beds which were in the way. "yes," said the doctor, exultingly, "it must be varney; and now i have but to watch him, and not to resist him; for what good on earth is it to stop him in what he wishes to do, and, by such means, never wrest his secret from him. the only way is to let him go on, and that will i do, most certainly." now he heard the indistinct muttering of the voice of some one, so low that he could not catch what words were uttered; but he fancied that, in the deep tones, he recognised, without any doubt, the voice of sir francis varney. "it must be he," he said, "it surely must be he. who else would come here to disturb the solitude of an empty house? he comes! he comes!" now the doctor could see a figure emerge from behind some thick beeches, which had before obstructed his vision, and he looked scrutinisingly about, while some doubts stole slowly over his mind now as to whether it was the vampyre or not. the height was in favour of the supposition that it was none other than varney; but the figure looked so much stouter, that mr. chillingworth felt a little staggered upon the subject, and unable wholly to make up his mind upon it. the pausing of this visitor, too, opposite that window where sir francis varney had made his attempts, was another strong reason why the doctor was inclined to believe it must be him, and yet he could not quite make up his mind upon the subject, so as to speak with certainty. a very short time, however, indeed, must have sufficed to set such a question as that at rest; and patience seemed the only quality of mind necessary under those circumstances for mr. chillingworth to exert. the visitor continued gazing either at that window, or at the whole front of the house, for several minutes, and then he turned away from a contemplation of it, and walked slowly along, parallel with the windows of that dining-room, one of which had been broken so completely on the occasion of the admiral's attempt to take the vampyre prisoner. the moment the stranger altered his position, from looking at the window, and commenced walking away from it, mr. chillingworth's mind was made up. it was not varney--of that he felt now most positively assured, and could have no doubt whatever upon the subject. the gait, the general air, the walk, all were different; and then arose the anxious question of who could it be that had intruded upon that lonely place, and what could be the object of any one else but varney the vampyre to do so. the stranger looked a powerful man, and walked with a firm tread, and, altogether he was an opponent that, had the doctor been ever so belligerently inclined, it would have been the height of indiscretion for him to attempt to cope with. it was a very vexatious thing, too, for any one to come there at such a juncture, perhaps only from motives of curiosity, or possibly just to endeavour to commit some petty depredations upon the deserted building, if possible; and most heartily did the doctor wish that, in some way, he could scare away the intruder. the man walked along very slowly, indeed, and seemed to be quite taking his time in making his observations of the building; and this was the more provoking, as it was getting late, and if having projected a visit at all, it would surely soon be made, and then, when he found any one there, of course, he would go. amazed beyond expression, the doctor felt about on the ground at his feet, until he found a tolerably large stone, which he threw at the stranger with so good an aim, that it hit him a smart blow on the back, which must have been anything but a pleasant surprise. that it was a surprise, and that, too, a most complete one, was evident from the start which the man gave, and then he uttered a furious oath, and rubbed his back, as he glanced about him to endeavour to ascertain from whence the missile had come. "i'll try him again with that," thought the doctor; "it may succeed in scaring him away;" and he stooped to watch for another stone. it was well that he did so at that precise moment; for, before he rose again, he heard the sharp report of a pistol, and a crashing sound among some of the old wood work of which the summer-house was composed, told him that a shot had there taken effect. affairs were now getting much too serious; and, accordingly, dr. chillingworth thought that, rather than stay there to be made a target of, he would face the intruder. "hold--hold!" he cried. "who are you, and what do you mean by that?"--"oh! somebody is there," cried the man, as he advanced. "my friend, whoever you are, you were very foolish to throw a stone at me." "and, my friend, whoever you are," responded the doctor, "you were very spiteful to fire a pistol bullet at me in consequence."-"not at all." "but i say yes; for, probably, i can prove a right to be here, which you cannot."--"ah!" said the stranger, "that voice--why--you are dr. chillingworth?" "i am; but i don't know you," said the doctor, as he emerged now from the summer-house, and confronted the stranger who was within a few paces of the entrance to it. then he started, as he added,-"yes, i do know you, though. how, in the name of heaven, came you here, and what purpose have you in so coming?" "what purpose have you? since we met at varney's, i have been making some inquiries about this neighbourhood, and learn strange things."--"that you may very easily do here; and, what is more extraordinary, the strange things are, for the most part, i can assure you, quite true." the reader will, from what has been said, now readily recognise this man as sir francis varney's mysterious visitor, to whom he gave, from some hidden cause or another, so large a sum of money, and between whom and dr. chillingworth a mutual recognition had taken place, on the occasion when sir francis varney had, with such cool assurance, invited the admiral to breakfast with him at his new abode. "you, however," said the man, "i have no doubt, are fully qualified to tell me of more than i have been able to learn from other people; and, first of all, let me ask you why you are here?"--"before i answer you that question, or any other," said the doctor, "let me beg of you to tell me truly, is sir francis varney--" the doctor whispered in the ear of the stranger some name, as if he feared, even there, in the silence of that garden, where everything conspired to convince him that he could not be overheard, to pronounce it in an audible tone. "he is," said the other.--"you have no manner of doubt of it?" "doubt?--certainly not. what doubt can i have? i know it for a positive certainty, and he knows, of course, that i do know it, and has purchased my silence pretty handsomely, although i must confess that nothing but my positive necessities would have induced me to make the large demands upon him that i have, and i hope soon to be able to release him altogether from them." the doctor shook his head repeatedly, as he said,-"i suspected it; i suspected it, do you know, from the first moment that i saw you there in his house. his face haunted me ever since--awfully haunted me; and yet, although i felt certain that i had once seen it under strange circumstances, i could not identify it with--but no matter, no matter. i am waiting here for him." "indeed!"--"ay, that i am; and i flung a stone at you, not knowing you, with hope that you would be, by such means, perhaps, scared away, and so leave the coast clear for him." "then you have an appointment with him?"--"by no means; but he has made such repeated and determined attacks upon this house that the family who inhabited it were compelled to leave it, and i am here to watch him, and ascertain what can possibly be his object." "it is as i suspected, then," muttered this man. "confound him! now can i read, as if in a book, most clearly, the game that he is playing!" "can you?" cried the doctor, energetically--"can you? what is it? tell me, for that is the very thing i want to discover."--"you don't say so?" "it is, indeed; and i assure you that it concerns the peace of a whole family to know it. you say you have made inquiries about this neighbourhood, and, if you have done so, you have discovered how the family of the bannerworths have been persecuted by varney, and how, in particular, flora bannerworth, a beautiful and intelligent girl, has been most cruelly made to suffer." "i have heard all that, and i dare say with many exaggerations."--"it would be difficult for any one really to exaggerate the horrors that have taken place in this house, so that any information which you can give respecting the motives of varney will tend, probably, to restore peace to those who have been so cruelly persecuted, and be an act of kindness which i think not altogether inconsistent with your nature." "you think so, and yet know who i am."--"i do, indeed." "and what i am. why, if i were to go into the market-place of yon town, and proclaim myself, would not all shun me--ay, even the very lowest and vilest; and yet you talk of an act of kindness not being altogether inconsistent with my nature!"--"i do, because i know something more of you than many." there was a silence of some moments' duration, and then the stranger spoke in a tone of voice which looked as if he were struggling with some emotion. "sir, you do know more of me than many. you know what i have been, and you know how i left an occupation which would have made me loathed. but you--even you--do not know what made me take to so terrible a trade."--"i do not." "would it suit you for me now to tell you?"--"will you first promise me that you will do all you can for this persecuted family of the bannerworths, in whom i take so strange an interest?" "i will. i promise you that freely. of my own knowledge, of course, i can say but little concerning them, but, upon that warranting, i well believe they deserve abundant sympathy, and from me they shall have it." "a thousand thanks! with your assistance, i have little doubt of being able to extricate them from the tangled web of dreadful incidents which has turned them from their home; and now, whatever you may choose to tell me of the cause which drove you to be what you became, i shall listen to with abundant interest. only let me beseech you to come into this summer-house, and to talk low." "i will, and you can pursue your watch at the same time, while i beguile its weariness."--"be it so." "you knew me years ago, when i had all the chances in the world of becoming respectable and respected. i did, indeed; and you may, therefore, judge of my surprise when, some years since, being in the metropolis, i met you, and you shunned my company."--"yes; but, at last, you found out why it was that i shunned your company." "i did. you yourself told me once that i met you, and would not leave you, but insisted upon your dining with me. then you told me, when you found that i would take no other course whatever, that you were no other than the--the----"-"out with it! i can bear to hear it now better than i could then! i told you that i was the common hangman of london!" "you did, i must confess, to my most intense surprise." "yes, and yet you kept to me; and, but that i respected you too much to allow you to do so, you would, from old associations, have countenanced me; but i could not, and i would not, let you do so. i told you then that, although i held the terrible office, that i had not been yet called upon to perform its loathsome functions. soon--soon--come the first effort--it was the last!" "indeed! you left the dreadful trade?" "i did--i did. but what i want to tell you, for i could not then, was why i went ever to it. the wounds my heart had received were then too fresh to allow me to speak of them, but i will tell you now. the story is a brief one, mr. chillingworth. i pray you be seated." chapter lxxii. the strange story.--the arrival of the mob at the hall, and their dispersion. [illustration] "you will find that the time which elapsed since i last saw you in london, to have been spent in an eventful, varied manner."--"you were in good circumstances then," said mr. chillingworth.--"i was, but many events happened after that which altered the prospect; made it even more gloomy than you can well imagine: but i will tell you all candidly, and you can keep watch upon bannerworth hall at the same time. you are well aware that i was well to do, and had ample funds, and inclination to spend them."--"i recollect: but you were married then, surely?"--"i was," said the stranger, sadly, "i was married then."--"and now?"--"i am a widower." the stranger seemed much moved, but, after a moment or so, he resumed--"i am a widower now; but how that event came about is partly my purpose to tell you. i had not married long--that is very long--for i have but one child, and she is not old, or of an age to know much more than what she may be taught; she is still in the course of education. i was early addicted to gamble; the dice had its charms, as all those who have ever engaged in play but too well know; it is perfectly fascinating."--"so i have heard," said mr. chillingworth; "though, for myself, i found a wife and professional pursuits quite incompatible with any pleasure that took either time or resources."-"it is so. i would i had never entered one of those houses where men are deprived of their money and their own free will, for at the gambling-table you have no liberty, save that in gliding down the stream in company with others. how few have ever escaped destruction--none, i believe--men are perfectly fascinated; it is ruin alone that enables a man to see how he has been hurried onwards without thought or reflection; and how fallacious were all the hopes he ever entertained! yes, ruin, and ruin alone, can do this; but, alas! 'tis then too late--the evil is done. soon after my marriage i fell in with a chevalier st. john. he was a man of the world in every sense of the word, and one that was well versed in all the ways of society. i never met with any man who was so perfectly master of himself, and of perfect ease and self-confidence as he was. he was never at a loss, and, come what would, never betrayed surprise or vexation--two qualities, he thought, never ought to be shown by any man who moved in society."-"indeed!"--"he was a strange man--a very strange man."-"did he gamble?"-"it is difficult to give you a correct and direct answer. i should say he did, and yet he never lost or won much; but i have often thought he was more connected with those who did than was believed."-"was that a fact?" inquired mr. chillingworth.-"you shall see as we go on, and be able to judge for yourself. i have thought he was. well, he first took me to a handsome saloon, where gambling was carried on. we had been to the opera. as we came out, he recommended that we should sup at a house where he was well known, and where he was in the habit of spending his evenings after the opera, and before he retired. i agreed to this. i saw no reason why i should not. we went there, and bitterly have i repented of so doing for years since, and do to this day."-"your repentance has been sincere and lasting," said mr. chillingworth; "the one proves the other."--"it does; but i thought not so then. the place was glittering, and the wine good. it was a kind of earthly paradise; and when we had taken some wine, the chevalier said to me,-"'i am desirous of seeing a friend backwards; he is at the hazard-table. will you go with me?'--i hesitated. i feared to see the place where a vice was carried on. i knew myself inclined to prudential motives. i said to him,--'no, st. john, i'll wait here for you; it may be as well--the wine is good, and it will content me?' "'do so,' he said, smiling; 'but remember i seldom or never play myself, nor is there any reason why you should.'--'i'll go, but i will not play.'--'certainly not; you are free alike to look on, play, or quit the place at any moment you please, and not be noticed, probably, by a single soul.' "i arose, and we walked backwards, having called one of the men who were waiting about, but who were watchers and door-keepers of the 'hell.' we were led along the passage, and passed through the pair of doors, which were well secured and rendered the possibility of a surprise almost impossible. after these dark places, we were suddenly let into a place where we were dazzled by the light and brilliancy of the saloon. it was not so large as the one we left, but it was superior to it in all its appointments. "at first i could not well see who was, or who was not, in the room where we were. as soon, however, as i found the use of my eyes, i noticed many well-dressed men, who were busily engaged in play, and who took no notice of any one who entered. we walked about for some minutes without speaking to any one, but merely looking on. i saw men engaged in play; some with earnestness, others again with great nonchalance, and money changed hands without the least remark. there were but few who spoke, and only those in play. there was a hum of conversation; but you could not distinguish what was said, unless you paid some attention to, and was in close vicinity with, the individual who spoke. "'well,' said st. john, 'what do you think of this place?'--'why,' i replied, 'i had no notion of seeing a place fitted up as this is.' "'no; isn't it superb?'--'it is beautifully done. they have many visitors,' said i, 'many more than i could have believed.' "'yes, they are all _bona fide_ players; men of stamp and rank--none of your seedy legs who have only what they can cheat you out of.'--'ah!'--'and besides,' he added, 'you may often form friendships here that lead to fortune hereafter. i do not mean in play, because there is no necessity for your doing so, or, if you do so, in going above a stake which you know won't hurt you.'--'exactly.' "'many men can never approach a table like this, and sit down to an hour's play, but, if they do, they must stake not only more than they can afford, but all their property, leaving themselves beggars.' 'they do?" said i. "'but men who know themselves, their resources, and choose to indulge for a time, may often come and lay the foundation to a very pretty fortune.' "'do you see your friend?' i inquired.--'no, i do not; but i will inquire if he has been here--if not, we will go.' "he left me for a moment or two to make some inquiry, and i stood looking at the table, where there were four players, and who seemed to be engaged at a friendly game; and when one party won they looked grave, and when the other party lost they smiled and looked happy. i walked away, as the chevalier did not return immediately to me; and then i saw a gentleman rise up from a table. he had evidently lost. i was standing by the seat, unconsciously holding the back in my hand. i sat down without thinking or without speaking, and found myself at the hazard table. "'do you play, sir?'--'yes,' i said. i had hardly uttered the words when i was sorry for them; but i could not recall them. i sat down, and play at once commenced. "in about ten or fifteen minutes, often losing and then winning, i found myself about a hundred and twenty pounds in pocket, clear gain by the play. "'ah!' said the chevalier, who came up at that moment, 'i thought you wouldn't play.'--'i really don't know how it happened,' said i, 'but i suddenly found myself here without any previous intention.' "'you are not a loser, i hope?'--'indeed i am not,' i replied; 'but not much a gainer.' "'nor need you desire to be. do you desire to give your adversary his revenge now, or take another opportunity.'--'at another time,' i replied. "'you will find me here the day after to-morrow, when i shall be at your service;' then bowing, he turned away. "'he is a very rich man whom you have been playing with,' said the chevalier.--" "indeed!" "'yes, and i have known him to lose for three days together; but you may take his word for any amount; he is a perfect gentleman and man of honour.'--''tis well to play with such,' i replied; 'but i suppose you are about to leave.' "'yes, it grows late, and i have some business to transact to-morrow, so i must leave.'--'i will accompany you part of the way home,' said i, 'and then i shall have finished the night.' "i did leave with him, and accompanied him home, and then walked to my own home." * * * * * "this was my first visit, and i thought a propitious beginning, but it was the more dangerous. perhaps a loss might have effectually deterred me, but it is doubtful to tell how certain events might have been altered. it is just possible that i might have been urged on by my desire to retrieve any loss i might have incurred, and so made myself at once the miserable being it took months to accomplish in bringing me to. "i went the day but one after this, to meet the same individual at the gambling-table, and played some time with varied success, until i left off with a trifling loss upon the night's play, which was nothing of any consequence. [illustration] "thus matters went on; i sometimes won and sometimes lost, until i won a few hundreds, and this determined me to play for higher stakes than any i had yet played for. "it was no use going on in the peddling style i had been going on; i had won two hundred and fifty pounds in three months, and had i been less fearful i might have had twenty-five thousand pounds. ah! i'll try my fortune at a higher game. "having once made this resolution, i was anxious to begin my new plan, which i hoped would have the effect of placing me far above my then present position in society, which was good, and with a little attention it would have made me an independent man; but then it required patience, and nothing more. however, the other method was so superior since it might all be done with good luck in a few months. ah! good luck; how uncertain is good luck; how changeful is fortune; how soon is the best prospect blighted by the frosts of adversity. in less than a month i had lost more than i could pay, and then i gambled on for a living. "my wife had but one child; her first and only one; an infant at her breast; but there was a change came over her; for one had come over me--a fearful one it was too--one not only in manner but in fortune too. she would beg me to come home early; to attend to other matters, and leave the dreadful life i was then leading. "'lizzy,' said i, 'we are ruined.'--'ruined!' she exclaimed, and staggered back, until she fell into a seat. 'ruined!' "'ay, ruined. it is a short word, but expressive.'--'no, no, we are not ruined. i know what you mean, you would say, we cannot live as we have lived; we must retrench, and so we will, right willingly.' "'you must retrench most wonderfully,' i said, with desperate calmness, 'for the murder must out.'--'and so we will; but you will be with us; you will not go out night after night, ruining your health, our happiness, and destroying both peace and prospects.' "'no, no, lizzy, we have no chance of recovering ourselves; house and home--all gone--all, all.'--'my god!' she exclaimed. "'ay, rail on,' said i; 'you have cause enough; but, no matter--we have lost all.'--'how--how?' "'it is useless to ask how; i have done, and there is an end of the matter; you shall know more another day; we must leave this house for a lodging.'--'it matters little,' she said; 'all may be won again, if you will but say you will quit the society of those who have ruined you.' "'no one,' said i, 'has ruined me; i did it; it was no fault of any one else's; i have not that excuse.'--'i am sure you can recover.' "'i may; some day fortune will shower her favours upon me, and i live on in that expectation.'--'you cannot mean that you will chance the gaming-table? for i am sure you must have lost all there?' "'i have.'--'god help me,' she said; 'you have done your child a wrong, but you may repair it yet.' "'never!'--''tis a long day! let me implore you, on my knees, to leave this place, and adopt some other mode of life; we can be careful; a little will do, and we shall, in time, be equal to, and better than what we have been.' "'we never can, save by chance.'--'and by chance we never shall,' she replied; 'if you will exert yourself, we may yet retrieve ourselves.' "'and exert myself i will.'--'and quit the gaming-table?' "'ask me to make no promises,' said i; 'i may not be able to keep them; therefore, ask me to make none.'--'i do ask you, beg of, entreat of you to promise, and solemnly promise me that you will leave that fearful place, where men not only lose all their goods, but the feelings of nature also.' "'say no more, lizzy; if i can get a living elsewhere i will, but if not, i must get it there.' "she seemed to be cast down at this, and she shed tears. i left the room, and again went to the gambling-house, and there that night, i won a few pounds, which enabled me to take my wife and child away from the house they had so long lived in, and took them afterwards to a miserable place,--one room, where, indeed, there were a few articles of furniture that i had saved from the general wreck of my own property. "she took things much less to heart than i could have anticipated; she seemed cheerful and happy,--she endeavoured to make my home as comfortable as she could. "her whole endeavour was to make me as much as possible, forget the past. she wanted, as much as possible, to wean me away from my gambling pursuits, but that was impossible. i had no hope, no other prospect. "thus she strove, but i could see each day she was getting paler, and more pale; her figure, before round, was more thin, and betrayed signs of emaciation. this preyed upon me; and, when fortune denied me the means of carrying home that which she so much wanted, i could never return for two days at a time. then i would find her shedding tears, and sighing; what could i say? if i had anything to take her, then i used to endeavour to make her forget that i had been away. "'ah!' she would exclaim, 'you will find me dead one of these days; what you do now for one or two days, you will do by-and-bye for many days, perhaps weeks.'--'do not anticipate evil.' "'i cannot do otherwise; were you in any other kind of employment but that of gambling,' she said, 'i should have some hope of you; but, as it is, there is none.'--'speak not of it; my chances may turn out favourable yet, and you may be again as you were.' "'never.'--'but fortune is inconstant, and may change in my favour as much as she has done in others.' "'fortune is indeed constant, but misfortune is as inconstant.'--'you are prophetic of evil." "'ah! i would to heaven i could predict good; but who ever yet heard of a ruined gambler being able to retrieve himself by the same means that he was ruined?' "thus we used to converse, but our conversation was usually of but little comfort to either of us, for we could give neither any comfort to the other; and as that was usually the case, our interviews became less frequent, and of less duration. my answer was always the same. "'i have no other chance; my prospects are limited to that one place; deprive me of that, and i never more should be able to bring you a mouthful of bread.' "day after day,--day after day, the same result followed, and i was as far from success as ever i was, and ever should be; i was yet a beggar. "the time flew by; my little girl was nearly four years old, but she knew not the misery her father and mother had to endure. the poor little thing sometimes went without more than a meal a day; and while i was living thus upon the town, upon the chances of the gaming-table, many a pang did she cause me, and so did her mother. my constant consolation was this,-"'it is bad luck now,' i would say; 'but will be better by-and-bye; things cannot always continue thus. it is all for them--all for them.' "i thought that by continuing constantly in one course, i must be at land at the ebb of the tide. 'it cannot always flow one way,' i thought. i had often heard people say that if you could but have the resolution to play on, you must in the end seize the turn of fortune. "'if i could but once do that, i would never enter a hell again as long as i drew breath.' "this was a resolve i could not only make but keep, because i had suffered so much that i would never run through the same misery again that i had already gone through. however, fortune never seemed inclined to take the turn i had hoped for; fortune was as far off as ever, and had in no case given me any opportunity of recovering myself. "a few pounds were the utmost i could at any time muster, and i had to keep up something of an appearance, and seem as if i had a thousand a year; when, god knows, i could not have mustered a thousandth part of that sum, were all done and paid for. "day after day passed on, and yet no change. i had almost given myself up to despair, when one night when i went home i saw my wife was more than usually melancholy and sad, and perhaps ill; i didn't look at her--i seldom did, because her looks were always a reproach to me; i could not help feeling them so. "'well,' said i, 'i have come home to you because i have something to bring you; not what i ought--but what i can--you must be satisfied!'--'i am,' she said. "'i know also you want it; how is the child, is she quite well?'--'yes, quite.' "'where is she?' inquired i, looking round the room, but i didn't see her; she used to be up.--'she has gone to bed,' she said. "'it is very early.'--'yes, but she cried so for food that i was obliged to get her to sleep to forget her hunger: poor thing, she has wanted bread very badly.' "'poor thing!' i said, 'let her be awakened and partake of what i have brought home.' "with that my wife waked her up, and the moment she opened her eyes she again began to cry for food, which i immediately gave her and saw her devour with the utmost haste and hunger. the sight smote my heart, and my wife sat by watching, and endeavouring to prevent her from eating so fast. "'this is bad,' i said.--'yes, but i hope it may be the worst,' she replied, in a deep and hollow voice. "'lizzy,' i exclaimed, 'what is the matter--are you ill?'--'yes, very ill.' "'what is the matter with you? for god's sake tell me,' i said, for i was alarmed.--'i am very ill,' she said, 'very ill indeed; i feel my strength decreasing every day. i must drink.' "you, too, want food?'--'i have and perhaps do, though the desire to eat seems almost to have left me.' "'for heaven's sake eat,' said i; 'i will bring you home something more by to-morrow; eat and drink lizzy. i have suffered; but for you and your child's sake, i will do my best.'--'your best,' she said, 'will kill us both; but, alas, there is no other aid at hand. you may one day, however, come here too late to find us living.' "'say no more, lizzy, you know not my feelings when you speak thus; alas, i have no hope--no aid--no friend.'--'no,' she replied, 'your love of gaming drove them from you, because they would not aid a gambler.' "'say no more, lizzy,' i said; 'if there be not an end to this life soon, there will be an end to me. in two days more i shall return to you. good bye; god bless you. keep up your heart and the child.'--'good bye,' she said, sorrowfully. she shed tears, and wrung her hands bitterly. i hastened away--my heart was ready to burst, and i could not speak. "i walked about to recover my serenity, but could not do so sufficiently well to secure anything like an appearance that would render me fit to go to the gaming-house. that night i remained away, but i could not avoid falling into a debauch to drown my misfortunes, and shift the scene of misery that was continually before my eyes." * * * * * "the next night i was at the gaming-house. i went there in better than usual spirits. i saw, i thought, a change in fortune, and hailed that as the propitious moment of my life, when i was to rise above my present misfortunes. "i played and won--played and lost--played and won, and then lost again; thus i went on, fluctuating more and more, until i found i was getting money in my pocket. i had, at one moment more than three hundred pounds in my pocket, and i felt that then was my happy moment--then the tide of fortune was going in my favour. i ought to have left off with that--to have been satisfied with such an amount of money; but the demon of avarice seemed to have possessed me, and i went on and on with fluctuating fortune, until i lost the whole of it. "i was mad--desperate, and could have destroyed myself; but i thought of the state my wife and child were in; i thought that that night they would want food; but they could not hurt for one day--they must have some, or would procure some. "i was too far gone to be able to go to them, even if i were possessed of means; but i had none, and daylight saw me in a deep sleep, from which i awoke not until the next evening let in, and then i once more determined that i would make a desperate attempt to get a little money. i had always paid, and thought my word would be taken for once; and, if i won, all well and good; if not, then i was no worse off than before. "this was easy to plan, but not to execute. i went there, but there were none present in whom i had sufficient interest to dare make the attempt. i walked about, and felt in a most uncomfortable state. i feared i should not succeed at all, then what was to become of me--of my wife and child? this rendered me almost mad. i could not understand what i was to do, what to attempt, or where to go. one or two persons came up, and asked me if i were ill. my answers were, that i was well enough. good god! how far from the truth was that; but i found i must place more control on my feelings, else i should cause much conversation, and then i should lose all hope of recovering myself, and all prospect of living, even. "at length some one did come in, and i remarked i had been there all the evening and had not played. i had an invitation to play with him, which ended, by a little sleight of hand, in my favour; and on that i had calculated as much as on any good fortune i might meet. the person i played with observed it not, and, when we left off playing, i had some six or seven pounds in pocket. this, to me, was a very great sum; and, the moment i could decently withdraw myself, i ran off home. "i was fearful of the scene that awaited me. i expected something; worse than i had yet seen. possibly lizzy might be angry, and scold as well as complain. i therefore tapped at the door gently, but heard no one answer; but of this i took no notice, as i believed that they might be, and were, most probably, fast asleep. i had provided myself with a light, and i therefore opened the door, which was not fastened. "'lizzy!' said i, 'lizzy!' there was no answer given, and i paused. everything was as still as death. i looked on the bed--there lay my wife with her clothes on. "'lizzy! lizzy!' said i. but still she did not answer me. "'well,' said i, 'she sleeps sound;' and i walked towards the bed, and placed my hand upon her shoulder, and began to shake her, saying, as i did so,-"'lizzy! lizzy! i'm come home.' but still no answer, or signs of awaking. "i went on the other side of the bed to look at her face, and some misgivings overtook me. i trembled much. she lay on the bed, with her back towards the spot where i stood. "i came towards her face. my hand shook violently as i endeavoured to look at her. she had her eyes wide open, as if staring at me. "'lizzy,' said i. no answer was returned. i then placed my hand upon her cheek. it was enough, and i started back in great horror. she was dead! "this was horror itself. i staggered back and fell into a chair. the light i placed down, heaven knows how or why; but there i sat staring at the corpse of my unfortunate wife. i can hardly tell you the tremendous effect this had upon me. i could not move. i was fascinated to the spot. i could not move and could not turn." * * * * * "it was morning, and the rays of the sun illumined the apartment; but there sat i, still gazing upon the face of my unfortunate wife, i saw, i knew she was dead; but yet i had not spoken, but sat looking at her. "i believe my heart was as cold as she was; but extreme horror and dread had dried up all the warm blood in my body, and i hardly think there was a pulsation left. the thoughts of my child never once seemed to cross my mind. i had, however, sat there long--some hours before i was discovered, and this was by the landlady. "i had left the door open behind me, and she, in passing down, had the curiosity to peep, and saw me sitting in what she thought to be a very strange attitude, and could hear no sounds. "after some time she discovered my wife was dead, and, for some time, she thought me so, too. however, she was convinced to the contrary, and then began to call for assistance. this awoke the child, which was nearly famished. the landlady, to become useful, and to awaken me from my lethargy, placed the child in my hands, telling me i was the best person now to take care of it. "and so i was; there was no doubt of the truth of that, and i was compelled to acknowledge it. i felt much pride and pleasure in my daughter, and determined she should, if i starved, have the benefit of all i could do for her in the way of care, &c." * * * * * "the funeral over, i took my child and carried it to a school, where i left her, and paid in advance, promising to do so as often as the quarter came round. my wife i had seen buried by the hands of man, and i swore i would do the best for my child, and to keep this oath was a work of pleasure. "i determined also i would never more enter a gaming-house, be the extremity what it might; i would suffer even death before i would permit myself to enter the house in which it took place. "'i will,' i thought, 'obtain some employment of some kind or other. i could surely obtain that. i have only to ask and i have it, surely--something, however menial, that would keep me and my child. yes, yes--she ought, she must have her charges paid at once." "the effect of my wife's death was a very great shock to me, and such a one i could not forget--one i shall ever remember, and one that at least made a lasting impression upon me." * * * * * "strange, but true, i never entered a gambling-house; it was my horror and my aversion. and yet i could obtain no employment. i took my daughter and placed her at a boarding-school, and tried hard to obtain bread by labour; but, do what would, none could be had; if my soul depended upon it, i could find none. i cared not what it was--anything that was honest. "i was reduced low--very low; gaunt starvation showed itself in my cheeks; but i wandered about to find employment; none could be found, and the world seemed to have conspired together to throw me back to the gaming-table. "but this i would not. at last employment was offered; but what was it? the situation of common hangman was offered me. the employment was disgusting and horrible; but, at the same time, it was all i could get, and that was a sufficient inducement for me to accept of it. i was, therefore, the common executioner; and in that employment for some time earned a living. it was terrible; but necessity compelled me to accept the only thing i could obtain. you now know the reason why i became what i have told you." chapter lxxiii. the visit of the vampire.--the general meeting. [illustration] the mysterious friend of mr. chillingworth finished his narrative, and then the doctor said to him,-"and that, then, is the real cause why you, a man evidently far above the position of life which is usually that of those who occupy the dreadful post of executioner, came to accept of it."--"the real reason, sir. i considered, too, that in holding such a humiliating situation that i was justly served for the barbarity of which i had been guilty; for what can be a greater act of cruelty than to squander, as i did, in the pursuit of mad excitement, those means which should have rendered my home happy, and conduced to the welfare of those who were dependant upon me?" "i do not mean to say that your self-reproaches are unjust altogether, but--what noise is that? do you hear anything?"-"yes--yes." "what do you take it to be?"--"it seemed like the footsteps of a number of persons, and it evidently approaches nearer and nearer. i know not what to think." "shall i tell you?" said a deep-toned voice, and some one, through the orifice in the back of the summer-house, which, it will be recollected, sustained some damage at the time that varney escaped from it, laid a hand upon mr. chillingworth's shoulder. "god bless me!" exclaimed the doctor; "who's that?" and he sprang from his seat with the greatest perturbation in the world. "varney, the vampyre!" added the voice, and then both the doctor and his companion recognised it, and saw the strange, haggard features, that now they knew so well, confronting them. there was a pause of surprise, for a moment or two, on the part of the doctor, and then he said, "sir francis varney, what brings you here? i conjure you to tell me, in the name of common justice and common feeling, what brings you to this house so frequently? you have dispossessed the family, whose property it is, of it, and you have caused great confusion and dismay over a whole county. i implore you now, not in the language of menace or as an enemy, but as the advocate of the oppressed, and one who desires to see justice done to all, to tell me what it is you require." "there is no time now for explanation," said varney, "if explanations were my full and free intent. you wished to know what noise was that you heard?" "i did; can you inform me?"--"i can. the wild and lawless mob which you and your friends first induced to interfere in affairs far beyond their or your control, are now flushed with the desire of riot and of plunder. the noise you hear is that of their advancing footsteps; they come to destroy bannerworth hall." "can that be possible? the bannerworth family are the sufferers from all that has happened, and not the inflictors of suffering."--"ay, be it so; but he who once raises a mob has raised an evil spirit, which, in the majority of cases, it requires a far more potent spell than he is master of to quell again." "it is so. that is a melancholy truth; but you address me, sir francis varney, as if i led on the mob, when in reality i have done all that lay in my power, from the very first moment of their rising on account of this affair, which, in the first instance, was your work, to prevent them from proceeding to acts of violence."--"it may be so; but if you have now any regard for your own safety you will quit this place. it will too soon become the scene of a bloody contention. a large party of dragoons are even now by another route coming towards it, and it will be their duty to resist the aggressions of the mob; then should the rioters persevere, you can guess the result."--"i can, indeed." "retire then while you may, and against the bad deeds of sir francis varney at all events place some of his good ones, that he may not seem wholly without one redeeming trait."--"i am not accustomed," said the doctor, "to paint the devil blacker than he really is; but yet the cruel persecutions that the bannerworth family have endured call aloud for justice. you still, with a perseverance which shows you regardless of what others suffer so that you compass your own ends, hover round a spot which you have rendered desolate." "hark, sir; do you not hear the tramp of horses' feet?"--"i do." the noise made by the feet of the insurgents was now almost drowned in the louder and more rapid tramp of the horses' feet of the advancing dragoons, and, in a few moments more, sir francis varney waved his arm, exclaiming,-"they are here. will you not consult your safety by flight?"--"no," said mr. chillingworth's companion; "we prefer remaining here at the risk even of whatever danger may accrue to us." "fools, would you die in a chance _melee_ between an infuriated populace and soldiery?"--"do not leave," whispered the ex-hangman to mr. chillingworth; "do not leave, i pray you. he only wants to have the hall to himself." there could be no doubt now of the immediate appearance of the cavalry, and, before sir francis varney could utter another word, a couple of the foremost of the soldiers cleared the garden fence at a part where it was low, and alighted not many feet from the summer-house in which this short colloquy was taking place. sir francis varney uttered a bitter oath, and immediately disappeared in the gloom. "what shall we do?" said the hangman.--"you can do what you like, but i shall avow my presence to the military, and claim to be on their side in the approaching contest, if it should come to one, which i sincerely hope it will not." the military detachment consisted of about twenty-five dragoons, who now were all in the gardens. an order was given by the officer in command for them to dismount, which was at once obeyed, and the horses were fastened by their bridles to the various trees with which the place abounded. "they are going to oppose the mob on foot, with their carbines," said the hangman; "there will be sad work here i am afraid."--"well, at all events," said mr. chillingworth, "i shall decline acting the part of a spy here any longer; so here goes." "hilloa! a friend,--a friend here, in the summer-house!" "make it two friends," cried the hangman, "if you please, while you are about it." a couple of the dragoons immediately appeared, and the doctor, with his companion, were marched, as prisoners, before the officer in command. "what do you do here?" he said; "i was informed that the hall was deserted. here, orderly, where is mr. adamson, the magistrate, who came with me?"--"close at hand sir, and he says he's not well." "well, or ill, he must come here, and do something with these people." a magistrate of the district who had accompanied the troops, and been accommodated with a seat behind one of the dragoons, which seemed very much to have disagreed with him, for he was as pale as death, now stepped forward. "you know me, mr. adamson?" said the doctor; "i am mr. chillingworth."--"oh! yes; lord bless you! how came you here?" "never mind that just now; you can vouch for my having no connection with the rioters."--"oh! dear, yes; certainly. this is a respectable gentleman, captain richardson, and a personal friend of mine." "oh! very good."--"and i," said the doctor's companion, "am likewise a respectable and useful member of society, and a great friend of mr. chillingworth." "well, gentlemen," said the captain in command, "you may remain here, if you like, and take the chances, or you may leave." they intimated that they preferred remaining, and, almost at the moment that they did so, a loud shout from many throats announced the near approach of the mob.--"now, mr. magistrate, if you please," said the officer; "you will be so good as to tell the mob that i am here with my troop, under your orders, and strongly advise them to be off while they can, with whole skins, for if they persevere in attacking the place, we must persevere in defending it; and, if they have half a grain of sense among them, they can surely guess what the result of that will be." "i will do the best i can, as heaven is, my judge," said the magistrate, "to produce a peaceable recall,--more no man can do." "hurrah! hurrah!"' shouted the mob, "down with the vampyre! down with the hall!" and then one, more candid than his fellows, shouted,--"down with everything and everybody!" "ah!" remarked the officer; "that fellow now knows what he came about." a great number of torches and links were lighted by the mob, but the moment the glare of light fell upon the helmets and accoutrements of the military, there was a pause of consternation on the part of the multitude, and mr. adamson, urged on by the officer, who, it was evident, by no means liked the service he was on, took advantage of the opportunity, and, stepping forward, he said,-"my good people, and fellow townsmen, let me implore you to listen to reason, and go to your homes in peace. if you do not, but, on the contrary, in defiance of law and good order, persist in attacking this house, it will become my painful duty to read the riot act, and then the military and you will have to fight it out together, which i beg you will avoid, for you know that some of you will be killed, and a lot more of you receive painful wounds. now disperse, let me beg of you, at once." there seemed for a moment a disposition among the mob to give up the contest, but there were others among them who were infuriated with drink, and so regardless of all consequences. those set up a shout of "down with the red coats; we are englishmen, and will do what we like." some one then threw a heavy stone, which struck one of the soldiers, and brought blood from his cheek. the officer saw it, but he said at once,-"stand firm, now, stand firm. no anger--steady." "twenty pounds for the man who threw that stone," said the magistrate.--"twenty pound ten for old adamson, the magistrate," cried a voice in the crowd, which, no doubt came from him who had cast the missile. then, at least fifty stones were thrown, some of which hit the magistrate, and the remainder came rattling upon the helmets of the dragoons, like a hail shower. "i warn you, and beg of you to go," said mr. adamson; "for the sake of your wives and families, i beg of you not to pursue this desperate game." loud cries now arose of "down with the soldiers; down with the vampyre. he's in bannerworth hall. smoke him out." and then one or two links were hurled among the dismounted dragoons. all this was put up with patiently; and then again the mob were implored to leave, which being answered by fresh taunts, the magistrate proceeded to read the riot act, not one word of which was audible amid the tumult that prevailed. "put out all the lights," cried a voice among the mob. the order was obeyed, and the same voice added; "they dare not fire on us. come on:" and a rush was made at the garden wall. "make ready--present," cried the officer. and then he added, in an under tone, "above their heads, now--fire." there was a blaze of light for a moment, a stunning noise, a shout of dismay from the mob, and in another moment all was still. "there," said dr. chillingworth, "that this is, at all events, a bloodless victory." "you may depend upon that," said his companion; "but is not there some one yet remaining? look there, do you not see a figure clambering over the fence?" "yes, i do, indeed. ah, they have him a prisoner, at all events. those two dragoons have him, fast enough; we shall now, perhaps, hear from this fellow who is the actual ringleader in such an affair, which, but for the pusillanimity of the mob, might have turned out to be really most disastrous." it was strange how one man should think it expedient to attack the military post after the mob had been so completely routed at the first discharge of fire-arms, but so it was. one man did make an attempt to enter the garden, and it was so rapid and so desperate an one, that he rather seemed to throw himself bodily at the fence, which separated it from the meadows without, than to clamber over it, as any one under ordinary circumstances, who might wish to effect an entrance by that means, would have done. he was no sooner, however, perceived, than a couple of the dismounted soldiers stepped forward and made a prisoner of him. "good god!" exclaimed mr. chillingworth, as they approached nearer with him. "good god! what is the meaning of that? do my eyes deceive me, or are they, indeed, so blessed?" "blessed by what?" exclaimed the hangman. "by a sight of the long lost, deeply regretted charles holland. charles--charles, is that indeed you, or some unsubstantial form in your likeness?" charles holland, for it was, indeed, himself, heard the friendly voice of the doctor, and he called out to him. "speak to me of flora. oh, speak to me of flora, if you would not have me die at once of suspense, and all the torture of apprehension." "she lives and is well." "thank heaven. do with me what you please." dr. chillingworth sprang forward, and addressing the magistrate, he said,-"sir, i know this gentleman. he is no one of the rioters, but a dear friend of the family of the bannerworths. charles holland, what in the name of heaven had become of you so long, and what brought you here at such a juncture as this?" "i am faint," said charles; "i--i only arrived as the crowd did. i had not strength to fight my way through them, and was compelled to pause until they had dispersed can--can you give me water?" "here's something better," said one of the soldiers, as he handed a flask to charles, who partook of some of the contents, which greatly revived him, indeed. "i am better now," he said. "thank you kindly. take me into the house. good god! why is it made a point of attack? where are flora and henry? are they all well? and my uncle? oh! what must you all have thought of my absence! but you cannot have endured a hundredth part of what i have suffered. let me look once again upon the face of flora. take me into the house." "release him," said the officer, as he pointed to his head, and looked significantly, as much as to say, "some mad patient of yours, i suppose." "you are much mistaken, sir," said dr. chillingworth; "this gentleman has been cruelly used, i have no doubt. he has, i am inclined to believe, been made the victim, for a time, of the intrigues of that very sir francis varney, whose conduct has been the real cause of all the serious disturbances that have taken place in the country." "confound sir francis varney," muttered the officer; "he is enough to set a whole nation by the ears. however, mr. magistrate, if you are satisfied that this young man is not one of the rioters, i have, of course, no wish to hold him a prisoner." "i can take mr. chillingworth's word for more than that," said the magistrate. charles holland was accordingly released, and then the doctor, in hurried accents, told him the principal outlines of what had occurred. "oh! take me to flora," he said; "let me not delay another moment in seeking her, and convincing her that i could not have been guilty of the baseness of deserting her." "hark you, mr. holland, i have quite made up my mind that i will not leave bannerworth hall yet; but you can go alone, and easily find them by the directions which i will give you; only let me beg of you not to go abruptly into the presence of flora. she is in an extremely delicate state of health, and although i do not take upon myself to say that a shock of a pleasurable nature would prove of any paramount bad consequence to her, yet it is as well not to risk it." "i will be most careful, you may depend." at this moment there was a loud ringing at the garden bell, and, when it was answered by one of the dragoons, who was ordered to do so by his officer, he came back, escorting no other than jack pringle, who had been sent by the admiral to the hall, but who had solaced himself so much on the road with divers potations, that he did not reach it till now, which was a full hour after the reasonable time in which he ought to have gone the distance. [illustration] jack was not to say dumb, but he had had enough to give him a very jolly sort of feeling of independence, and so he came along quarrelling with the soldier all the way, the latter only laughing and keeping his temper admirably well, under a great deal of provocation. "why, you land lubbers," cried jack, "what do you do here, all of you, i wonder! you are all wamphighers, i'll be bound, every one of you. you mind me of marines, you do, and that's quite enough to turn a proper seaman's stomach, any day in the week." the soldier only laughed, and brought jack up to the little group of persons consisting of dr. chillingworth, the hangman, charles holland, and the officer. "why, jack pringle," said dr. chillingworth, stepping before charles, so that jack should not see him,--"why, jack pringle, what brings you here?" "a slight squall, sir, to the nor'west. brought you something to eat." jack produced a bottle. "to drink, you mean?" "well, it's all one; only in this here shape, you see, it goes down better, i'm thinking, which does make a little difference somehow." "how is the admiral?" "oh, he's as stupid as ever; lord bless you, he'd be like a ship without a rudder without me, and would go swaying about at the mercy of winds and waves, poor old man. he's bad enough as it is, but if so be i wasn't to give the eye to him as i does, bless my heart if i thinks as he'd be above hatches long. here's to you all." jack took the cork from the bottle he had with him, and there came from it a strong odour of rum. then he placed it to his lips, and was enjoying the pleasant gurgle of the liquor down his throat, when charles stepped up to him, and laying hold of the lower end of the bottle, he dragged it from his mouth, saying,-"how dare you talk in the way you have of my uncle, you drunken, mutinous rascal, and behind his back too!" the voice of charles holland was as well known to jack pringle as that of the admiral, and his intense astonishment at hearing himself so suddenly addressed by one, of whose proximity he had not the least idea, made some of the rum go, what is popularly termed, the wrong way, and nearly choked him. he reeled back, till he fell over some obstruction, and then down he sat on a flower bed, while his eyes seemed ready to come out of his head. "avast heavings," he cried, "who's that?" "come, come," said charles holland, "don't pretend you don't know me; i will not have my uncle spoken of in a disrespectful manner by you." "well, shiver my timbers, if that ain't our nevey. why, charley, my boy, how are you? here we are in port at last. won't the old commodore pipe his eye, now. whew! here's a go. i've found our nevey, after all." "you found him," said dr. chillingworth; "now, that is as great a piece of impudence as ever i heard in all my life. you mean that he has found you, and found you out, too, you drunken fellow. jack, you get worse and worse every day." "ay, ay, sir." "what, you admit it?" "ay, ay, sir. now, master charley, i tell you what it is, i shall take you off to your old uncle, you shore going sneak and you'll have to report what cruise you've been upon all this while, leaving the ship to look after itself. lord love you all, if it hadn't been for me i don't know what anybody would have done." "i only know of the result," said dr chillingworth, "that would ensue, if it were not for you, and that would consist in a great injury to the revenue, in consequence of the much less consumption of rum and other strong liquors." "i'll be hanged up at the yard if i understands what you mean," said jack; "as if i ever drunk anything--i, of all people in the world. i am ashamed of you. you are drunk." several of the dragoons had to turn aside to keep themselves from laughing, and the officer himself could not forbear from a smile as he said to the doctor,-"sir, you seem to have many acquaintances, and by some means or another they all have an inclination to come here to-night. if, however, you consider that you are bound to remain here from a feeling that the hall is threatened with any danger, you may dismiss that fear, for i shall leave a picquet here all night." "no, sir," replied dr. chillingworth, "it is not that i fear now, after the manner in which they have been repulsed, any danger to the hall from the mob; but i have reasons for wishing to be in it or near it for some time to come." "as you please." "charles, do not wait for or accept the guidance of that drunken fellow, but go yourself with a direction which i will write down for you in a leaf of my pocket-book." "drunken fellow," exclaimed jack, who had now scrambled to his feet, "who do you call a drunken fellow?" "why you, unquestionably." "well, now, that is hard. come along, nevey; i'll shew you where they all are. i could walk a plank on any deck with any man in the service, i could. come along, my boy, come along." "you can accept of him as a guide if you like, of course," said the doctor; "he may be sober enough to conduct you." "i think he can," said charles. "lead on, jack; but mark me, i shall inform my uncle of this intemperance, as well as of the manner in which you let your tongue wag about him behind his back, unless you promise to reform." "he is long past all reformation," remarked dr. chillingworth; "it is out of the question." "and i am afraid my uncle will not have courage to attempt such an ungrateful task, when there is so little chance of success," replied charles holland, shaking the worthy doctor by the hand. "farewell, for the present, sir; the next time i see you, i hope we shall both be more pleasantly situated." "come along, nevey," interrupted jack pringle; "now you've found your way back, the first thing you ought to do, is to report yourself as having come aboard. follow me, and i'll soon show yer the port where the old hulk's laid hisself up." jack walked on first, tolerably steady, if one may take into account his divers deep potations, and charles holland, anticipating with delight again looking upon the face of his much loved flora, followed closely behind him. we can well imagine the world of delightful thoughts that came crowding upon him when jack, after rather a long walk, announced that they were now very near the residence of the object of his soul's adoration. we trust that there is not one of our readers who, for one moment, will suppose that charles holland was the sort of man to leave even such a villain and double-faced hypocrite as marchdale, to starve amid the gloomy ruins where he was immured. far from charles's intentions was any such thing; but he did think that a night passed there, with no other company than his own reflections, would do him a world of good, and was, at all events, no very great modicum of punishment for the rascality with which he had behaved. besides, even during that night there were refreshments in the shape of bread and water, such as had been presented to charles himself, within marchdale's reach as they had been within his. that individual now, charles thought, would have a good opportunity of testing the quality of that kind of food, and of finding out what an extremely light diet it was for a strong man to live upon. but in the morning it was charles's intention to take henry bannerworth and the admiral with him to the ruins, and then and there release the wretch from his confinement, on condition that he made a full confession of his villanies before those persons. oh, how gladly would marchdale have exchanged the fate which actually befell him for any amount of personal humiliation, always provided that it brought with it a commensurate amount of personal safety. but that fate was one altogether undreamt of by charles holland, and wholly without his control. it was a fate which would have been his, but for the murderous purpose which had brought marchdale to the dungeon, and those happy accidents which had enabled charles to change places with him, and breathe the free, cool, fresh air; while he left his enemy loaded with the same chains that had encumbered his limbs so cruelly, and lying on that same damp dungeon floor, which he thought would be his grave. we mentioned that as charles left the ruins, the storm, which had been giving various indications of its coming, seemed to be rapidly approaching. it was one of these extremely local tempests which expend all their principal fury over a small space of country; and, in this instance, the space seemed to include little more than the river, and the few meadows which immediately surrounded it, and lent it so much of its beauty. marchdale soon found that his cries were drowned by the louder voices of the elements. the wailing of the wind among the ancient ruins was much more full of sound than his cries; and, now and then, the full-mouthed thunder filled the air with such a volume of roaring, and awakened so many echoes among the ruins, that, had he possessed the voices of fifty men, he could not have hoped to wage war with it. and then, although we know that charles holland would have encountered death himself, rather than he would have willingly left anything human to expire of hunger in that dungeon, yet marchdale, judging of others by himself, felt by no means sure of any such thing, and, in his horror of apprehension, fancied that that was just the sort of easy, and pleasant, and complete revenge that it was in charles holland's power to take, and just the one which would suggest itself, under the circumstances, to his mind. could anything be possibly more full of horror than such a thought? death, let it come in any shape it may, is yet a most repulsive and unwelcome guest; but, when it comes, so united with all that can add to its terrors, it is enough to drive reason from its throne, and fill the mind with images of absolute horror. tired of shrieking, for his parched lips and clogged tongue would scarcely now permit him to utter a sound higher than a whisper. marchdale lay, listening to the furious storm without, in the last abandonment of despair. "oh! what a death is this," he groaned. "here, alone--all alone--and starvation to creep on me by degrees, sapping life's energies one by one. already do i feel the dreadful sickening weakness growing on me. help, oh! help me heav--no, no! dare i call on heaven to help me? is there no fiend of darkness who now will bid me a price for a human soul? is there not one who will do so--not one who will rescue me from the horror that surrounds me, for heaven will not? i dare not ask mercy there." the storm continued louder and louder. the wind, it is true, was nearly hushed, but the roar and the rattle of the echo-awakening thunder fully made up for its cessation, while, now and then, even there, in that underground abode, some sudden reflection of the vivid lightning's light would find its way, lending, for a fleeting moment, sufficient light to marchdale, wherewith he could see the gloomy place in which he was. at times he wept, and at times he raved, while ever and anon he made such frantic efforts to free himself from the chains that were around him, that, had they not been strong, he must have succeeded; but, as it was, he only made deep indentations into his flesh, and gave himself much pain. "charles holland!" he shouted; "oh! release me! varney! varney! why do you not come to save me? i have toiled for you most unrequitedly--i have not had my reward. let it all consist in my release from this dreadful bondage. help! help! oh, help!" there was no one to hear him. the storm continued, and now, suddenly, a sudden and a sharper sound than any awakened by the thunder's roar came upon his startled ear, and, in increased agony, he shouted,-"what is that? oh! what is that? god of heaven, do my fears translate that sound aright? can it be, oh! can it be, that the ruins which have stood for so many a year are now crumbling down before the storm of to-night?" the sound came again, and he felt the walls of the dungeon in which he was shake. now there could be no doubt but that the lightning had struck some part of the building, and so endangered the safety of all that was above ground. for a moment there came across his brain such a rush of agony, that he neither spoke nor moved. had that dreadful feeling continued much longer, he must have lapsed into insanity; but that amount of mercy--for mercy it would have been--was not shown to him. he still felt all the accumulating horrors of his situation, and then, with such shrieks as nothing but a full appreciation of such horrors could have given him strength to utter, he called upon earth, upon heaven and upon all that was infernal, to save him from his impending doom. all was in vain. it was an impending doom which nothing but the direct interposition of heaven could have at all averted; and it was not likely that any such perversion of the regular laws of nature would take place to save such a man as marchdale. again came the crashing sound of falling stones, and he was certain that the old ruins, which had stood for so many hundred years the storm, and the utmost wrath of the elements, was at length yielding, and crumbling down. what else could he expect but to be engulphed among the fragments--fragments still weighty and destructive, although in decay. how fearfully now did his horrified imagination take in at one glance, as it were, a panoramic view of all his past life, and how absolutely contemptible, at that moment, appeared all that he had been striving for. but the walls shake again, and this time the vibration is more fearful than before. there is a tremendous uproar above him--the roof yields to some superincumbent pressure--there is one shriek, and marchdale lies crushed beneath a mass of masonry that it would take men and machinery days to remove from off him. all is over now. that bold, bad man--that accomplished hypocrite--that mendacious, would-be murderer was no more. he lies but a mangled, crushed, and festering corpse. may his soul find mercy with his god! the storm, from this moment, seemed to relax in its violence, as if it had accomplished a great purpose, and, consequently, now, need no longer "vex the air with its boisterous presence." gradually the thunder died away in the distance. the wind no longer blew in blustrous gusts, but, with a gentle murmuring, swept around the ancient pile, as if singing the requiem of the dead that lay beneath--that dead which mortal eyes were never to look upon. chapter lxxiv. the meeting of charles and flora. [illustration] charles holland followed jack pringle for some time in silence from bannerworth hall; his mind was too full of thought concerning the past to allow him to indulge in much of that kind of conversation in which jack pringle might be fully considered to be a proficient. as for jack, somehow or another, he had felt his dignity offended in the garden of bannerworth hall, and he had made up his mind, as he afterwards stated in his own phraseology, not to speak to nobody till somebody spoke to him. a growing anxiety, however, to ascertain from one who had seen her lately, how flora had borne his absence, at length induced charles holland to break his self-imposed silence. "jack," he said, "you have had the happiness of seeing her lately, tell me, does flora bannerworth look as she was wont to look, or have all the roses faded from her cheeks?" "why, as for the roses," said jack, "i'm blowed if i can tell, and seeing as how she don't look at me much, i doesn't know nothing about her; i can tell you something, though, about the old admiral that will make you open your eyes." "indeed, jack, and what may that be?" "why, he's took to drink, and gets groggy about every day of his life, and the most singular thing is, that when that's the case with the old man, he says it's me." "indeed, jack! taken to drinking has my poor old uncle, from grief, i suppose, jack, at my disappearance." "no, i don't think it's grief," said jack; "it strikes me it's rum-and-water." "alas, alas, i never could have imagined he could have fallen into that habit of yours; he always seemed so far from anything of this kind." "ay, ay, sir," said jack, "i know'd you'd be astonished. it will be the death of him, that's my opinion; and the idea, you know, master charles, of accusing me when he gets drunk himself." "i believe that is a common delusion of intemperate persons," said charles. "is it, sir; well, it's a very awkward i thing, because you know, sir, as well as most people, that i'm not the fellow to take a drop too much." "i cannot say, jack, that i know so much, for i have certainly heard my uncle accuse you of intoxication." "lor', sir, that was all just on account of his trying it hisself; he was a thinking on it then, and wanted to see how i'd take it." "but tell me of flora; are you quite certain that she has had no more alarms from varney?" "what, that ere vampyre fellow? not a bit of it, your honour. lor' bless you, he must have found out by some means or another that i was on the look out, and that did the business. he'll never come near miss flora again, i'll be bound, though to be sure we moved away from the hall on account of him; but not that i saw the good of cruising out of one's own latitude, but somehow or another you see the doctor and the admiral got it into their heads to establish a sort of blockade, and the idea of the thing was to sail away in the night quite quiet, and after that take up a position that would come across the enemy on the larboard tack, if so be as he made his appearance." "oh, you allude to watching the hall, i presume?" "ay, ay, sir, just so; but would you believe it, master charlie, the admiral and the doctor got so blessed drunk that i could do nothing with 'em." "indeed!" "yes, they did indeed, and made all kinds of queer mistakes, so that the end of all that was, that the vampyre did come; but he got away again." "he did come then; sir francis varney came again after the house was presumed to be deserted?" "he did, sir." "that is very strange; what on earth could have been his object? this affair is most inexplicably mysterious. i hope the distance, jack, is not far that you're taking me, for i'm incapable of enduring much fatigue." "not a great way, your honour; keep two points to the westward, and sail straight on; we'll soon come to port. my eye, won't there be a squall when you get in. i expect as miss flora will drop down as dead as a herring, for she doesn't think you're above the hatches." "a good thought, jack; my sudden appearance may produce alarm. when we reach the place of abode of the bannerworths, you shall precede me, and prepare them in some measure for my reception." "very good, sir; do you see that there little white cottage a-head, there in the offing?" "yes, yes; is that the place?" "yes, your honour, that's the port to which we are bound." "well, then, jack, you hasten a-head, and see miss flora, and be sure you prepare her gently and by degrees, you know, jack, for my appearance, so that she shall not be alarmed." "ay, ay, sir, i understand; you wait here, and i'll go and do it; there would be a squall if you were to make your appearance, sir, all at once. she looks upon you as safely lodged in davy's locker; she minds me, all the world, of a girl i knew at portsmouth, called bet bumplush. she was one of your delicate little creatures as don't live long in this here world; no, blow me; when i came home from a eighteen months' cruise, once i seed her drinking rum out of a quart pot, so i says, 'hilloa, what cheer?' and only to think now of the wonderful effect that there had upon her; with that very pot she gives the fellow as was standing treat a knobber on the head as lasted him three weeks. she was too good for this here world, she was, and too rummantic. 'go to blazes,' she says to him, 'here's jack pringle come home.'" "very romantic indeed," said charles. "yes, i believe you, sir; and that puts me in mind of miss flora and you." "an extremely flattering comparison. of course i feel much obliged." "oh, don't name it, sir. the british tar as can't oblige a feller-cretor is unworthy to tread the quarter-deck, or to bear a hand to the distress of a woman." "very well," said charles. "now, as we are here, precede me, if you please, and let me beg of you to be especially cautious in your manner of announcing me." "ay, ay, sir," said jack: and away he walked towards the cottage, leaving charles some distance behind. flora and the admiral were sitting together conversing. the old man, who loved her as if she had been a child of his own, was endeavouring, to the extent of his ability, to assuage the anguish of her thoughts, which at that moment chanced to be bent upon charles holland. "nevermind, my dear," he said; "he'll turn up some of these days, and when he does, i sha'n't forget to tell him that it was you who stood out for his honesty and truth, when every one else was against him, including myself, an old wretch that i was." "oh, sir, how could you for one moment believe that those letters could have been written by your nephew charles? they carried, sir, upon the face of them their own refutation; and i'm only surprised that for one instant you, or any one who knew him, could have believed him capable of writing them." "avast, there," said the admiral; "that'll do. i own you got the better of the old sailor there. i think you and jack pringle were the only two persons who stood out from the first." "then i honour jack for doing so." "and here he is," said the admiral, "and you'd better tell him. the mutinous rascal! he wants all the honour he can get, as a set-off against his drunkenness and other bad habits." jack walked into the room, looked about him in silence for a moment, thrust his hands in his breeches pockets, and gave a long whistle. "what's the matter now?" said the admiral. "d--me, if charles holland ain't outside, and i've come to prepare you for the blessed shock," said jack. "don't faint either of you, because i'm only going to let you know it by degrees, you know." a shriek burst from flora's lips, and she sprung to the door of the apartment. "what!" cried the admiral, "my nephew--my nephew charles! jack, you rascal, if you're joking, it's the last joke you shall make in this world; and if it's true, i--i--i'm an old fool, that's all." "ay, ay, sir," said jack; "didn't you know that afore?" "charles--charles!" cried flora. he heard the voice. her name escaped his lips, and rang with a pleasant echo through the house. in another moment he was in the room, and had clasped her to his breast. "my own--my beautiful--my true!" "charles, dear charles!" "oh, flora, what have i not endured since last we met; but this repays me--more than repays me for all." "what is the past now," cried flora--"what are all its miseries placed against this happy, happy moment?" "d--me, nobody thinks of me," said the admiral. "my dear uncle," said charles, looking over flora's shoulder, as he still held her in his arms, "is that you?" "yes, yes, swab, it is me, and you know it; but give us your five, you mutinous vagabond; and i tell you what, i'll do you the greatest favour i've had an opportunity of doing you some time--i'll leave you alone, you dog. come along, jack." "ay, ay, sir," said jack; and away they went out of the apartment. and now those two loving hearts were alone--they who had been so long separated by malignant destiny, once again were heart to heart, looking into each other's faces with all the beaming tenderness of an affection of the truest, holiest character. the admiral had done a favour to them both to leave them alone, although we much doubt whether his presence, or the presence of the whole world, would have had the effect of controlling one generous sentiment of noble feeling. they would have forgotten everything but that they were together, and that once again each looked into the other's eyes with all the tenderness of a love purer and higher than ordinarily belongs to mortal affections. language was weak to give utterance to the full gust of happy feelings that now were theirs. it was ecstasy enough to feel, to know that the evil fortune which had so long separated them, depriving each existence of its sunniest aspect, was over. it was enough for charles holland to feel that she loved him still. it was enough for flora bannerworth to know, as she looked into his beaming countenance, that that love was not misplaced, but was met by feelings such as she herself would have dictated to be the inhabitants of the heart of him whom she would have chosen from the mass of mankind as her own. "flora--dear flora," said charles, "and you have never doubted me?" "i've never doubted, charles, heaven or you. to doubt one would have been, to doubt both." "generous and best of girls, what must you have thought of my enforced absence! oh! flora, i was unjust enough to your truth to make my greatest pang the thought that you might doubt me, and cast me from your heart for ever." "ah! charles, you ought to have known me better. i stood amid sore temptation to do so much. there were those who would have urged me on to think that you had cast me from your heart for ever. there were those ready and willing to place the worst construction upon your conduct, and with a devilish ingenuity to strive to make me participate in such a feeling; but, no, charles, no--i loved you, and i trusted you, and i could not so far belie my own judgment as to tell you other than what you always seemed to my young fancy." "and you are right, my flora, right; and is it not a glorious triumph to see that love--that sentiment of passion--has enabled you to have so enduring and so noble a confidence in aught human?" "ay, charles, it is the sentiment of passion, for our love has been more a sentiment than a passion. i would fain think that we had loved each other with an affection not usually known, appreciated, or understood, and so, in the vanity of my best affections, i would strive to think them something exclusive, and beyond the common feelings of humanity." "and you are right, my flora; such love as yours is the exception; there may be preferences, there may be passions, and there may be sentiments, but never, never, surely, was there a heart like yours." "nay, charles, now you speak from a too poetical fancy; but is it possible that i have had you here so long, with your hand clasped in mine, and asked you not the causes of your absence?" "oh, flora, i have suffered much--much physically, but more mentally. it was the thought of you that was at once the bane and the antidote of my existence." "indeed, charles! did i present myself in such contradictory colours to you?" "yes, dearest, as thus. when i thought of you, sometimes, in the deep seclusion of a dungeon, that thought almost goaded me to madness, because it brought with it the conviction--a conviction peculiar to a lover--that none could so effectually stand between you and all evil as myself." "yes, yes, charles; most true." "it seemed to me as if all the world in arms could not have protected you so well as this one heart, clad in the triple steel of its affections, could have shielded you from evil." "ay, charles; and then i was the bane of your existence, because i filled you with apprehension?" "for a time, dearest; and then came the antidote; for when exhausted alike in mind and body--when lying helpless, with chains upon my limbs--when expecting death at every visit of those who had dragged me from light and from liberty, and from love; it was but the thought of thy beauty and thy affection that nerved me, and gave me a hope even amidst the cruellest disaster." "and then--and then, charles?" "you were my blessing, as you have ever been--as you are, and as you will ever be--my own flora, my beautiful--my true!" we won't go so far as to say it is the fact; but, from a series of singular sounds which reached even to the passage of the cottage, we have our own private opinion to the effect, that charles began kissing flora at the top of her forehead, and never stopped, somehow or another, till he got down to her chin--no, not her chin--her sweet lips--he could not get past them. perhaps it was wrong; but we can't help it--we are faithful chroniclers. reader, if you be of the sterner sex, what would you have done?--if of the gentler, what would you have permitted? chapter lxxv. mutual explanations, and the visit to the ruins. [illustration] during the next hour, charles informed flora of the whole particulars of his forcible abduction; and to his surprise he heard, of course, for the first time, of those letters, purporting to be written by him, which endeavoured to give so bad an aspect to the fact of his sudden disappearance from bannerworth hall. flora would insist upon the admiral, henry, and the rest of the family, hearing all that charles had to relate concerning mr. marchdale; for well she knew that her mother, from early associations, was so far impressed in the favour of that hypocritical personage, that nothing but damning facts, much to his prejudice, would suffice to convince her of the character he really was. but she was open to conviction, and when she really found what a villain she had cherished and given her confidence to, she shed abundance of tears, and blamed herself exceedingly as the cause of some of the misfortunes which had fallen upon her children. "very good," said the admiral; "i ain't surprised a bit. i knew he was a vagabond from the first time i clapped eyes upon him. there was a down look about the fellow's figure-head that i didn't like, and be hanged to him, but i never thought he would have gone the length he has done. and so you say you've got him safe in the ruins, charles?" "i have, indeed, uncle." "and then there let him remain, and a good place, too, for him." "no, uncle, no. i'm sure you speak without thought. i intend to release him in a few hours, when i have rested from my fatigues. he could not come to any harm if he were to go without food entirely for the time that i leave him; but even that he will not do, for there is bread and water in the dungeon." "bread and water! that's too good for him. but, however, charles, when you go to let him out, i'll go with you, just to tell him what i think of him, the vagabond." "he must suffer amazingly, for no doubt knowing well, as he does, his own infamous intentions, he will consider that if i were to leave him to starve to death, i should be but retailing upon him the injuries he would have inflicted upon me." "the worst of it is," said the admiral, "i can't think what to do with him." "do nothing, uncle, but just let him go; it will be a sufficient punishment for such a man to feel that, instead of succeeding in his designs, he has only brought upon himself the bitterest contempt of those whom he would fain have injured. i can have no desire for revenge on such a man as marchdale." "you are right, charles," said flora; "let him go, and let him go with a feeling that he has acquired the contempt of those whose best opinions might have been his for a far less amount of trouble than he has taken to acquire their worst." excitement had kept up charles to this point, but now, when he arose and expressed his intention of going to the ruins, for the purpose of releasing marchdale, he exhibited such unequivocal symptoms of exhaustion and fatigue that neither his uncle nor flora would permit him to go, so, in deference to them, he gave up the point, and commissioned the admiral and jack, with henry, to proceed to the place, and give the villain his freedom; little suspecting what had occurred since he had himself left the neighbourhood of those ruins. of course charles holland couldn't be at all accountable for the work of the elements, and it was not for him to imagine that when he left marchdale in the dungeon that so awful a catastrophe as that we have recorded to the reader was to ensue. the distance to the ruins was not so great from this cottage even as it was from bannerworth hall, provided those who went knew the most direct and best road to take; so that the admiral was not gone above a couple of hours, and when he returned he sat down and looked at charles with such a peculiar expression, that the latter could not for the life of him tell what to make of it. [illustration] "something has happened, uncle," he said, "i am certain; tell me at once what it is." "oh! nothing, nothing," said the admiral, "of any importance." "is that what you call your feelings?" said jack pringle. "can't you tell him as there came on a squall last night, and the ruins have come in with a dab upon old marchdale, crushing his guts, so that we smelt him as soon as we got nigh at hand?" "good god!" said charles, "has such a catastrophe occurred?" "yes, charles, that's just about the catastrophe that has occurred. he's dead; and rum enough it is that it should happen on the very night that you escaped." "rum!" said jack, suddenly; "my eye, who mentions rum? what a singular sort of liquor rum must be. i heard of a chap as used to be fond of it once on board a ship; i wonder if there's any in the house." "no!" said the admiral; "but there's a fine pump of spring water outside if you feel a little thirsty, jack; and i'll engage it shall do you more good than all the rum in the world." "uncle," said charles, "i'm glad to hear you make that observation." "what for?" "why, to deal candidly with you, uncle, jack informed me that you had lately taken quite a predilection for drinking." "me!" cried the admiral; "why the infernal rascal, i've had to threaten him with his discharge a dozen times, at least, on that very ground, and no other." "there's somebody calling me," said jack. "i'm a coming! i'm a coming!" and, so he bolted out of the room, just in time to escape an inkstand, which the admiral caught up and flung after him. "i'll strike that rascal off the ship's books this very day," muttered admiral bell. "the drunken vagabond, to pretend that i take anything, when all the while it's himself!" "well, well, i ought certainly to have suspected the quarter from whence the intelligence came; but he told it to me so circumstantially, and with such an apparent feeling of regret for the weakness into which he said you had fallen, that i really thought there might be some truth in it." "the rascal! i've done with him from this moment; i have put up with too much from him for years past." "i think now that you have given him a great deal of liberty, and that, with a great deal more he has taken, makes up an amount which you find it difficult to endure." "and i won't endure it." "let me talk to him, and i dare say i shall be able to convince him that he goes too far, and when he finds that such is the case he will mend." "speak to him, if you like, but i have done with such a mutinous rascal, i have. you can take him into your service, if you like, till you get tired of him; and that won't be very long." "well, well, we shall see. jack will apologise to you i have no doubt; and then i shall intercede for him, and advise you to give him another trial." "if you get him into the apology, then there's no doubt about me giving him another trial. but i know him too well for that; he's as obstinate as a mule, he is, and you won't get a civil word out of him; but never mind that, now. i tell you what, master charley, it will take a good lot of roast beef to get up your good looks again." "it will, indeed, uncle; and i require, now, rest, for i am thoroughly exhausted. the great privations i have undergone, and the amount of mental excitement which i have experienced, in consequence of the sudden and unexpected release from a fearful confinement, have greatly weakened all my energies. a few hours' sleep will make quite a different being of me." "well, my boy, you know best," returned the admiral; "and i'll take care, if you sleep till to-morrow, that you sha'n't be disturbed. so now be off to bed at once." the young man shook his uncle's hand in a cordial manner, and then repaired to the apartment which had been provided for him. charles holland did, indeed, stand in need of repose; and for the first time now for many days he laid down with serenity at his heart, and slept for many hours. and was there not now a great and a happy change in flora bannerworth! as if by magic, in a few short hours, much of the bloom of her before-fading beauty returned to her. her step again recovered its springy lightness; again she smiled upon her mother, and suffered herself to talk of a happy future; for the dread even of the vampyre's visitations had faded into comparative insignificance against the heart's deep dejection which had come over her at the thought that charles holland must surely be murdered, or he would have contrived to come to her. and what a glorious recompense she had now for the trusting confidence with which she had clung to a conviction of his truth! was it not great, now, to feel that when he was condemned by others, and when strong and unimpeachable evidence seemed to be against him, she had clung to him and declared her faith in his honour, and wept for him instead of condemning? yes, flora; you were of that order of noble minds that, where once confidence is given, give it fully and completely, and will not harbour a suspicion of the faith of the loved one, a happy disposition when verified, as in this instance, by an answering truthfulness. but when such a heart trusts not with judgment--when that pure, exalted, and noble confidence is given to an object unworthy of it--then comes, indeed, the most fearful of all mental struggles; and if the fond heart, that has hugged to its inmost core so worthless a treasure, do not break in the effort to discard it, we may well be surprised at the amount of fortitude that has endured so much. although the admiral had said but little concerning the fearful end marchdale had come to, it really did make some impression upon him; and, much as he held in abhorrence the villany of marchdale's conduct, he would gladly in his heart have averted the fate from him that he had brought upon himself. on the road to the ruins, he calculated upon taking a different kind of vengeance. when they had got some distance from the cottage, admiral bell made a proposal to henry to be his second while he fought marchdale, but henry would not hear of it for a moment. "my dear sir," he said, "could i, do you think, stand by and see a valuable, revered, and a respected life like yours exposed to any hazard merely upon the chance of punishing a villain? no, no; marchdale is too base now to be met in honourable encounter. if he is dealt with in any way let it be by the laws." this was reasonable enough, and after some argument the admiral coincided in it, and then they began to wonder how, without charles, they should be able to get an entrance to the dungeons, for it had been his intention originally, had he not felt so fatigued, to go with them. as soon, however, as they got tolerably near to the ruins, they saw what had happened. neither spoke, but they quickened their pace, and soon stood close to the mass of stone-work which now had assumed so different a shape to what it had a few short hours before. it needed little examination to let them feel certain that whoever might have been in any of the underground dungeons must have been crushed to death. "heaven have mercy upon his soul!" said henry. "amen!" said the admiral. they both turned away, and for some time they neither of them spoke, for their thoughts were full of reflection upon the horrible death which marchdale must have endured. at length the admiral said-"shall we tell this or not?" "tell it at once," said henry; "let us have no secrets." "good. then i will not make one you may depend. i only wish that while he was about it, charley could have popped that rascal varney as well in the dungeon, and then there would have been an end and a good riddance of them both." chapter lxxvi. the second night-watch of mr. chillingworth at the hall. [illustration] the military party in the morning left bannerworth hall, and the old place resumed its wonted quiet. but dr. chillingworth found it difficult to get rid of his old friend, the hangman, who seemed quite disposed to share his watch with him. the doctor, without being at all accused of being a prejudiced man, might well object to the continued companionship of one, who, according to his own account, was decidedly no better than he should be, if he were half so good. moreover, it materially interfered with the proceedings of our medical friend, whose object was to watch the vampyre with all imaginable quietness and secrecy, in the event of his again visiting bannerworth hall. "sir," he said, to the hangman, "now that you have so obligingly related to me your melancholy history, i will not detain you." "oh, you are not detaining me." "yes, but i shall probably remain here for a considerable time." "i have nothing to do; and one place is about the same as another to me." "well, then, if i must speak plainly, allow me to say, that as i came here upon a very important and special errand, i desire most particularly to be left alone. do you understand me now?" "oh! ah!--i understand; you want me to go?" "just so." "well, then, dr. chillingworth, allow me to tell you, i have come here on a very special errand likewise." "you have?" "i have. i have been putting one circumstance to another, and drawing a variety of conclusions from a variety of facts, so that i have come to what i consider an important resolve, namely, to have a good look at bannerworth hall, and if i continue to like it as well as i do now, i should like to make the bannerworth family an offer for the purchase of it." "the devil you would! why all the world seems mad upon the project of buying this old building, which really is getting into such a state of dilapidation, that it cannot last many years longer." "it is my fancy." "no, no; there is something more in this than meets the eye. the same reason, be it what may, that has induced varney the vampyre to become so desirous of possessing the hall, actuates you." "possibly." "and what is that reason? you may as well be candid with me." "yes, i will, and am. i like the picturesque aspect of the place." "no, you know that that is a disingenuous answer, that you know well. it is not the aspect of the old hall that has charms for you. but i feel, only from your conduct, more than ever convinced, that some plot is going on, having the accomplishment of some great object as its climax, a something of which you have guessed." "how much you are mistaken!" "no, i am certain i am right; and i shall immediately advise the bannerworth family to return, and to take up their abode again here, in order to put an end to the hopes which you, or varney, or any one else may have, of getting possession of the place." "if you were a man," said the hangman, "who cared a little more for yourself, and a little less for others, i would make a confidant of you." "what do you mean?" "why, i mean, candidly, that you are not selfish enough to be entitled to my confidence." "that is a strange reason for withholding confidence from any man." "it is a strange reason; but, in this case, a most abundantly true one. i cannot tell you what i would tell you, because i cannot make the agreement with you that i would fain make." "you talk in riddles." "to explain which, then, would be to tell my secret." dr. chillingworth was, evidently, much annoyed, and yet he was in an extremely helpless condition; for as to forcing the hangman to leave the hall, if he did not feel disposed to do so, that was completely out of the question, and could not be done. in the first place, he was a much more powerful man than the doctor, and in the second, it was quite contrary to all mr. chillingworth's habits, to engage in anything like personal warfare. he could only, therefore, look his vexation, and say,-"if you are determined upon remaining, i cannot help it; but, when some one, as there assuredly will, comes from the bannerworths, here, to me, or i shall be under the necessity of stating candidly that you are intruding." "very good. as the morning air is keen, and as we now are not likely to be as good company to each other as we were, i shall go inside the house." this was a proposition which the doctor did not like, but he was compelled to submit to it; and he saw, with feelings of uneasiness, the hangman make his way into the hall by one of the windows. then dr. chillingworth sat down to think. much he wondered what could be the secret of the great desire which varney, marchdale, and even this man had, all of them to be possessors of the old hall. that there was some powerful incentive he felt convinced, and he longed for some conversation with the bannerworths, or with admiral bell, in order that he might state what had now taken place. that some one would soon come to him, in order to bring fresh provisions for the day, he was certain, and all he could do, in the interim, was, to listen to what the hangman was about in the hall. not a sound, for a considerable time, disturbed the intense stillness of the place; but, now, suddenly, mr. chillingworth thought he heard a hammering, as if some one was at work in one of the rooms of the hall. "what can be the meaning of that?" he said, and he was about to proceed at once to the interior of the building, through the same window which had enabled the hangman to gain admittance, when he heard his own name pronounced by some one at the back of the garden fence, and upon casting his eyes in that direction, he, to his great relief, saw the admiral and henry bannerworth. "come round to the gate," said the doctor. "i am more glad to see you than i can tell you just now. do not make more noise than you can help; but, come round to the gate at once." they obeyed the injunction with alacrity, and when the doctor had admitted them, the admiral said, eagerly,-"you don't mean to tell us that he is here?" "no, no, not varney; but he is not the only one who has taken a great affection for bannerworth hall; you may have another tenant for it, and i believe at any price you like to name." "indeed!" "hush! creep along close to the house, and then you will not be seen. there! do you hear that noise in the hall?" "why it sounds," said the admiral, "like the ship's carpenter at work." "it does, indeed, sound like a carpenter; it's only the new tenant making, i dare say, some repairs." "d--n his impudence!" "why, it certainly does look like a very cool proceeding, i must admit." "who, and what is he?" "who he is now, i cannot tell you, but he was once the hangman of london, at a time when i was practising in the metropolis, and so i became acquainted with him. he knows sir francis varney, and, if i mistake not, has found out the cause of that mysterious personage's great attachment to bannerworth hall, and has found the reasons so cogent, that he has got up an affection for it himself." "to me," said henry, "all this is as incomprehensible as anything can possibly be. what on earth does it all mean?" "my dear henry," said the doctor, "will you be ruled by me?" "i will be ruled by any one whom i know i can trust; for i am like a man groping his way in the dark." "then allow this gentleman who is carpentering away so pleasantly within the house, to do so to his heart's content, but don't let him leave it. show yourselves now in the garden, he has sufficient prudence to know that three constitute rather fearful odds against one, and so he will be careful, and remain where he is. if he should come out, we need not let him go until we thoroughly ascertain what he has been about." "you shall command the squadron, doctor," said the admiral, "and have it all your own way, you know, so here goes! come along, henry, and let's show ourselves; we are both armed too!" they walked out into the centre of the garden, and they were soon convinced that the hangman saw them, for a face appeared at the window, and was as quickly withdrawn again. "there," said the doctor, "now he knows he is a prisoner, and we may as well place ourselves in some position which commands a good view of the house, as well as of the garden gate, and so see if we cannot starve him out, though we may be starved out ourselves." "not at all!" said admiral bell, producing from his ample pockets various parcels,--"we came to bring you ample supplies." "indeed!" "yes; we have been as far as the ruins." "oh, to release marchdale. charles told me how the villain had fallen into the trap he had laid for him." "he has, indeed, fallen into the trap, and it's one he won't easily get out of again. he's dead." "dead!--dead!" "yes; in the storm of last night the ruins have fallen, and he is by this time as flat as a pancake." "good god! and yet it is but a just retribution upon him. he would have assassinated poor charles holland in the cruelest and most cold-blooded manner, and, however we may shudder at the manner of his death, we cannot regret it." "except that he has escaped your friend the hangman," said the admiral. "don't call him my friend, if you please," said dr. chillingworth, "but, hark how he is working away, as if he really intended to carry the house away piece by piece, as opportunity may serve, if you will not let it to him altogether, just as it stands." "confound him! he is evidently working on his own account," said the admiral, "or he would not be half so industrious." there was, indeed, a tremendous amount of hammering and noise, of one sort and another, from the house, and it was quite clear that the hangman was too heart and soul in his work, whatever may have been the object of it, to care who was listening to him, or to what conjecture he gave rise. he thought probably that he could but he stopped in what he was about, and, until he was so, that he might as well go on. and on he went, with a vengeance, vexing the admiral terribly, who proposed so repeatedly to go into the house and insist upon knowing what he was about, that his, wishes were upon the point of being conceded to by henry, although they were combatted by the doctor, when, from the window at which he had entered, out stepped the hangman. "good morning, gentlemen! good morning," he said, and he moved towards the garden gate. "i will not trouble you any longer. good morning!" "not so fast," said the admiral, "or we may bring you up with a round turn, and i never miss my mark when i can see it, and i shall not let it get out of sight, you may depend." he drew a pistol from his pocket, as he spoke, and pointed it at the hangman, who, thereupon paused and said:-"what! am i not to be permitted to go in peace? why it was but a short time since the doctor was quarrelling with me because i did not go, and now it seems that i am to be shot if i do." "yes," said the admiral, "that's it." "well! but,--" "you dare," said he, "stir another inch towards the gate, and you are a dead man!" the hangman hesitated a moment, and looked at admiral bell; apparently the result of the scrutiny was, that he would keep his word, for he suddenly turned and dived in at the window again without saying another word. "well; you have certainly stopped him from leaving," said henry; "but what's to be done now?" "let him be, let him be," said the doctor; "he must come out again, for there are no provisions in the place, and he will be starved out." "hush! what is that?" said henry. there was a very gentle ring at the bell which hung over the garden gate. "that's an experiment, now, i'll be bound," said the doctor, "to ascertain if any one is here; let us hide ourselves, and take no notice." the ring in a few moments was repeated, and the three confederates hid themselves effectually behind some thick laurel bushes and awaited with expectation what might next ensue. not long had they occupied their place of concealment, before they heard a heavy fall upon the gravelled pathway, immediately within the gate, as if some one had clambered to the top from the outside, and then jumped down. that this was the case the sound of footsteps soon convinced them, and to their surprise as well as satisfaction, they saw through the interstices of the laurel bush behind which they were concealed, no less a personage that sir francis varney himself. "it is varney," said henry. "yes, yes," whispered the doctor. "let him be, do not move for any consideration, for the first time let him do just what he likes." "d--n the fellow!" said the admiral; "there are some points about him that like, after all, and he's quite an angel compared to that rascal marchdale." "he is,--he saved charles." "he did, and not if i know it shall any harm come to him, unless he were terribly to provoke it by becoming himself the assailant." "how sad he looks!" "hush! he comes nearer; it is not safe to talk. look at him." chapter lxxvii. varney in the garden.--the communication of dr. chillingworth to the admiral and henry. [illustration] kind reader, it was indeed varney who had clambered over the garden wall, and thus made his way into the garden of bannerworth hall; and what filled those who looked at him with the most surprise was, that he did not seem in any particular way to make a secret of his presence, but walked on with an air of boldness which either arose from a feeling of absolute impunity, from his thinking there was no one there, or from an audacity which none but he could have compassed. as for the little party that was there assembled, and who looked upon him, they seemed thunderstricken by his presence; and henry, probably, as well as the admiral, would have burst out into some sudden exclamation, had they not been restrained by dr. chillingworth, who, suspecting that they might in some way give an alarm, hastened to speak first, saying in a whisper,-"for heaven's sake, be still, fortune, you see, favours us most strangely. leave varney alone. you have no other mode whatever of discovering what he really wants at bannerworth hall." "i am glad you have spoken," said henry, as he drew a long breath. "if you had not, i feel convinced that in another moment i should have rushed forward and confronted this man who has been the very bane of my life." "and so should i," said the admiral; "although i protest against any harm being done to him, on account of some sort of good feeling that he has displayed, after all, in releasing charles from that dungeon in which marchdale has perished." "at the moment," said henry, "i had forgotten that; but i will own that his conduct has been tinctured by a strange and wild kind of generosity at times, which would seem to bespeak, at the bottom of his heart, some good feelings, the impulses of which were only quenched by circumstances." "that is my firm impression of him, i can assure you," said dr. chillingworth. they watched varney now from the leafy covert in which they were situated, and, indeed, had they been less effectually concealed, it did not seem likely that the much dreaded vampyre would have perceived them; for not only did he make no effort at concealment himself, but he took no pains to see if any one was watching him in his progress to the house. his footsteps were more rapid than they usually were, and there was altogether an air and manner about him, as if he were moved to some purpose which of itself was sufficiently important to submerge in its consequences all ordinary risks and all ordinary cautions. he tried several windows of the house along that terrace of which we have more than once had occasion to speak, before he found one that opened; but at length he did succeed, and stepped at once into the hall, leaving those, who now for some moments in silence had regarded his movements, to lose themselves in a fearful sea of conjecture as to what could possibly be his object. "at all events," said the admiral, "i'm glad we are here. if the vampyre should have a fight with that other fellow, that we heard doing such a lot of carpentering work in the house, we ought, i think, to see fair play." "i, for one," said the doctor, "would not like to stand by and see the vampyre murdered; but i am inclined to think he is a good match for any mortal opponent." "you may depend he is," said henry. "but how long, doctor, do you purpose that we should wait here in such a state of suspense as to what is going on within the house?" "i hope not long; but that something will occur to make us have food for action. hark! what is that?" there was a loud crash within the building, as of broken glass. it sounded as if some window had been completely dashed in; but although they looked carefully over the front of the building, they could see no evidences of such a thing having happened, and were compelled, consequently, to come to the opinion that varney and the other man must have met in one of the back rooms, and that the crash of glass had arisen from some personal conflict in which they had engaged. "i cannot stand this," said henry. "nay, nay," said the doctor; "be still, and i will tell you something, than which there can be no more fitting time than this to reveal it." "refers it to the vampyre?" "it does--it does." "be brief, then; i am in an agony of impatience." "it is a circumstance concerning which i can be brief; for, horrible as it is, i have no wish to dress it in any adventitious colours. sir francis varney, although under another name, is an old acquaintance of mine." "acquaintance!" said henry. "why, you don't mean to say you are a vampyre?" said the admiral; "or that he has ever visited you?" "no; but i knew him. from the first moment that i looked upon him in this neighbourhood, i thought i knew him; but the circumstance which induced me to think so was of so terrific a character, that i made some efforts to chase it from my mind. it has, however, grown upon me day by day, and, lately, i have had proof sufficient to convince me of his identity with one whom i first saw under most singular circumstances of romance." "say on,--you are agitated." "i am, indeed. this revelation has several times, within the last few days, trembled on my lips, but now you shall have it; because you ought to know all that it is possible for me to tell you of him who has caused you so serious an amount of disturbance." "you awaken, doctor," said henry, "all my interest." "and mine, too," remarked the admiral. "what can it be all about? and where, doctor, did you first see this varney the vampyre?" "in his coffin." both the admiral and henry gave starts of surprise as, with one accord, they exclaimed,-"did you say coffin?" "yes: i tell you, on my word of honour, that the first time in my life i saw ever sir francis varney, was in his coffin." "then he is a vampyre, and there can be no mistake," said the admiral. "go on, i pray you, doctor, go on," said henry, anxiously. "i will. the reason why he became the inhabitant of a coffin was simply this:--he had been hanged,--executed at the old bailey, in london, before ever i set eyes upon that strange countenance of his. you know that i was practising surgery at the london schools some years ago, and that, consequently, as i commenced the profession rather late in life, i was extremely anxious to do the most i could in a very short space of time." "yes--yes." "arrived, then, with plenty of resources, which i did not, as the young men who affected to be studying in the same classes as myself, spend in the pursuit of what they considered life in london, i was indefatigable in my professional labours, and there was nothing connected with them which i did not try to accomplish. "at that period, the difficulty of getting a subject for anatomization was very great, and all sorts of schemes had to be put into requisition to accomplish so desirable, and, indeed, absolutely necessary a purpose. "i became acquainted with the man who, i have told you, is in the hall, at present, and who then filled the unenviable post of public executioner. it so happened, too, that i had read a learned treatise, by a frenchman, who had made a vast number of experiments with galvanic and other apparatus, upon persons who had come to death in different ways, and, in one case, he asserted that he had actually recovered a man who had been hanged, and he had lived five weeks afterwards. "young as i then was, in comparison to what i am now, in my profession, this inflamed my imagination, and nothing seemed to me so desirable as getting hold of some one who had only recently been put to death, for the purpose of trying what i could do in the way of attempting a resuscitation of the subject. it was precisely for this reason that i sought out the public executioner, and made his acquaintance, whom every one else shunned, because i thought he might assist me by handing over to me the body of some condemned and executed man, upon whom i could try my skill. "i broached the subject to him, and found him not averse. he said, that if i would come forward and claim, as next of kin and allow the body to be removed to his house, the body of the criminal who was to be executed the first time, from that period, that he could give me a hint that i should have no real next of kin opponents, he would throw every facility in my way. "this was just what i wanted; and, i believe, i waited with impatience for some poor wretch to be hurried to his last account by the hands of my friend, the public executioner. "at length a circumstance occurred which favoured my designs most effectually,--a man was apprehended for a highway robbery of a most aggravated character. he was tried, and the evidence against him was so conclusive, that the defence which was attempted by his counsel, became a mere matter of form. "he was convicted, and sentenced. the judge told him not to flatter himself with the least notion that mercy would be extended to him. the crime of which he had been found guilty was on the increase it was highly necessary to make some great public example, to show evil doers that they could not, with impunity, thus trample upon the liberty of the subject, and had suddenly, just as it were, in the very nick of time, committed the very crime, attended with all the aggravated circumstances which made it easy and desirable to hang him out of hand. "he heard his sentence, they tell me unmoved. i did not see him, but he was represented to me as a man of a strong, and well-knit frame, with rather a strange, but what some would have considered a handsome expression of countenance, inasmuch as that there was an expression of much haughty resolution depicted on it. "i flew to my friend the executioner. "'can you,' i said, 'get me that man's body, who is to be hanged for the highway robbery, on monday?' "'yes,' he said; 'i see nothing to prevent it. not one soul has offered to claim even common companionship with him,--far less kindred. i think if you put in your claim as a cousin, who will bear the expense of his decent burial, you will have every chance of getting possession of the body.' "i did not hesitate, but, on the morning before the execution, i called upon one of the sheriffs. "i told him that the condemned man, i regretted to say, was related to me; but as i knew nothing could be done to save him on the trial, i had abstained from coming forward; but that as i did not like the idea of his being rudely interred by the authorities, i had come forward to ask for the body, after the execution should have taken place, in order that i might, at all events, bestow upon it, in some sequestered spot, a decent burial, with all the rites of the church. "the sheriff was a man not overburthened with penetration. he applauded my pious feelings, and actually gave me, without any inquiry, a written order to receive the body from the hands of the hangman, after it had hung the hour prescribed by the law. "i did not, as you may well suppose, wish to appear more in the business than was absolutely necessary; but i gave the executioner the sheriff's order for the body, and he promised that he would get a shell ready to place it in, and four stout men to carry it at once to his house, when he should cut it down. "'good!' i said; 'and now as i am not a little anxious for the success of my experiment, do you not think that you can manage so that the fall of the criminal shall not be so sudden as to break his neck?' "'i have thought of that,' he said, 'and i believe that i can manage to let him down gently, so that he shall die of suffocation, instead of having his neck put out of joint. i will do my best." "'if you can but succeed in that,' said i, for i was quite in a state of mania upon the subject, 'i shall be much indebted to you, and will double the amount of money which i have already promised.' "this was, as i believed it would be, a powerful stimulus to him to do all in his power to meet my wishes, and he took, no doubt, active measures to accomplish all that i desired. "you can imagine with what intense impatience i waited the result. he resided in an old ruinous looking house, a short distance on the surrey side of the river, and there i had arranged all my apparatus for making experiments upon the dead man, in an apartment the windows of which commanded a view of the entrance." [illustration] "i was completely ready by half-past eight, although a moment's consideration of course told me that at least another hour must elapse before there could be the least chance of my seeing him arrive, for whom i so anxiously longed. "i can safely say so infatuated was i upon the subject, that no fond lover ever looked with more nervous anxiety for the arrival of the chosen object of his heart, than i did for that dead body, upon which i proposed to exert all the influences of professional skill, to recall back the soul to its earthly dwelling-place. "at length i heard the sound of wheels. i found that my friend the hangman had procured a cart, in which he brought the coffin, that being a much quicker mode of conveyance than by bearers so that about a quarter past nine o'clock the vehicle, with its ghastly content, stopped at the door of his house. "in my impatience i ran down stairs to meet that which ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have gone some distance to avoid the sight of, namely, a corpse, livid and fresh from the gallows. i, however, heralded it as a great gift, and already, in imagination i saw myself imitating the learned frenchman, who had published such an elaborate treatise on the mode of restoring life under all sorts of circumstances, to those who were already pronounced by unscientific persons to be dead. "to be sure, a sort of feeling had come over me at times, knowing as i did that the french are a nation that do not scruple at all to sacrifice truth on the altar of vanity, that it might be after all a mere rhodomontade; but, however, i could only ascertain so much by actually trying, so the suspicion that such might, by a possibility, be the end of the adventure, did not deter me. "i officiously assisted in having the coffin brought into the room where i had prepared everything that was necessary in the conduction of my grand experiment; and then, when no one was there with me but my friend the executioner, i, with his help, the one of us taking the head and the other the feet, took the body from the coffin and laid it upon a table. "hastily i placed my hand upon the region of the heart, and to my great delight i found it still warm. i drew off the cap that covered the face, and then, for the first time, my eyes rested upon the countenance of him who now calls himself--heaven only knows why--sir francis varney." "good god!" said henry, "are you certain?" "quite." "it may have been some other rascal like him," said the admiral. "no, i am quite sure now; i have, as i have before mentioned to you, tried to get out of my own conviction upon the subject, but i have been actually assured that he is the man by the very hangman himself." "go on, go on! your tale certainly is a strange one, and i do not say it either to compliment you or to cast a doubt upon you, but, except from the lips of an old, and valued friend, such as you yourself are, i should not believe it.' "i am not surprised to hear you say that," replied the doctor; "nor should i be offended even now if you were to entertain a belief that i might, after all, be mistaken." "no, no; you would not be so positive upon the subject, i well know, if there was the slightest possibility of an error." "indeed i should not." "let us have the sequel, then." "it is this. i was most anxious to effect an immediate resuscitation, if it were possible, of the hanged man. a little manipulation soon convinced me that the neck was not broken, which left me at once every thing to hope for. the hangman was more prudent than i was, and before i commenced my experiments, he said,-"'doctor, have you duly considered what you mean to do with this fellow, in case you should be successful in restoring him to life?' "'not i,' said i. "'well,' he said, 'you can do as you like; but i consider that it is really worth thinking of.' "i was headstrong on the matter, and could think of nothing but the success or the non-success, in a physiological point of view, of my plan for restoring the dead to life; so i set about my experiments without any delay, and with a completeness and a vigour that promised the most completely successful results, if success could at all be an ingredient in what sober judgment would doubtless have denominated a mad-headed and wild scheme. "for more than half an hour i tried in vain, by the assistance of the hangman, who acted under my directions. not the least symptom of vitality presented itself; and he had a smile upon his countenance, as he said in a bantering tone,-"'i am afraid, sir, it is much easier to kill than to restore their patients with doctors.' "before i could make him any reply, for i felt that his observation had a good amount of truth in it, joined to its sarcasm the hanged man uttered a loud scream, and opened his eyes. "i must own i was myself rather startled; but i for some moments longer continued the same means which had produced such an effect, when suddenly he sprang up and laid hold of me, at the same time exclaiming,-"'death, death, where is the treasure?' "i had fully succeeded--too fully; and while the executioner looked on with horror depicted in his countenance, i fled from the room and the house, taking my way home as fast as i possibly could. "a dread came over me, that the restored man would follow me if he should find out, to whom it was he was indebted for the rather questionable boon of a new life. i packed up what articles i set the greatest store by, bade adieu to london, and never have i since set foot within that city." "and you never met the man you had so resuscitated?" "not till i saw varney, the vampyre; and, as i tell you, i am now certain that he is the man." "that is the strangest yarn that ever i heard," said the admiral. "a most singular circumstance," said henry. "you may have noticed about his countenance," said dr. chillingworth, "a strange distorted look?" "yes, yes." "well, that has arisen from a spasmodic contraction of the muscles, in consequence of his having been hanged. he will never lose it, and it has not a little contributed to give him the horrible look he has, and to invest him with some of the seeming outward attributes of the vampyre." "and that man who is now in the hall with him, doctor," said henry, "is the very hangman who executed him?" "the same. he tells me that after i left, he paid attention to the restored man, and completed what i had nearly done. he kept him in his house for a time, and then made a bargain with him, for a large sum of money per annum, all of which he has regularly been paid, although he tells me he has no more idea where varney gets it, than the man in the moon." "it is very strange; but, hark! do you not hear the sound of voices in angry altercation?" "yes, yes, they have met. let us approach the windows now. we may chance to hear something of what they say to each other." chapter lxxviii. the altercation between varney and the executioner in the hall.--the mutual agreement. [illustration] there was certainly a loud wrangling in the hall, just as the doctor finished his most remarkable revelation concerning sir francis varney, a revelation which by no means attacked the fact of his being a vampyre or not; but rather on the contrary, had a tendency to confirm any opinion that might arise from the circumstance of his being restored to life after his execution, favourable to that belief. they all three now carefully approached the windows of the hall, to listen to what was going on, and after a few moments they distinctly heard the voice of the hangman, saying in loud and rather angry accents,-"i do not deny but that you have kept your word with me--our bargain has been, as you say, a profitable one: but, still i cannot see why that circumstance should give you any sort of control over my actions." "but what do you here?" said varney, impatiently. "what do you?" cried the other. "nay, to ask another question, is not to answer mine. i tell you that i have special and most important business in this house; you can have no motive but curiosity." "can i not, indeed? what, too, if i have serious and important business here?" "impossible." "well, i may as easily use such a term as regards what you call important business, but here i shall remain." "here you shall not remain." "and will you make the somewhat hazardous attempt to force me to leave?" "yes, much as i dislike lifting my hand against you, i must do so; i tell you that i must be alone in this house. i have most special reasons--reasons which concern my continued existence. "your continued existence you talk of.--tell me, now, how is it that you have acquired so frightful a reputation in this neighbourhood? go where i will, the theme of conversation is varney, the vampyre! and it is implicitly believed that you are one of those dreadful characters that feed upon the life-blood of others, only now and then revisiting the tomb to which you ought long since to have gone in peace." "indeed!" "yes; what, in the name of all that's inexplicable, has induced you to enact such a character?" "enact it! you say. can you, then, from all you have heard of me, and from all you know of me, not conceive it possible that i am not enacting any such character? why may it not be real? look at me. do i look like one of the inhabitants of the earth?" "in sooth, you do not." "and yet i am, as you see, upon it. do not, with an affected philosophy, doubt all that may happen to be in any degree repugnant to your usual experiences." "i am not one disposed to do so; nor am i prepared to deny that such dreadful beings may exist as vampyres. however, whether or not you belong to so frightful a class of creatures, i do not intend to leave here; but, i will make an agreement with you." varney was silent; and after a few moments' pause, the other exclaimed,-"there are people, even now, watching the place, and no doubt you have been seen coming into it." "no, no, i was satisfied no one was here but you." "then you are wrong. a doctor chillingworth, of whom you know something, is here; and him, you have said, you would do no harm to, even to save your life." "i do know him. you told me that it was to him that i was mainly indebted for my mere existence; and although i do not consider human life to be a great boon, i cannot bring myself to raise my hand against the man who, whatever might have been the motives for the deed, at all events, did snatch me from the grave." "upon my word," whispered the admiral, "there is something about that fellow that i like, after all." "hush!" said henry, "listen to them. this would all have been unintelligible to us, if you had not related to us what you have." "i have just told you in time," said chillingworth, "it seems." "will you, then," said the hangman, "listen to proposals?" "yes," said varney. "come along, then, and i will show you what i have been about; and i rather think you have already a shrewd guess as to my motive. this way--this way." they moved off to some other part of the mansion, and the sound of their voices gradually died away, so that after all, the friends had not got the least idea of what that motive was, which still induced the vampyre and the hangman, rather than leave the other on the premises, to make an agreement to stay with each other. "what's to be done now?" said henry. "wait," said dr. chillingworth, "wait, and watch still. i see nothing else that can be done with any degree of safety." "but what are we to wait for?" said the admiral. "by waiting, we shall, perhaps, find out," was the doctor's reply; "but you may depend that we never shall by interfering." "well, well, be it so. it seems that we have no other resource. and when either or both of those fellows make their appearance, and seem about to leave, what is to be done with them?" "they must be seized then, and in order that that may be done without any bloodshed, we ought to have plenty of force here. henry, could you get your brother, and charles, if he be sufficiently recovered, to come?" "certainly, and jack pringle." "no," said the admiral, "no jack pringle for me; i have done with him completely, and i have made up my mind to strike him off the ship's books, and have nothing more to do with him." "well, well," added the doctor, "we will not have him, then; and it is just as well, for, in all likelihood, he would come drunk, and we shall be--let me see--five strong without him, which ought to be enough to take prisoners two men." "yes," said henry, "although one of them may be a vampyre." "that makes no difference," said the admiral. "i'd as soon take a ship manned with vampyres as with frenchmen." henry started off upon his errand, certainly leaving the admiral and the doctor in rather a critical situation while he was gone; for had varney the vampyre and the hangman chosen, they could certainly easily have overcome so inefficient a force. the admiral would, of course, have fought, and so might the doctor, as far as his hands would permit him; but if the others had really been intent upon mischief, they could, from their downright superior physical power, have taken the lives of the two that were opposed to them. but somehow the doctor appeared to have a great confidence in the affair. whether that confidence arose from what the vampyre had said with regard to him, or from any hidden conviction of his own that they would not yet emerge from the hall, we cannot say; but certain it is, he waited the course of events with great coolness. no noise for some time came from the house; but then the sounds, as if workmen were busy within it, were suddenly resumed, and with more vigour than before. it was nearly two hours before henry made the private signal which had been agreed upon as that which should proclaim his return; and then he and his brother, with charles, who, when he heard of the matter, would, notwithstanding the persuasions of flora to the contrary, come, got quietly over the fence at a part of the garden which was quite hidden from the house by abundant vegetation, and the whole three of them took up a position that tolerably well commanded a view of the house, while they were themselves extremely well hidden behind a dense mass of evergreens. "did you see that rascal, jack pringle?" said the admiral. "yes," said henry; "he is drunk." "ah, to be sure." "and we had no little difficulty in shaking him off. he suspected where we were going; but i think, by being peremptory, we got fairly rid of him." "the vagabond! if he comes here, i'll brain him, i will, the swab. why, lately he's done nothing but drink. that's the way with him. he'll go on sometimes for a year and more, and not take more than enough to do him good, and then all at once, for about six or eight weeks, he does nothing but drink." "well, well, we can do without him," said henry. "without him! i should think so. do you hear those fellows in the hall at work? d--n me, if i haven't all of a sudden thought what the reason of it all is." "what--what?" said the doctor, anxiously. "why, that rascal varney, you know, had his house burnt down." "yes; well?" "yes, well. i dare say he didn't think it well. but, however, he no doubt wants another; so, you see, my idea is, that he's stealing the material from bannerworth hall." "oh, is that your notion?" "yes, and a very natural one, i think, too, master doctor, whatever you may think of it. come, now, have you a better?" "oh, dear, no, certainly not; but i have a notion that something to eat would comfort the inward man much." "and so would something to drink, blow me if it wouldn't," said jack pringle, suddenly making his appearance. the admiral made a rush upon him; but he was restrained by the others, and jack, with a look of triumph, said,-"why, what's amiss with you now? i ain't drunk now. come, come, you have something dangerous in the wind, i know, so i've made up my mind to be in it, so don't put yourself out of the way. if you think i don't know all about it, you are mistaken, for i do. the vampyre is in the house yonder, and i'm the fellow to tackle him, i believe you, my boys." "good god!" said the doctor, "what shall we do?" "nothing," said jack, as he took a bottle from his pocket and applied the neck of it to his lips--"nothing--nothing at all." "there's something to begin with," said the admiral, as with his stick he gave the bottle a sudden blow that broke it and spilt all its contents, leaving jack petrified, with the bit of the neck of it still in his mouth. "my eye, admiral," he said, "was that done like a british seaman? my eye--was that the trick of a lubber, or of a thorough-going first-rater? first-rater? my eye--" "hold your noise, will you; you are not drunk yet, and i was determined that you should not get so, which you soon would with that rum-bottle, if i had not come with a broadside across it. now you may stay; but, mark me, you are on active service now, and must do nothing without orders." "ay, ay, your honour," said jack, as he dropped the neck of the bottle, and looked ruefully upon the ground, from whence arose the aroma of rum--"ay, ay; but it's a hard case, take it how you will, to have your grog stopped; but, d--n it, i never had it stopped yet when it was in my mouth." henry and charles could not forbear a smile at jack's discomfiture, which, however, they were very glad of, for they knew full well his failing, and that in the course of another half hour he would have been drunk, and incapable of being controlled, except, as on some former occasions, by the exercise of brute force. but jack was evidently displeased, and considered himself to be grievously insulted, which, after all, was the better, inasmuch as, while he was brooding over his wrongs, he was quiet; when, otherwise, it might have been a very difficult matter to make him so. they partook of some refreshments, and, as the day advanced, the brothers bannerworth, as well as charles holland, began to get very anxious upon the subject of the proceedings of sir francis varney in the hall. they conversed in low tones, exhausting every, as they considered, possible conjecture to endeavour to account for his mysterious predilection for that abode, but nothing occurred to them of a sufficiently probable motive to induce them to adopt it as a conclusion. they more than suspected dr. chillingworth, because he was so silent, and hazarded no conjecture at all of knowing something, or of having formed to himself some highly probable hypothesis upon the subject; but they could not get him to agree that such was the case. when they challenged him upon the subject, all he would say was,-"my good friends, you perceive that, there is a great mystery somewhere, and i do hope that to-night it will be cleared up satisfactorily." with this they were compelled to be satisfied; and now the soft and sombre shades of evening began to creep over the scene, enveloping all objects in the dimness and repose of early night. the noise from the house had ceased, and all was profoundly still. but more than once henry fancied he heard footsteps outside the garden. he mentioned his suspicions to charles holland, who immediately said,-"the same thing has come to my ears." "indeed! then it must be so; we cannot both of us have merely imagined such a thing. you may depend that this place is beleaguered in some way, and that to-night will be productive of events which will throw a great light upon the affairs connected with this vampyre that have hitherto baffled conjecture." "hush!" said charles; "there, again; i am quite confident i heard a sound as of a broken twig outside the garden-wall. the doctor and the admiral are in deep discussion about something,--shall we tell them?" "no; let us listen, as yet." they bent all their attention to listening, inclining their ears towards the ground, and, after a few moments, they felt confident that more than one footstep was creeping along, as cautiously as possible, under the garden wall. after a few moments' consultation, henry made up his mind--he being the best acquainted with the localities of the place--to go and reconnoitre, so he, without saying anything to the doctor or the admiral, glided from where he was, in the direction of a part of the fence which he knew he could easily scale. chapter lxxix. the vampyre's danger.--the last refuge.--the ruse of henry bannerworth. [illustration] yet knowing to what deeds of violence the passions of a lawless mob will sometimes lead them, and having the experience of what had been attempted by the alarmed and infuriated populace on a former occasion, against the hall, henry bannerworth was, reasonably enough, not without his fears that something might occur of a nature yet highly dangerous to the stability of his ancient house. he did not actually surmount the fence, but he crept so close to it, that he could get over in a moment, if he wished; and, if any one should move or speak on the other side, he should be quite certain to hear them. for a few moments all was still, and then suddenly he heard some one say, in a low voice, "hist! hist! did you hear nothing?" "i thought i did," said another; "but i now am doubtful." "listen again." "what," thought henry, "can be the motives of these men lying secreted here? it is most extraordinary what they can possibly want, unless they are brewing danger for the hall." most cautiously now he raised himself, so that his eyes could just look over the fence, and then, indeed, he was astonished. he had expected to see two or three persons, at the utmost; what was his surprise! to find a compact mass of men crouching down under the garden wall, as far as his eye could reach. for a few moments, he was so surprised, that he continued to gaze on, heedless of the danger there might be from a discovery that he was playing the part of a spy upon them. when, however, his first sensations of surprise were over, he cautiously removed to his former position, and, just as he did, so, he heard those who had before spoken, again, in low tones, breaking the stillness of the night. "i am resolved upon it," said one; "i am quite determined. i will, please god, rid the country of that dreadful man." "don't call him a man," said the oilier. "well, well; it is a wrong name to apply to a vampyre." "it is varney, after all, then," said henry. bannerworth, to himself;--"it is his life that they seek. what can be done to save him?--for saved he shall be if i can compass such an object. i feel that there is yet a something in his character which is entitled to consideration, and he shall not be savagely murdered while i have an arm to raise in his defence. but if anything is now to be done, it must be done by stratagem, for the enemy are, by far, in too great force to be personally combatted with." henry resolved to take the advice of his friends, and with that view he went silently and quietly back to where they were, and communicated to them the news that he had so unexpectedly discovered. they were all much surprised, and then the doctor said, "you may depend, that since the disappointment of the mob in the destruction of this place, they have had their eye upon varney. he has been dogged here by some one, and then by degrees that assemblage has sought the spot." "he's a doomed man, then," remarked the admiral; "for what can save him from a determined number of persons, who, by main force, will overcome us, let us make what stand we may in his defence." "is there no hiding-place in the house," said charles, "where you might, after warning him of his danger, conceal him?" "there are plenty, but of what avail would that be, if they burn down the hall, which in all probability they will!" "none, certainly." "there is but one chance," said henry, "and that is to throw them off the scent, and induce them to think that he whom they seek is not here; i think that may possibly be done by boldness." "but how!" "i will go among them and make the effort." he at once left the friends, for he felt that there might be no time to lose, and hastening to the same part of the wall, over which he had looked so short a time before, he clambered over it, and cried, in a loud voice, "stop the vampyre! stop the vampyre!" "where, where?" shouted a number of persons at once, turning their eyes eagerly towards the spot where henry stood. "there, across the fields," cried henry. "i have lain in wait for him long; but he has eluded me, and is making his way again towards the old ruins, where i am sure he has some hiding-place that he thinks will elude all search. there, i see his dusky form speeding onwards." "come on," cried several; "to the ruins! to the ruins! we'll smoke him out if he will not come by fair means: we must have him, dead or alive." "yes, to the ruins!" shouted the throng of persons, who up to this time had preserved so cautious a silence, and, in a few moments more, henry bannerworth had the satisfaction of finding that his ruse had been perfectly successful, for bannerworth hall and its vicinity were completely deserted, and the mob, in a straggling mass, went over hedge and ditch towards those ruins in which there was nothing to reward the exertions they might choose to make in the way of an exploration of them, but the dead body of the villain marchdale, who had come there to so dreadful, but so deserved a death. chapter lxxx. the discovery of the body of marchdale in the ruins by the mob.--the burning of the corpse.--the murder of the hangman. [illustration] the mob reached the ruins of bannerworth hall, and crowded round it on all sides, with the view of ascertaining if a human creature, dead or alive, were there; various surmises were afloat, and some were for considering that everybody but themselves, or their friends, must be nothing less than vampyres. indeed, a strange man, suddenly appearing among them, would have caused a sensation, and a ring would no doubt have been formed round him, and then a hasty council held, or, what was more probable, some shout, or word uttered by some one behind, who could not understand what was going on in front, would have determined them to commit some desperate outrage, and the sacrifice of life would have been the inevitable result of such an unfortunate concurrence of circumstances. there was a pause before anyone ventured among the ruins; the walls were carefully looked to, and in more than one instance, but they were found dangerous, what were remaining; some parts had been so completely destroyed, that there were nothing but heaps of rubbish. however, curiosity was exerted to such an extraordinary pitch that it overcame the fear of danger, in search of the horrible; for they believed that if there were any one in the ruins he must be a vampyre, of course, and they were somewhat cautious in going near such a creature, lest in so doing they should meet with some accident, and become vampyres too. this was a dreadful reflection, and one that every now and then impressed itself upon the individuals composing the mob; but at the same time any new impulse, or a shout, and they immediately became insensible to all fear; the mere impulse is the dominant one, and then all is forgotten. the scene was an impressive one; the beautiful house and grounds looked desolate and drear; many of the trees were stripped and broken down, and many scorched and burned, while the gardens and flower beds, the delight of the bannerworth family, were rudely trodden under foot by the rabble, and all those little beauties so much admired and tended by the inhabitants, were now utterly destroyed, and in such a state that their site could not even be detected by the former owners. it was a sad sight to see such a sacrilege committed,--such violence done to private feelings, as to have all these places thrown open to the scrutiny of the brutal and vulgar, who are incapable of appreciating or understanding the pleasures of a refined taste. the ruins presented a remarkable contrast to what the place had been but a very short time before; and now the scene of desolation was complete, there was no one spot in which the most wretched could find shelter. to be sure, under the lee of some broken and crumbling wall, that tottered, rather than stood, a huddled wretch might have found shelter from the wind, but it would have been at the risk of his life, and not there complete. the mob became quiet for some moments, but was not so long; indeed, a mob of people,--which is, in fact, always composed of the most disorderly characters to be found in a place, is not exactly the assembly that is most calculated for quietness; somebody gave a shout, and then somebody else shouted, and the one wide throat of the whole concourse was opened, and sent forth a mighty yell. after this exhibition of power, they began to run about like mad,--traverse the grounds from one end to the other, and then the ruins were in progress of being explored. this was a tender affair, and had to be done with some care and caution by those who were so engaged; and they walked over crumbling and decayed masses. in one or two places, they saw what appeared to be large holes, into which the building materials had been sunk, by their own weight, through the flooring, that seemed as roofs to some cellars or dungeons. seeing this, they knew not how soon some other part might sink in, and carry their precious bodies down with the mass of rubbish; this gave an interest to the scene,--a little danger is a sort of salt to an adventure, and enables those who have taken part in it to talk of their exploits, and of their dangers, which is pleasant to do, and to hear in the ale-house, and by the inglenook in the winter. however, when a few had gone some distance, others followed, when they saw them enter the place in safety: and at length the whole ruins were covered with living men, and not a few women, who seemed necessary to make up the elements of mischief in this case. there were some shouting and hallooing from one to the other as they hurried about the ruins. at length they had explored the ruins nearly all over, when one man, who had stood a few minutes upon a spot, gazing intently upon something, suddenly exclaimed,-"hilloa! hurrah! here we are, altogether,--come on,--i've found him,--i've found--recollect it's me, and nobody else has found,--hurrah!" then, with a wild kind of frenzy, he threw his hat up into the air, as if to attract attention, and call others round him, to see what it was he had found. "what's the matter, bill?" exclaimed one who came up to him, and who had been close at hand. "the matter? why, i've found him; that's the matter, old man," replied the first. "what, a whale? "no, a wampyre; the blessed wampyre! there he is,--don't you see him under them ere bricks?" "oh, that's not him; he got away." "i don't care," replied the other, "who got away, or who didn't; i know this much, that he's a wampyre,--he wouldn't be there if he warn't." this was an unanswerable argument, and nobody could deny it; consequently, there was a cessation of talk, and the people then came up, as the two first were looking at the body. "whose is it?" inquired a dozen voices. [illustration] "not sir francis varney's!" said the second speaker; "the clothes are not his--" "no, no; not sir francis's" "but i tell you what, mates," said the first speaker; "that if it isn't sir francis varney's, it is somebody else's as bad. i dare say, now, he's a wictim." "a what!" "a wictim to the wampyre; and, if he sees the blessed moonlight, he will be a wampyre hisself, and so shall we be, too, if he puts his teeth into us." "so we shall,--so we shall," said the mob, and their flesh begin to run cold, and there was a feeling of horror creeping over the whole body of persons within hearing. "i tell you what it is; our only plan will be to get him out of the ruins, then, remarked another. "what!" said one; "who's going to handle such cattle? if you've a sore about you, and his blood touches you, who's to say you won't be a vampyre, too!" "no, no you won't," said an old woman. "i won't try," was the happy rejoinder; "i ain't a-going to carry a wampyre on my two legs home to my wife and small family of seven children, and another a-coming." there was a pause for a few moments, and then one man more adventurous than the rest, exclaimed,-"well, vampyre, or no vampyre, his dead body can harm no one; so here goes to get it out, help me who will; once have it out, and then we can prevent any evil, by burning it, and thus destroying the whole body. "hurrah!" shouted three or four more, as they jumped down into the hole formed by the falling in of the materials which had crushed marchdale to death, for it was his body they had discovered. they immediately set to work to displace such of the materials as lay on the body, and then, having cleared it of all superincumbent rubbish, they proceeded to lift it up, but found that it had got entangled, as they called it, with some chains: with some trouble they got them off, and the body was lifted out to a higher spot. "now, what's to be done?" inquired one. "burn it," said another. "hurrah!" shouted a female voice; "we've got the wampyre! run a stake through his body, and then place him upon some dry wood,--there's plenty to be had about here, i am sure,--and then burn him to a cinder." "that's right, old woman,--that's right," said a man; "nothing better: the devil must be in him if he come to life after that, i should say." there might be something in that, and the mob shouted its approbation, as it was sure to do as anything stupid or senseless, and the proposal might be said to have been carried by acclamation, and it required only the execution. this was soon done. there were plenty of laths and rafters, and the adjoining wood furnished an abundant supply of dry sticks, so there was no want of fuel. there was a loud shout as each accession of sticks took place, and, as each individual threw his bundle into the heap, each man felt all the self-devotion to the task as the scottish chieftain who sacrificed himself and seven sons in the battle for his superior; and, when one son was cut down, the man filled up his place with the exclamation,--"another for hector," until he himself fell as the last of his race. soon now the heap became prodigious, and it required an effort to get the mangled corpse upon this funeral bier; but it was then a shout from the mob that rent the air announced, both the fact and their satisfaction. the next thing to be done was to light the pile--this was no easy task; but like all others, it was accomplished, and the dead body of the vampyre's victim was thrown on to prevent that becoming a vampyre too, in its turn. "there, boys," said one, "he'll not see the moonlight, that's certain, and the sooner we put a light to this the better; for it may be, the soldiers will be down upon us before we know anything of it; so now, who's got a light?" this was a question that required a deal of searching; but, at length one was found by one of the mob coming forward, and after drawing his pipe vigorously for some moments, he collected some scraps of paper upon which he emptied the contents of the pipe, with the hope they would take fire. in this, however, he was doomed to disappointment; for it produced nothing but a deal of smoke, and the paper burned without producing any flame. this act of disinterestedness, however was not without its due consequences, for there were several who had pipes, and, fired with the hope of emulating the first projector of the scheme for raising the flame, they joined together, and potting the contents of their pipes together on some paper, straw, and chips, they produced, after some little trouble, a flame. then there was a shout, and the burning mass was then placed in a favourable position nearer the pile of materials collected for burning, and then, in a few moments, it began to take light; one piece communicated the fire to another, until the whole was in a blaze. when the first flame fairly reached the top, a loud and tremendous shout arose from the mob, and the very welkin re-echoed with its fulness. then the forked flames rushed through the wood, and hissed and crackled as they flew, throwing up huge masses of black smoke, and casting a peculiar reflection around. not a sound was heard save the hissing and roaring of the flames, which seemed like the approaching of a furious whirlwind. at length there was nothing to be seen but the blackened mass; it was enveloped in one huge flame, that threw out a great heat, so much so, that those nearest to it felt induced to retire from before it. "i reckon," said one, "that he's pretty well done by this time--he's had a warm berth of it up there." "yes," said another, "farmer walkings's sheep he roasted whole at last harvest-home hadn't such a fire as this, i'll warrant; there's no such fire in the county--why, it would prevent a frost, i do believe it would." "so it would, neighbour," answered another. "yes," replied a third, "but you'd want such a one corner of each field though." * * * * * there was much talk and joking going on among the men who stood around, in the midst of which, however, they were disturbed by a loud shout, and upon looking in the quarter whence it came, they saw stealing from among the ruins, the form of a man. he was a strange, odd looking man, and at the time it was very doubtful among the mob as to whom it was--nobody could tell, and more than one looked at the burning pile, and then at the man who seemed to be so mysteriously present, as if they almost imagined that the body had got away. "who is it?" exclaimed one. "danged if i knows," said another, looking very hard, and very white at the same time;--"i hope it ain't the chap what we've burned here jist now." "no," said the female, "that you may be sure of, for he's had a stake through his body, and as you said, he can never get over that, for as the stake is consumed, so are his vitals, and that's a sure sign he's done for." "yes, yes, she's right--a vampyre may live upon blood, but cannot do without his inside." this was so obvious to them all, that it was at once conceded, and a general impression pervaded the mob that it might be sir francis varney: a shout ensued. "hurrah!--after him--there's a vampyre--there he goes!--after him--catch him--burn him!" and a variety of other exclamations were uttered, at the same time; the victim of popular wrath seemed to be aware that he was now discovered, and made off with all possible expedition, towards some wood. away went the mob in pursuit, hooting and hallooing like demons, and denouncing the unfortunate being with all the terrors that could be imagined, and which naturally added greater speed to the unfortunate man. however, some among the mob, seeing that there was every probability of the stranger's escaping at a mere match of speed, brought a little cunning to bear upon matter, and took a circuit round, and thus intercepted him. this was not accomplished without a desperate effort, and by the best runners, who thus reached the spot he made for, before he could get there. when the stranger saw himself thus intercepted, he endeavoured to fly in a different direction; but was soon secured by the mob, who made somewhat free with his person, and commenced knocking him about. "have mercy on me," said the stranger. "what do you want? i am not rich; but take all i have." "what do you do here?" inquired twenty voices. "come, tell us that--what do you do here, and who are you?" "a stranger, quite a stranger to these parts." "oh, yes! he's a stranger; but that's all the worse for him--he's a vampyre--there's no doubt about that." "good god," said the man, "i am a living and breathing man like yourselves. i have done no wrong, and injured no man--be merciful unto me; i intend no harm." "of course not; send him to the fire--take him back to the ruins--to the fire." "ay, and run a stake through his body, and then he's safe for life. i am sure he has something to do with the vampyre; and who knows, if he ain't a vampyre, how soon he may become one?" "ah! that's very true; bring him back to the fire, and we'll try the effects of the fire upon his constitution." "i tell you what, neighbour, it's my opinion, that as one fool makes many, so one vampyre makes many." "so it does, so it does; there's much truth and reason in that neighbour; i am decidedly of that opinion, too." "come along then," cried the mob, cuffing and pulling the unfortunate stranger with them. "mercy, mercy!" but it was useless to call for mercy to men whose superstitious feelings urged them on; for when the demon of superstition is active, no matter what form it may take, it always results in cruelty and wickedness to all. various were the shouts and menaces of the mob, and the stranger saw no hope of life unless he could escape from the hands of the people who surrounded him. they had now nearly reached the ruins, and the stranger, who was certainly a somewhat odd and remarkable looking man, and who appeared in their eyes the very impersonation of their notions of a vampyre, was thrust from one to the other, kicked by one, and then cuffed by the other, as if he was doomed to run the gauntlet. "down with the vampyre!" said the mob. "i am no vampyre," said the stranger; "i am new to these parts, and i pray you have mercy upon me. i have done you no wrong. hear me,--i know nothing of these people of whom you speak." "that won't do; you've come here to see what you can do, i dare say; and, though you may have been hurt by the vampyre, and may be only your misfortune, and not your fault, yet the mischief is as great as ever it was or can be, you become, in spite of yourself, a vampyre, and do the same injury to others that has been done to you--there's no help for you." "no help,--we can't help it," shouted the mob; "he must die,--throw him on the pile." "put a stake through him first, though," exclaimed the humane female; "put a stake through him, and then he's safe." this horrible advice had an electric effect on the stranger, who jumped up, and eluded the grasp of several hands that were stretched forth to seize him. "throw him upon the burning wood!" shouted one. "and a stake through his body," suggested the humane female again, who seemed to have this one idea in her heart, and no other, and, upon every available opportunity, she seemed to be anxious to give utterance to the comfortable notion. "seize him!" exclaimed one. "never let him go," said another; "we've gone too far to hang back now; and, if he escape, he will visit us in our sleep, were it only out of spite." the stranger made a dash among the ruins, and, for a moment, out-stripped his pursuers; but a few, more adventurous than the rest, succeeded in driving him into an angle formed by two walls, and the consequence was, he was compelled to come to a stand. "seize him--seize him!" exclaimed all those at a distance. the stranger, seeing he was now nearly surrounded, and had no chance of escape, save by some great effort, seized a long piece of wood, and struck two of his assailants down at once, and then dashed through the opening. he immediately made for another part of the ruins, and succeeded in making his escape for some short distance, but was unable to keep up the speed that was required, for his great exertion before had nearly exhausted him, and the fear of a cruel death before his eyes was not enough to give him strength, or lend speed to his flight. he had suffered too much from violence, and, though he ran with great speed, yet those who followed were uninjured, and fresher,--he had no chance. they came very close upon him at the corner of a field, which he endeavoured to cross, and had succeeded in doing, and he made a desperate attempt to scramble up the bank that divided the field from the next, but he slipped back, almost exhausted, into the ditch, and the whole mob came up. however, he got on the bank, and leaped into the next field, and then he was immediately surrounded by those who pursued him, and he was struck down. "down with the vampyre!--kill him,--he's one of 'em,--run a stake through him!" were a few of the cries of the infuriated mob of people, who were only infuriated because he attempted to escape their murderous intentions. it was strange to see how they collected in a ring as the unfortunate man lay on the ground, panting for breath, and hardly able to speak--their infuriated countenances plainly showing the mischief they were intent upon. "have mercy upon me!" he exclaimed, as he lay on the earth; "i have no power to help myself." the mob returned no answer, but stood collecting their numbers as they came up. "have mercy on me! it cannot be any pleasure to you to spill my blood. i am unable to resist--i am one man among many,--you surely cannot wish to beat me to death?" "we want to hurt no one, except in our own defence, and we won't be made vampyres of because you don't like to die." "no, no; we won't be vampyres," exclaimed the mob, and there arose a great shout from the mob. "are you men--fathers?--have you families? if so, i have the same ties as you have; spare me for their sakes,--do not murder me,--you will leave one an orphan if you do; besides, what have i done? i have injured no one." "i tell you what, friends, if we listen to him we shall all be vampyres, and all our children will all be vampyres and orphans." "so we shall, so we shall; down with him!" the man attempted to get up, but, in doing so, he received a heavy blow from a hedge-stake, wielded by the herculean arm of a peasant. the sound of the blow was heard by those immediately around, and the man fell dead. there was a pause, and those nearest, apparently fearful of the consequences, and hardly expecting the catastrophe, began to disperse, and the remainder did so very soon afterwards. chapter lxxxi. the vampyre's flight.--his danger, and the last place of refuge. [illustration] leaving the disorderly and vicious mob, who were thus sacrificing human life to their excited passions, we return to the brothers bannerworth and the doctor, who together with admiral bell, still held watch over the hall. no indication of the coming forth of varney presented itself for some time longer, and then, at least they thought, they heard a window open; and, turning their eyes in the direction whence the sound proceeded, they could see the form of a man slowly and cautiously emerging from it. as far as they could judge, from the distance at which they were, that form partook much of the appearance and the general aspect of sir francis varney, and the more they looked and noticed its movements, the more they felt convinced that such was the fact. "there comes your patient, doctor," said the admiral. "don't call him my patient," said the doctor, "if you please." "why you know he is; and you are, in a manner of speaking, bound to look after him. well, what is to be done?" "he must not, on any account," said dr. chillingworth, "be allowed to leave the place. believe me, i have the very strongest reasons for saying so." "he shall not leave it then," said henry. even as he spoke, henry bannerworth darted forward, and sir francis varney dropped from the window, out of which he had clambered, close to his feet. "hold!" cried henry, "you are my prisoner." with the most imperturbable coolness in the world, sir francis varney turned upon him, and replied,-"and pray, henry bannerworth, what have i done to provoke your wrath?" "what have you done?--have you not, like a thief, broken into my house? can you ask what you have done?" "ay," said the vampyre, "like a thief, perchance, and yet no thief. may i ask you, what there is to steal, in the house?" by the time this short dialogue had been uttered, the rest of the party had come up, and varney was, so far as regarded numbers, a prisoner. "well, gentlemen," he said, with that strange contortion of countenance which, now they all understood, arose from the fact of his having been hanged, and restored to life again. "well, gentlemen, now that you have beleaguered me in such a way, may i ask you what it is about?" "if you will step aside with me, sir francis varney, for a moment," said dr. chillingworth, "i will make to you a communication which will enable you to know what it is all about." "oh, with pleasure," said the vampyre. "i am not ill at present; but still, sir, i have no objection to hear what you have to say." he stepped a few paces on one side with the doctor, while the others waited, not without some amount of impatience for the result of the communication. all that they could hear was, that varney said, suddenly-"you are quite mistaken." and then the doctor appeared to be insisting upon something, which the vampyre listened to patiently; and, at the end, burst out with,-"why, doctor, you must be dreaming." at this, dr. chillingworth at once left him, and advancing to his friends, he said,-"sir francis varney denies in toto all that i have related to you concerning him; therefore, i can say no more than that i earnestly recommend you, before you let him go, to see that he takes nothing of value with him." "why, what can you mean?" said varney. "search him," said the doctor; "i will tell you why, very shortly." "indeed--indeed!" said sir francis varney. "now, gentlemen, i will give you a chance of behaving justly and quietly, so saving yourself the danger of acting otherwise. i have made repeated offers to take this house, either as a tenant or as a purchaser, all of which offers have been declined, upon, i dare say, a common enough principle, namely, one which induces people to enhance the value of anything they have for disposal, if it be unique, by making it difficult to come at. seeing that you had deserted the place, i could make no doubt but that it was to be had, so i came here to make a thorough examination of its interior, to see if it would suit me. i find that it will not; therefore, i have only to apologise for the intrusion, and to wish you a remarkably good evening." "that won't do," said the doctor. "what won't do, sir?" "this excuse will not do, sir francis varney. you are, although you deny it, the man who was hanged in london some years ago for a highway robbery." varney laughed, and held up his hands, exclaiming,-"alas! alas! our good friend, the doctor, has studied too hard; his wits, probably, at the best of times, none of the clearest, have become hopelessly entangled." "do you deny," said henry, "then, that you are that man?" "most unequivocally." "i assert it," said the doctor, "and now, i will tell you all, for i perceive you hesitate about searching, sir francis varney, i tell you all why it is that he has such an affection for bannerworth hall." "before you do," said varney, "there is a pill for you, which you may find more nauseous and harder of digestion, than any your shop can furnish." as varney uttered these words, he suddenly drew from his pocket a pistol, and, levelling it at the unfortunate doctor, he fired it full at him. the act was so sudden, so utterly unexpected, and so stunning, that it was done before any one could move hand or foot to prevent it. henry bannerworth and his brother were the furthest off from the vampyre; and, unhappily, in the rush which they, as soon us possible, made towards him, they knocked down the admiral, who impeded them much; and, before they could spring over, or past him, sir francis varney was gone. so sudden, too, had been his departure, that they had not the least idea in which direction he had gone; so that to follow him would have been a work of the greatest possible difficulty. notwithstanding, however, both the difficulty and the danger, for no doubt the vampyre was well enough armed, henry and his brother both rushed after the murderer, as they now believed him to be, in the route which they thought it was most probable he would take, namely, that which led towards the garden gate. they reached that spot in a few moments, but all was profoundly still. not the least trace of any one could be seen, high or low, and they were compelled, after a cursory examination, to admit that sir francis varney had again made his escape, despite the great odds that were against him in point of numbers. "he has gone," said henry. "let us go back, and see into the state of poor dr. chillingworth, who, i fear, is a dead man." they hurried back to the spot, and there they found the admiral looking as composed as possible, and solacing himself with a pinch of snuff, as he gazed upon the apparently lifeless form at his feet. "is he dead?" said henry. "i should say he was," replied the admiral; "such a shot as that was don't want to be repeated. well, i liked the doctor with all his faults. he only had one foolish way with him, and that was, that he shirked his grog." "this is an awful catastrophe," said henry, as he knelt down by the side of the body. "assist me, some of you. where is charles?" "i'll be hanged," said the admiral, "if i know. he disappeared somewhere." "this is a night of mystery as well as terror. alas! poor dr. chillingworth! i little thought that you would have fallen a victim to the man whom you preserved from death. how strange it is that you should have snatched from the tomb the very individual who was, eventually, to take your own life." the brothers gently raised the body of the doctor, and carried it on to the glass plot, which was close at hand. "farewell, kind and honest-hearted chillingworth," said henry; "i shall, many and many a time, feel your loss; and now i will rest not until i have delivered up to justice your murderer. all consideration, or feeling, for what seemed to be latent virtues in that strange and inexplicable man, varney, shall vanish, and he shall reap the consequences of the crime he has now committed." "it was a cold blooded, cowardly murder," said his brother. "it was; but you may depend the doctor was about to reveal something to us, which varney so much dreaded, that he took his life as the only effectual way, at the moment, of stopping him." "it must be so," said henry. "and now," said the admiral, "it's too late, and we shall not know it at all. that's the way. a fellow saves up what he has got to tell till it is too late to tell it, and down he goes to davy jones's locker with all his secrets aboard." "not always," said dr. chillingworth, suddenly sitting bolt upright--"not always." henry and his brother started back in amazement, and the admiral was so taken by surprise, that had not the resuscitated doctor suddenly stretched out his hand and laid hold of him by the ankle, he would have made a precipitate retreat. "hilloa! murder!" he cried. "let me go! how do i know but you may be a vampyre by now, as you were shot by one." henry soonest recovered from the surprise of the moment, and with the most unfeigned satisfaction, he cried,-"thank god you are unhurt, dr. chillingworth! why he must have missed you by a miracle." "not at all," said the doctor. "help me up--thank you--all right. i'm only a little singed about the whiskers. he hit me safe enough." "then how have you escaped?" "why from the want of a bullet in the pistol, to be sure. i can understand it all well enough. he wanted to create sufficient confusion to cover a desperate attempt to escape, and he thought that would be best done by seeming so shoot me. the suddenness of the shock, and the full belief, at the moment, that he had sent a bullet into my brains, made me fall, and produced a temporary confusion of ideas, amounting to insensibility." "from which you are happily recovered. thank heaven that, after all, he is not such a villain as this act would have made him." "ah!" said the admiral, "it takes people who have lived a little in these affairs to know the difference in sound between a firearm with a bullet in it, and one without. i knew it was all right." "then why did you not say so, admiral?" "what was the use? i thought the doctor might be amused to know what you should say of him, so you see i didn't interfere; and, as i am not a good hand at galloping after anybody, i didn't try that part of the business, but just remained where i was." "alas! alas!" cried the doctor, "i much fear that, by his going, i have lost all that i expected to be able to do for you, henry. it's of not the least use now telling you or troubling you about it. you may now sell or let bannerworth hall to whomever you please, for i am afraid it is really worthless." "what on earth do you mean?" said henry. "why, doctor, will you keep up this mystery among us? if you have anything to say, why not say it at once?" "because, i tell you it's of no use now. the game is up, sir francis varney has escaped; but still i don't know that i need exactly hesitate." "there can be no reason for your hesitating about making a communication to us," said henry. "it is unfriendly not to do so." "my dear boy, you will excuse me for saying that you don't know what you are talking about." "can you give any reason?" "yes; respect for the living. i should have to relate something of the dead which would be hurtful to their feelings." henry was silent for a few moments, and then he said,-"what dead? and who are the living?" "another time," whispered the doctor to him; "another time, henry. do not press me now. but you shall know all another time." "i must be content. but now let us remember that another man yet lingers in bannerworth hall. i will endure suspense on his account no longer. he is an intruder there; so i go at once to dislodge him." no one made any opposition to this move, not even the doctor; so henry preceded them all to the house. they passed through the open window into the long hall, and from thence into every apartment of the mansion, without finding the object of their search. but from one of the windows up to which there grew great masses of ivy, there hung a rope, by which any one might easily have let himself down; and no doubt, therefore, existed in all their minds that the hangman had sufficiently profited by the confusion incidental to the supposed shooting of the doctor, to make good his escape from the place. "and so, after all," said henry, "we are completely foiled?" "we may be," said dr. chillingworth; "but it is, perhaps, going too far to say that we actually are. one thing, however, is quite clear; and that is, no good can be done here." "then let us go home," said the admiral. "i did not think from the first that any good would be done here." they all left the garden together now; so that almost for the first time, bannerworth hall was left to itself, unguarded and unwatched by any one whatever. it was with an evident and a marked melancholy that the doctor proceeded with the party to the cottage-house of the bannerworths; but, as after what he had said, henry forbore to question him further upon those subjects which he admitted he was keeping secret; and as none of the party were much in a cue for general conversation, the whole of them walked on with more silence than usually characterised them. chapter lxxxii. charles holland's pursuit of the vampyre.--the dangerous interview. [illustration] it will be recollected that the admiral had made a remark about charles holland having suddenly disappeared; and it is for us now to account for that disappearance and to follow him to the pathway he had chosen. the fact was, that he, when varney fired the shot at the doctor, or what was the supposed shot, was the farthest from the vampyre; and he, on that very account, had the clearest and best opportunity of marking which route he took when he had discharged the pistol. he was not confused by the smoke, as the others were; nor was he stunned by the noise of the discharge; but he distinctly saw varney dart across one of the garden beds, and make for the summer-house, instead of for the garden gate, as henry had supposed was the most probable path he had chosen. now, charles holland either had an inclination, for some reasons of his own, to follow the vampyre alone; or, on the spur of the moment, he had not time to give an alarm to the others; but certain it is that he did, unaided, rush after him. he saw him enter the summer-house, and pass out of it again at the back portion of it, as he had once before done, when surprised in his interview with flora. but the vampyre did not now, as he had done on the former occasion, hide immediately behind the summer-house. he seemed to be well aware that that expedient would not answer twice; so he at once sped onwards, clearing the garden fence, and taking to the meadows. it formed evidently no part of the intentions of charles holland to come up with him. he was resolved upon dogging his footsteps, to know where he should go; so that he might have a knowledge of his hiding-place, if he had one. "i must and will," said charles to himself, "penetrate the mystery that hangs about this most strange and inexplicable being. i will have an interview with him, not in hostility, for i forgive him the evil he has done me, but with a kindly spirit; and i will ask him to confide in me." charles, therefore, did not keep so close upon the heels of the vampyre as to excite any suspicions of his intention to follow him; but he waited by the garden paling long enough not only for varney to get some distance off, but long enough likewise to know that the pistol which had been fired at the doctor had produced no real bad effects, except singing some curious tufts of hair upon the sides of his face, which the doctor was pleased to call whiskers. "i thought as much," was charles's exclamation when he heard the doctor's voice. "it would have been strikingly at variance with all varney's other conduct, if he had committed such a deliberate and heartless murder." then, as the form of the vampyre could be but dimly seen, charles ran on for some distance in the direction he had taken, and then paused again; so that if varney heard the sound of footsteps, and paused to listen they had ceased again probably, and nothing was discernible. in this manner he followed the mysterious individual, if we may really call him such, for above a mile; and then varney made a rapid detour, and took his way towards the town. he went onwards with wonderful precision now in a right line, not stopping at any obstruction, in the way of fences, hedges, or ditches, so that it took charles some exertion, to which, just then, he was scarcely equal, to keep up with him. at length the outskirts of the town were gained, and then varney paused, and looked around him, scarcely allowing charles, who was now closer to him than he had been, time to hide himself from observation, which, however, he did accomplish, by casting himself suddenly upon the ground, so that he could not be detected against the sky, which then formed a back ground to the spot where he was. apparently satisfied that he had completely now eluded the pursuit, if any had been attempted, of those whom he had led in such a state of confusion, the vampyre walked hastily towards a house that was to let, and which was only to be reached by going up an avenue of trees, and then unlocking a gate in a wall which bounded the premises next to the avenue. but the vampyre appeared to be possessed of every facility for effecting an entrance to the place and, producing from his pocket a key, he at once opened the gate, and disappeared within the precincts of those premises. he, no doubt, felt that he was hunted by the mob of the town, and hence his frequent change of residence, since his own had been burnt down, and, indeed, situated as he was, there can be no manner of doubt that he would have been sacrificed to the superstitious fury of the populace, if they could but have got hold of him. he had, from his knowledge, which was no doubt accurate and complete, of what had been done, a good idea of what his own fate would be, were he to fall into the hands of that ferocious multitude, each individual composing which, felt a conviction that there would be no peace, nor hope of prosperity or happiness, on the place, until he, the arch vampyre of all the supposed vampyres, was destroyed. [illustration] charles did pause for a few moments, after having thus become roused, to consider whether he should then attempt to have the interview he had resolved upon having by some means or another, or defer it, now that he knew where varney was to be found, until another time. but when he came to consider how extremely likely it was that, even in the course of a few hours, varney might shift his abode for some good and substantial reasons, he at once determined upon attempting to see him. but how to accomplish such a purpose was not the easiest question in the world to answer. if he rung the bell that presented itself above the garden gate, was it at all likely that varney, who had come there for concealment, would pay any attention to the summons? after some consideration, he did, however, think of a plan by which, at all events, he could ensure effecting an entrance into the premises, and then he would take his chance of finding the mysterious being whom he sought, and who probably might have no particular objection to meeting with him, charles holland, because their last interview in the ruins could not be said to be otherwise than of a peaceable and calm enough character. he saw by the board, which was nailed in the front of the house, that all applications to see it were to be made to a mr. nash, residing close at hand; and, as charles had the appearance of a respectable person, he thought he might possibly have the key entrusted to him, ostensibly to look at the house, preparatory possibly to taking it, and so he should, at all events, obtain admission. he, accordingly, went at once to this mr. nash, and asked about the house; of course he had to affect an interest in its rental and accommodations, which he did not feel, in order to lull any suspicion, and, finally, he said,-"i should like to look over it if you will lend me the key, which i will shortly bring back to you." there was an evident hesitation about the agent when this proposal was communicated by charles holland, and he said,-"i dare say, sir, you wonder that i don't say yes, at once; but the fact is there came a gentleman here one day when i was out, and got a key, for we have two to open the house, from my wife, and he never came back again." that this was the means by which varney, the vampyre, had obtained the key, by the aid of which charles had seen him effect so immediate an entrance to the house, there could be no doubt. "how long ago were you served that trick?" he said. "about two days ago, sir." "well, it only shows how, when one person acts wrongly, another is at once suspected of a capability to do so likewise. there is my name and my address; i should like rather to go alone to see the house, because i always fancy i can judge better by myself of the accommodation, and i can stay as long as i like, and ascertain the sizes of all the rooms without the disagreeable feeling upon my mind, which no amount of complaisance on your part, could ever get me over, that i was most unaccountably detaining somebody from more important business of their own." "oh, i assure you, sir," said mr. nash, "that i should not be at all impatient. but if you would rather go alone--" "indeed i would." "oh, then, sir, there is the key. a gentleman who leaves his name and address, of course, we can have no objection to. i only told you of what happened, sir, in the mere way of conversation, and i hope you won't imagine for a moment that i meant to insinuate that you were going to keep the key." "oh, certainly not--certainly not," said charles, who was only too glad to get the key upon any terms. "you are quite right, and i beg you will say no more about it; i quite understand." he then walked off to the empty house again, and, proceeding to the avenue, he fitted the key to the lock, and had the satisfaction of finding the gate instantly yield to him. when he passed through it, and closed the door after him, which he did carefully, he found himself in a handsomely laid-out garden, and saw the house a short distance in front of him, standing upon a well got-up lawn. he cared not if varney should see him before he reached the house, because the fact was sufficiently evident to himself that after all he could not actually enforce an interview with the vampyre. he only hoped that as he had found him out it would be conceded to him. he, therefore, walked up the lawn without making the least attempt at concealment, and when he reached the house he allowed his footsteps to make what noise they would upon the stone steps which led up to it. but no one appeared; nor was there, either by sight or by sound, any indication of the presence of any living being in the place besides himself. insensibly, as he contemplated the deserted place around him, the solemn sort of stillness began to have its effect upon his imagination, and, without being aware that he did so, he had, with softness and caution, glided onwards, as if he were bent on some errand requiring the utmost amount of caution and discrimination in the conduction of it. and so he entered the hall of the house, where he stood some time, and listened with the greatest attention, without, however, being able to hear the least sound throughout the whole of the house. "and yet he must be here," thought charles to himself; "i was not gone many minutes, and it is extremely unlikely that in so short a space of time he has left, after taking so much trouble, by making such a detour around the meadows to get here, without being observed. i will examine every room in the place, but i will find him." charles immediately commenced going from room to room of that house in his search for the vampyre. there were but four apartments upon the ground floor, and these, of course, he quickly ran through. nothing whatever at all indicative of any one having been there met his gaze, and with a feeling of disappointment creeping over him, he commenced the ascent of the staircase. the day had now fairly commenced, so that there was abundance of light, although, even for the country, it was an early hour, and probably mr. nash had been not a little surprised to have a call from one whose appearance bespoke no necessity for rising with the lark at such an hour. all these considerations, however, sank into insignificance in charles's mind, compared with the object he had in view, namely, the unravelling the many mysteries that hung around that man. he ascended to the landing of the first story, and then, as he could have no choice, he opened the first door that his eyes fell upon, and entered a tolerably large apartment. it was quite destitute of furniture, and at the moment charles was about to pronounce it empty; but then his eyes fell upon a large black-looking bundle of something, that seemed to be lying jammed up under the window on the floor--that being the place of all others in the room which was enveloped in the most shadow. he started back involuntarily at the moment, for the appearance was one so shapeless, that there was no such thing as defining, from even that distance, what it really was. then he slowly and cautiously approached it, as we always approach that of the character of which we are ignorant, and concerning the powers of which to do injury we can consequently have no defined idea. that it was a human form there, was the first tangible opinion he had about it; and from its profound stillness, and the manner in which it seemed to be laid close under the window, he thought that he was surely upon the point of finding out that some deed of blood had been committed, the unfortunate victim of which was now lying before him. upon a nearer examination, he found that the whole body, including the greater part of the head and face, was wrapped in a large cloak; and there, as he gazed, he soon found cause to correct his first opinion at to the form belonging to the dead, for he could distinctly hear the regular breathing, as of some one in a sound and dreamless sleep. closer he went, and closer still. then, as he clasped his hands, he said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper,-"it is--it is the vampyre." yes, there could be no doubt of the fact. it was sir francis varney who lay there, enveloped in the huge horseman's cloak, in which, on two or three occasions during the progress of this narrative, he had figured. there he lay, at the mercy completely of any arm that might be raised against him, apparently so overcome by fatigue that no ordinary noise would have awakened him. well might charles holland gaze at him with mingled feelings. there lay the being who had done almost enough to drive the beautiful flora bannerworth distracted--the being who had compelled the bannerworth family to leave their ancient house, to which they had been bound by every description of association. the same mysterious existence, too, who, the better to carry on his plots and plans, had, by dint of violence, immured him, charles, in a dungeon, and loaded him with chains. there he lay sleeping, and at his mercy. "shall i awaken him," said charles, "or let him sleep off the fatigue, which, no doubt, is weighing down his limbs, and setting heavily on his eyelids. no, my business with him is too urgent." he then raised his voice, and cried,-"varney, varney, awake!" the sound disturbed, without altogether breaking up, the deep slumber of the vampyre, and he uttered a low moan, and moved one hand restlessly. then, as if that disturbance of the calm and deep repose which had sat upon him, had given at once the reins to fancy, he begin to mutter strange words in his sleep, some of which could be heard by charles distinctly, while others were too incoherently uttered to be clearly understood. "where is it?" he said; "where--where hidden?--pull the house down!--murder! no, no, no! no murder!--i will not, i dare not. blood enough is upon my hands.--the money!--the money! down, villains! down! down! down!" what these incoherent words alluded to specifically, charles, of course, could not have the least idea, but he listened attentively, with a hope that something might fall from his lips that would afford a key to some of the mysterious circumstances with which he was so intimately connected. now, however, there was a longer silence than before, only broken occasionally by low moans; but suddenly, as charles was thinking of again speaking, he uttered some more disjointed sentences. "no harm," he said, "no harm,--marchdale is a villain!--not a hair of his head injured--no, no. set him free--yes, i will set him free. beware! beware, marchdale! and you mortimer. the scaffold! ay, the scaffold! but where is the bright gold? the memory of the deed of blood will not cling to it. where is it hidden? the gold! the gold! the gold! it is not in the grave--it cannot be there--no, no, no!--not there, not there! load the pistols. there, there! down, villain, down!--down, down!" despairing, now, of obtaining anything like tangible information from these ravings, which, even if they did, by accident, so connect themselves together as to seem to mean something, charles again cried aloud,-"varney, awake, awake!" but, as before, the sleeping man was sufficiently deaf to the cry to remain, with his eyes closed, still in a disturbed slumber, but yet a slumber which might last for a considerable time. "i have heard," said charles, "that there are many persons whom no noise will awaken, while the slightest touch rouses them in an instant. i will try that upon this slumbering being." as he spoke, he advanced close to sir francis varney, and touched him slightly with the toe of his boot. the effect was as startling as it was instantaneous. the vampyre sprang to his feet, as he had been suddenly impelled up by some powerful machinery; and, casting his cloak away from his arms, so as to have them at liberty, he sprang upon charles holland, and hurled him to the ground, where he held him with a giant's gripe, as he cried,-"rash fool! be you whom you may. why have you troubled me to rid the world of your intrusive existence?" the attack was so sudden and so terrific, that resistance to it, even if charles had had the power, was out of the question. all he could say, was,-"varney, varney! do you not know me? i am charles holland. will you now, in your mad rage, take the life you might more easily have taken when i lay in the dungeon from which you released me?" the sound of his voice at once convinced sir francis varney of his identity; and it was with a voice that had some tones of regret in it, that he replied,-"and wherefore have you thought proper, when you were once free and unscathed, to cast yourself into such a position of danger as to follow me to my haunt?" "i contemplated no danger," said charles, "because i contemplated no evil. i do not know why you should kill me." "you came here, and yet you say you do not know why i should kill you. young man, have you a dozen lives that you can afford to tamper with them thus? i have, at much chance of imminence to myself, already once saved you, when another, with a sterner feeling, would have gladly taken your life; but now, as if you were determined to goad me to an act which i have shunned committing, you will not let me close my eyes in peace." "take your hand from off my throat, varney, and i will then tell you what brought me here." sir francis varney did so. "rise," he said--"rise; i have seen blood enough to be sickened at the prospect of more; but you should not have come here and tempted me." "nay, believe me, i came here for good and not for evil. sir francis varney, hear me out, and then judge for yourself whether you can blame the perseverance which enabled me to find out this secret place of refuge; but let me first say that now it is as good a place of concealment to you as before it was, for i shall not betray you." "go on, go on. what is it you desire?" "during the long and weary hours of my captivity, i thought deeply, and painfully too, as may be well imagined, of all the circumstances connected with your appearance at bannerworth hall, and your subsequent conduct. then i felt convinced that there was something far more than met the eye, in the whole affair, and, from what i have been informed of since, i am the more convinced that some secret, some mystery, which it is in your power only perhaps to explain, lurks at the bottom of all your conduct." "well, proceed," said varney. "have i not said enough now to enable you to divine the object of my visit? it is that you should shake off the trammels of mystery in which you have shrouded yourself, and declare what it is you want, what it is you desire, that has induced you to set yourself up as such a determined foe of the bannerworth family." "and that, you say, is the modest request that brings you here?" "you speak as if you thought it was idle curiosity that prompts me, but you know it is not. your language and manner are those of a man of too much sagacity not to see that i have higher notions." "name them." "you have yourself, in more than one instance, behaved with a strange sort of romantic generosity, as if, but for some great object which you felt impelled to seek by any means, and at any sacrifice, you would be a something in character and conduct very different from what you are. one of my objects, then, is to awaken that better nature which is slumbering within you, only now and then rousing itself to do some deed which should be the character of all your actions--for your own sake i have come." "but not wholly?" "not wholly, as you say. there is another than whom, the whole world is not so dear to me. that other one was serene as she was beautiful. happiness danced in her eyes, and she ought--for not more lovely is the mind that she possesses than the glorious form that enshrines it--to be happy. her life should have passed like one long summer's day of beauty, sunshine, and pure heavenly enjoyment. you have poisoned the cup of joy that the great god of nature had permitted her to place to her lips and taste of mistrustingly. why have you done this? i ask you--why have you done this?" "have you said all that you came to say?" "i have spoken the substance of my message. much could i elaborate upon such a theme; but it is not one, varney, which is congenial to my heart; for your sake, however, and for the sakes of those whom i hold most dear, let me implore you to act in this matter with a kindly consideration. proclaim your motives; you cannot say that they are not such as we may aid you in." varney was silent for several moments; he seemed perceptibly moved by the manner of the young man, as well as by the matter of his discourse. in fact, one would suppose that charles holland had succeeded in investing what he said with some sort of charm that won much upon the fancy of sir francis varney, for when he ceased to speak, the latter said in a low voice,-"go on, go on; you have surely much more to say." "no, varney; i have said enough, and not thus much would i have said had i not been aware, most certainly and truly aware, without the shadow of a doubt, by your manner, that you were most accessible to human feeling." "i accessible to human feeling! know you to whom you speak? am i not he before whom all men shudder, whose name has been a terror and a desolation; and yet you can talk of my human feelings. nay, if i had had any, be sure they would have been extinguished by the persecutions i have endured from those who, you know, with savage ferocity have sought my life." "no, varney; i give you credit for being a subtler reasoner than thus to argue; you know well that you were the aggressor to those parties who sought your life; you know well that with the greatest imaginable pains you held yourself up to them as a thing of great terror." "i did--i did." "you cannot, then, turn round upon ignorant persons, and blame them because your exertions to make yourself seem what you wish were but too successful." "you use the word _seem_," said varney, with a bitterness of aspect, "as if you would imply a doubt that i am that which thousands, by their fears, would testify me to be." "thousands might," said charles holland; "but not among them am i, varney; i will not be made the victim of superstition. were you to enact before my very eyes some of those feats which, to the senses of others, would stamp you as the preternatural being you assume to be, i would doubt the evidence of my own senses ere i permitted such a bugbear to oppress my brain." "go," said sir francis varney, "go: i have no more words for you; i have nothing to relate to you." "nay, you have already listened sufficiently to me to give me a hope that i had awakened some of the humanity that was in your nature. do not, sir francis varney, crush that hope, even as it was budding forth; not for my own sake do i ask you for revelations; that may, perhaps--must be painful for you; but for the sake of flora bannerworth, to whom you owe abundance of reparation." "no, no." "in the name of all that is great, and good, and just, i call upon you for justice." "what have i to do with such an invocation? utter such a sentiment to men who, like yourself, are invested with the reality as well as the outward show of human nature." "nay, sir francis varney, now you belie yourself. you have passed through a long, and, perchance, a stormy life. can you look back upon your career, and find no reminiscences of the past that shall convince you that you are of the great family of man, and have had abundance of human feelings and of human affections?" "peace, peace!" "nay, sir francis varney, i will take your word, and if you will lay your hand upon your heart, and tell me truly that you never felt what it was to love--to have all feeling, all taste, and all hope of future joy, concentrated in one individual, i will despair, and leave you. if you will tell me that never, in your whole life, you have felt for any fair and glorious creature, as i now feel for flora bannerworth, a being for whom you could have sacrificed not only existence, but all the hopes of a glorious future that bloom around it--if you will tell me, with the calm, dispassionate aspect of truth, that you have held yourself aloof from such human feelings, i will no longer press you to a disclosure which i shall bring no argument to urge." the agitation of sir francis varney's countenance was perceptible, and charles holland was about to speak again, when, striking him upon the breast with his clinched hand, the vampyre checked him, saying-"do you wish to drive me mad, that you thus, from memory's hidden cells, conjure up images of the past?" "then there are such images to conjure up--there are such shadows only sleeping, but which require only, as you did even now, but a touch to awaken them to life and energy. oh, sir francis varney, do not tell me that you are not human." the vampyre made a furious gesture, as if he would have attacked charles holland; but then he sank nearly to the floor, as if soul-stricken by some recollection that unnerved his arm; he shook with unwonted emotion, and, from the frightful livid aspect of his countenance, charles dreaded some serious accession of indisposition, which might, if nothing else did, prevent him from making the revelation he so much sought to hear from his lips. "varney," he cried, "varney, be calm! you will be listened to by one who will draw no harsh--no hasty conclusions; by one, who, with that charity, i grieve to say, is rare, will place upon the words you utter the most favourable construction. tell me all, i pray you, tell me all." "this is strange," said the vampyre. "i never thought that aught human could thus have moved me. young man, you have touched the chords of memory; they vibrate throughout my heart, producing cadences and sounds of years long past. bear with me awhile." "and you will speak to me?" "i will." "having your promise, then, i am content, varney." "but you must be secret; not even in the wildest waste of nature, where you can well presume that naught but heaven can listen to your whisperings, must you utter one word of that which i shall tell to you." "alas!" said charles, "i dare not take such a confidence; i have said that it is not for myself; i seek such knowledge of what you are, and what you have been, but it is for another so dear to me, that all the charms of life that make up other men's delights, equal not the witchery of one glance from her, speaking as it does of the glorious light from that heaven which is eternal, from whence she sprung." "and you reject my communication," said varney, "because i will not give you leave to expose it to flora bannerworth?" "it must be so." "and you are most anxious to hear that which i have to relate?" "most anxious, indeed--indeed, most anxious." "then have i found in that scruple which besets your mind, a better argument for trusting you, than had ye been loud in protestation. had your promises of secrecy been but those which come from the lip, and not from the heart, my confidence would not have been rejected on such grounds. i think that i dare trust you." "with leave to tell to flora that which you shall communicate." "you may whisper it to her, but to no one else, without my special leave and licence." "i agree to those terms, and will religiously preserve them." "i do not doubt you for one moment; and now i will tell to you what never yet has passed my lips to mortal man. now will i connect together some matters which you may have heard piecemeal from others." "what others are they?" "dr. chillingworth, and he who once officiated as a london hangman." "i have heard something from those quarters." "listen then to me, and you shall better understand that which you have heard. some years ago, it matters not the number, on a stormy night, towards the autumn of the year, two men sat alone in poverty, and that species of distress which beset the haughty, profligate, daring man, who has been accustomed all his life to its most enticing enjoyments, but never to that industry which alone ought to produce them, and render them great and magnificent." "two men; and who were they?" "i was one. look upon me! i was of those men; and strong and evil passions were battling in my heart." "and the other!" "was marmaduke bannerworth." "gracious heaven! the father of her whom i adore; the suicide." "yes, the same; that man stained with a thousand vices--blasted by a thousand crimes--the father of her who partakes nothing of his nature, who borrows nothing from his memory but his name--was the man who there sat with me, plotting and contriving how, by fraud or violence, we were to lead our usual life of revelry and wild audacious debauch." "go on, go on; believe me, i am deeply interested." "i can see as much. we were not nice in the various schemes which our prolific fancies engendered. if trickery, and the false dice at the gaming-table, sufficed not to fill our purses, we were bold enough for violence. if simple robbery would not succeed, we could take a life." "murder?" "ay, call it by its proper name, a murder. we sat till the midnight hour had passed, without arriving at a definite conclusion; we saw no plan of practicable operation, and so we wandered onwards to one of those deep dens of iniquity, a gaming-house, wherein we had won and lost thousands. "we had no money, but we staked largely, in the shape of a wager, upon the success of one of the players; we knew not, or cared not, for the consequence, if we had lost; but, as it happened, we were largely successful, and beggars as we had walked into that place, we might have left it independent men. "but when does the gambler know when to pause in his career? if defeat awakens all the raging passions of humanity within his bosom, success but feeds the great vice that has been there engendered. to the dawn of morn we played; the bright sun shone in, and yet we played--the midday came, and went--the stimulant of wine supported us, and still we played; then came the shadows of evening, stealing on in all their beauty. but what were they to us, amid those mutations of fortune, which, at one moment, made us princes, and placed palaces at our control, and, at another, debased us below the veriest beggar, that craves the stinted alms of charity from door to door. "and there was one man who, from the first to the last, stayed by us like a very fiend; more than man, i thought he was not human. we won of all, but of him. people came and brought their bright red gold, and laid it down before us, but for us to take it up, and then, by a cruel stroke of fortune, he took it from us. "the night came on; we won, and he won of us; the clock struck twelve--we were beggars. god knows what was he. "we saw him place his winnings about his person--we saw the smile that curved the corners of his lips; he was calm, and we were maddened. the blood flowed temperately through his veins, but in ours it was burning lava, scorching as it went through every petty artery, and drying up all human thought--all human feeling. "the winner left, and we tracked his footsteps. when he reached the open air, although he had taken much less than we of the intoxicating beverages that are supplied gratis to those who frequent those haunts of infamy, it was evident that some sort of inebriation attacked him; his steps were disordered and unsteady, and, as we followed him, we could perceive, by the devious track that he took, that he was somewhat uncertain of his route. "we had no fixed motive in so pursuing this man. it was but an impulsive proceeding at the best; but as he still went on and cleared the streets, getting into the wild and open country, and among the hedge-rows, we began to whisper together, and to think that what we did not owe to fortune, we might to our own energy and courage at such a moment. "i need not hesitate to say so, since, to hide the most important feature of my revelation from you, would be but to mock you; we resolved upon robbing him. "and was that all?" "it was all that our resolution went to. we were not anxious to spill blood; but still we were resolved that we would accomplish our purpose, even if it required murder for its consummation. have you heard enough?" "i have not heard enough, although i guess the rest." "you may well guess it, from its preface. he turned down a lonely pathway, which, had we chosen it ourselves, could not have been more suitable for the attack we meditated. "there were tall trees on either side, and a hedge-row stretching high up between them. we knew that that lane led to a suburban village, which, without a doubt, was the object of his destination. "then marmaduke bannerworth spoke, saying,-"'what we have to do, must be done now or never. there needs not two in this adventure. shall you or i require him to refund what he has won from us?' "'i care not,' i said; 'but if we are to accomplish our purpose without arousing even a shadow of resistance, it is better to show him its futility by both appearing, and take a share in the adventure.' "this was agreed upon, and we hastened forward. he heard footsteps pursuing him and quickened his pace. i was the fleetest runner, and overtook him. i passed him a pace or two, and then turning, i faced him, and impeded his progress. "the lane was narrow, and a glance behind him showed him marmaduke bannerworth; so that he was hemmed in between two enemies, and could move neither to the right nor to the left, on account of the thick brushwood that intervened between the trees. "then, with an assumed courage, that sat but ill upon him, he demanded of us what we wanted, and proclaimed his right to pass despite the obstruction we placed in his way. "the dialogue was brief. i, being foremost, spoke to him. "'your money,' i said; 'your winnings at the gaming-table. we cannot, and we will not lose it.' "so suddenly, that he had nearly taken my life, he drew a pistol from his pocket, and levelling it at my head, he fired upon me. "perhaps, had i moved, it might have been my death; but, as it was, the bullet furrowed my cheek, leaving a scar, the path of which is yet visible in a white cicatrix. "i felt a stunning sensation, and thought myself a dead man. i cried aloud to marmaduke bannerworth, and he rushed forward. i knew not that he was armed, and that he had the power about him to do the deed which he then accomplished; but there was a groan, a slight struggle, and the successful gamester fell upon the green sward, bathed in his blood." "and this is the father of her whom i adore?" "it is. are you shocked to think of such a neat relationship between so much beauty and intelligence and a midnight murderer? is your philosophy so poor, that the daughter's beauty suffers from the commission of a father's crime?" "no, no, it is not so. do not fancy that, for one moment, i can entertain such unworthy opinions. the thought that crossed me was that i should have to tell one of such a gentle nature that her father had done such a deed." "on that head you can use your own discretion. the deed was done; there was sufficient light for us to look upon the features of the dying man. ghastly and terrific they glared upon us; while the glazed eyes, as they were upturned to the bright sky, seemed appealing to heaven for vengeance against us, for having done the deed. "many a day and many an hour since at all times and all seasons, i have seen those eyes, with the glaze of death upon them, following me, and gloating over the misery they had the power to make. i think i see them now." "indeed!" "yes; look--look--see how they glare upon me--with what a fixed and frightful stare the bloodshot pupils keep their place--there, there! oh! save me from such a visitation again. it is too horrible. i dare not--i cannot endure it; and yet why do you gaze at me with such an aspect, dread visitant? you know that it was not my hand that did the deed--who laid you low. you know that not to me are you able to lay the heavy charge of your death!" "varney, you look upon vacancy," said charles holland. "no, no; vacancy it may be to you, but to me 'tis full of horrible shapes." "compose yourself; you have taken me far into your confidence already; i pray you now to tell me all. i have in my brain no room for horrible conjectures such as those which might else torment me." varney was silent for a few minutes, and then he wiped from his brow the heavy drops of perspiration that had there gathered, and heaved a deep sigh. "speak to me," added charles; "nothing will so much relieve you from the terrors of this remembrance as making a confidence which reflection will approve of, and which you will know that you have no reason to repent." "charles holland," said varney, "i have already gone too far to retract--much too far, i know, and can well understand all the danger of half confidence. you already know so much, that it is fit you should know more." "go on then, varney, i will listen to you." "i know not if, at this juncture, i can command myself to say more. i feel that what next has to be told will be most horrible for me to tell--most sad for you to hear told." "i can well believe, varney, from your manner of speech, and from the words you use, that you have some secret to relate beyond this simple fact of the murder of this gamester by marmaduke bannerworth." "you are right--such is the fact; the death of that man could not have moved me as you now see me moved. there is a secret connected with his fate which i may well hesitate to utter--a secret even to whisper to the winds of heaven--i--although i did not do the deed, no, no--i--i did not strike the blow--not i--not i!" [illustration] "varney, it is astonishing to me the pains you take to assure yourself of your innocence of this deed; no one accuses you, but still, were it not that i am impressed with a strong conviction that you're speaking to me nothing but the truth, the very fact of your extreme anxiety to acquit yourself, would engender suspicion." "i can understand that feeling, charles holland; i can fully understand it. i do not blame you for it--it is a most natural one; but when you know all, you will feel with me how necessary it must have been to my peace to seize upon every trivial circumstance that can help me to a belief in my own innocence." "it may be so; as yet, you well know, i speak in ignorance. but what could there have been in the character of that gambler, that has made you so sympathetic concerning his decease?" "nothing--nothing whatever in his character. he was a bad man; not one of those free, open spirits which are seduced into crime by thoughtlessness--not one of those whom we pity, perchance, more than we condemn; but a man without a redeeming trait in his disposition--a man so heaped up with vices and iniquities, that society gained much by his decease, and not an individual could say that he had lost a friend." "and yet the mere thought of the circumstances connected with his death seems almost to drive you to the verge of despair." "you are right; the mere thought has that effect." "you have aroused all my curiosity to know the causes of such a feeling." varney paced the apartment in silence for many minutes. he seemed to be enduring a great mental struggle, and at length, when he turned to charles holland and spoke, there were upon his countenance traces of deep emotion. "i have said, young man, that i will take you into my confidence. i have said that i will clear up many seeming mysteries, and that i will enable you to understand what was obscure in the narrative of dr. chillingworth, and of that man who filled the office of public executioner, and who has haunted me so long." "it is true, then, as the doctor states, that you were executed in london?" "i was." "and resuscitated by the galvanic process, put into operation by dr. chillingworth?" "as he supposed; but there are truths connected with natural philosophy which he dreamed not of. i bear a charmed life, and it was but accident which produced a similar effect upon the latent springs of my existence in the house to which the executioner conducted me, to what would have been produced had i been sufficed, in the free and open air, to wait until the cool moonbeams fell upon me." "varney, varney," said charles holland, "you will not succeed in convincing me of your supernatural powers. i hold such feelings and sensations at arm's length. i will not--i cannot assume you to be what you affect." "i ask for no man's belief. i know that which i know, and, gathering experience from the coincidences of different phenomena, i am compelled to arrive at certain conclusions. believe what you please, doubt what you please; but i say again that i am not as other men." "i am in no condition to depute your proposition; i wish not to dispute it; but you are wandering, varney, from the point. i wait anxiously for a continuation of your narrative." "i know that i am wandering from it--i know well that i am wandering from it, and that the reason i do so is that i dread that continuation." "that dread will nor be the less for its postponement." "you are right; but tell me, charles holland, although you are young you have been about in the great world sufficiently to form correct opinions, and to understand that which is related to you, drawing proper deductions from certain facts, and arriving possibly at more correct conclusions than some of maturer years with less wisdom." "i will freely answer, varney, any question you may put to me." "i know it; tell me then what measure of guilt you attach to me in the transaction i have noticed to you." "it seems then to me that, not contemplating the man's murder, you cannot be accused of the act, although a set of fortuitous circumstances made you appear an accomplice to its commission." "you think i may be acquitted?" "you can acquit yourself, knowing that you did not contemplate the murder." "i did not contemplate it. i know not what desperate deed i should have stopped short at then, in the height of my distress, but i neither contemplated taking that man's life, nor did i strike the blow which sent him from existence." "there is even some excuse as regards the higher crime for marmaduke bannerworth." "think you so?" "yes; he thought that you were killed, and impulsively he might have struck the blow that made him a murderer." "be it so. i am willing, extremely willing that anything should occur that should remove the odium of guilt from any man. be it so, i say, with all my heart; but now, charles holland, i feel that we must meet again ere i can tell you all; but in the meantime let flora bannerworth rest in peace--she need dread nothing from me. avarice and revenge, the two passions which found a home in my heart, are now stifled for ever." "revenge! did you say revenge?" "i did; whence the marvel, am i not sufficiently human for that?" "but you coupled it with the name of flora bannerworth." "i did, and that is part of my mystery." "a mystery, indeed, to imagine that such a being as flora could awaken any such feeling in your heart--a most abundant mystery." "it is so. i do not affect to deny it: but yet it is true, although so greatly mysterious, but tell her that although at one time i looked upon her as one whom i cared not if i injured, her beauty and distress changed the current of my thoughts, and won upon me greatly, from the moment i found i had the power to become the bane of her existence, i ceased to wish to be so, and never again shall she experience a pang of alarm from varney, the vampyre." "your message shall be faithfully delivered, and doubt not that it will be received with grateful feelings. nevertheless i should have much wished to have been in a position to inform her of more particulars." "come to me here at midnight to-morrow, and you shall know all. i will have no reservation with you, no concealments; you shall know whom i have had to battle against, and how it is that a world of evil passions took possession of my heart and made me what i am." "are you firm in this determination, varney--will you indeed tell me no more to-night?" "no more, i have said it. leave me now. i have need of more repose, for of late sleep has seldom closed my eyelids." charles holland was convinced, from the positive manner in which he spoke, that nothing more in the shape of information, at that time, was to be expected from varney; and being fearful that if he urged this strange being too far, at a time when he did not wish it, he might refuse all further communication, he thought it prudent to leave him, so he said to him,-"be assured, varney, i shall keep the appointment you have made, with an expectation when we do meet of being rewarded by a recital of some full particulars." "you shall not be disappointed; farewell, farewell!" charles holland bade him adieu, and left the place. although he had now acquired all the information he hoped to take away with him when varney first began to be communicative, yet, when he came to consider how strange and unaccountable a being he had been in communication with, charles could not but congratulate himself that he had heard so much, for, from the manner of varney, he could well suppose that that was, indeed, the first time he had been so communicative upon subjects which evidently held so conspicuous a place in his heart. and he had abundance of hope, likewise, from what had been said by varney, that he would keep his word, and communicate to him fully all else that he required to know; and when he recollected those words which varney had used, signifying that he knew the danger of half confidences, that hope grew into a certainty, and charles began to have no doubt but that on the next evening all that was mysterious in the various affairs connected with the vampyre would become clear and open to the light of day. he strolled down the lane in which the lone house was situated, revolving these matters in his mind, and when he arrived at its entrance, he was rather surprised to see a throng of persons hastily moving onward, with come appearance of dismay about them, and anxiety depicted upon their countenances. he stopped a lad, and inquired of him the cause of the seeming tumult. "why, sir, the fact is," said the boy, "a crowd from the town's been burning down bannerworth hall, and they've killed a man." "bannerworth hall! you must be mistaken." "well, sir, i ought not to call it bannerworth hall, because i mean the old ruins in the neighbourhood that are supposed to have been originally bannerworth hall before the house now called such was built; and, moreover, as the bannerworths have always had a garden there, and two or three old sheds, the people in the town called it bannerworth hall in common with the other building." "i understand. and do you say that all have been destroyed?" "yes, sir. all that was capable of being burnt has been burnt, and, what is more, a man has been killed among the ruins. we don't know who he is, but the folks said he was a vampyre, and they left him for dead." "when will these terrible outrages cease? oh! varney, varney, you have much to answer for; even if in your conscience you succeed in acquitting yourself of the murder, some of the particulars concerning which you have informed me of." chapter lxxxiii. the mysterious arrival at the inn.--the hungarian nobleman.--the letter to varney. [illustration] while these affairs are proceeding, and when there seems every appearance of sir francis varney himself quickly putting an end to some of the vexatious circumstances connected with himself and the bannerworth family, it is necessary that we should notice an occurrence which took place at the same inn which the admiral had made such a scene of confusion upon the occasion of his first arrival in the town. not since the admiral had arrived with jack pringle, and so disturbed the whole economy of the household, was there so much curiosity excited as on the morning following the interview which charles holland had had with varney, the vampyre. the inn was scarcely opened, when a stranger arrived, mounted on a coal-black horse, and, alighting, he surrendered the bridle into the hands of a boy who happened to be at the inn-door, and stalked slowly and solemnly into the building. he was tall, and of a cadaverous aspect; in attire he was plainly apparelled, but there was no appearance of poverty about him; on the contrary, what he really had on was of a rich and costly character, although destitute of ornament. he sat down in the first room that presented itself, and awaited the appearance of the landlord, who, upon being informed that a guest of apparently ample means, and of some consequence, had entered the place, hastily went to him to receive his commands. with a profusion of bows, our old friend, who had been so obsequious to admiral bell, entered the room, and begged to know what orders the gentleman had for him. "i presume," said the stranger, in a deep, solemn voice, "i presume that you have no objection, for a few days that i shall remain in this town, to board and lodge me for a certain price which you can name to me at once?" "certainly, sir," said the landlord; "any way you please; without wine, sir, i presume?" "as you please; make your own arrangements." "well, sir, as we can't tell, of course, what wine a gentleman may drink, but when we come to consider breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper, and a bed, and all that sort of thing, and a private sitting-room, i suppose, sir?" "certainly." "you would not, then, think, sir, a matter of four guineas a week will be too much, perhaps." "i told you to name your own charge. let it be four guineas; if you had said eight i should have paid it." "good god!" said the publican, "here's a damned fool that i am. i beg your pardon, sir, i didn't mean you. now i could punch my own head--will you have breakfast at once, sir, and then we shall begin regular, you know, sir?" "have what?" "breakfast, breakfast, you know, sir; tea, coffee, cocoa, or chocolate; ham, eggs, or a bit of grilled fowl, cold sirloin of roast beef, or a red herring--anything you like, sir." "i never take breakfast, so you may spare yourself the trouble of providing anything for me." "not take breakfast, sir! not take breakfast! would you like to take anything to drink then, sir? people say it's an odd time, at eight o'clock in the morning, to drink; but, for my part, i always have thought that you couldn't begin a good thing too soon." "i live upon drink," said the stranger; "but you have none in the cellar that will suit me." "indeed, sir." "no, no, i am certain." "why, we've got some claret now, sir," said the landlord. "which may look like blood, and yet not be it." "like what, sir?--damn my rags!" "begone, begone." the stranger uttered these words so peremptorily that the landlord hastily left the room, and going into his own bar, he gave himself so small a tap on the side of the head, that it would not have hurt a fly, as he said,-"i could punch myself into bits, i could tear my hair out by the roots;" and then he pulled a little bit of his hair, so gently and tenderly that it showed what a man of discretion he was, even in the worst of all his agony of passion. "the idea," he added, "of a fellow coming here, paying four guineas a week for board and lodging, telling me he would not have minded eight, and then not wanting any breakfast; it's enough to aggravate half a dozen saints; but what an odd fish he looks." at this moment the ostler came in, and, standing at the bar, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, as he said,-"i suppose you'll stand a quart for that, master?" "a quart for what, you vagabond? a quart because i've done myself up in heaps; a quart because i'm fit to pull myself into fiddlestrings?" "no," said the ostler; "because i've just put up the gentleman's horse." "what gentleman's horse?" "why, the big-looking fellow with the white face, now in the parlour." "what, did he come on a horse, sam? what sort of a looking creature is it? you may judge of a man from the sort of horse-company he keeps." "well, then, sir, i hardly know. it's coal black, and looks as knowing as possible; it's tried twice to get a kick at me, but i was down upon him, and put the bucket in his way. howsomdever, i don't think it's a bad animal, as a animal, mind you, sir, though a little bit wicious or so." "well," said the publican, as he drew the ostler half a pint instead of a quart, "you're always drinking; take that." "blow me," said the ostler, "half a pint, master!" "plague take you, i can't stand parleying with you, there's the parlour bell; perhaps, after all, he will have some breakfast." while the landlord was away the ostler helped himself to a quart of the strongest ale, which, by a singular faculty that he had acquired, he poured down his throat without any effort at swallowing, holding his head back, and the jug at a little distance from his mouth. having accomplished this feat, he reversed the jug, giving it a knowing tap with his knuckles as though he would have signified to all the world that it was empty, and that he had accomplished what he desired. in the meantime, the landlord had made his way to his strange guest, who said to him, when he came into the room, "is there not one sir francis varney residing in this town?" "the devil!" thought the landlord; "this is another of them, i'll bet a guinea. sir francis varney, sir, did you say? why, sir, there was a sir francis varney, but folks seem to think as how he's no better than he should be--a sort of vampyre, sir, if you know what that is." "i have, certainly, heard of such things; but can you not tell me varney's address? i wish to see him." "well, then, sir, i cannot tell it to you, for there's really been such a commotion and such a riot about him that he's taken himself off, i think, altogether, and we can hear nothing of him. lord bless you, sir, they burnt down his house, and hunted him about so, that i don't think that he'll ever show his face here again." "and cannot you tell me where he was seen last?" "that i cannot, sir; but, if anybody knows anything about him, it's mr. henry bannerworth, or perhaps dr. chillingworth, for they have had more to do with him than anybody else." "indeed; and can you tell me the address of the former individual?" "that i can't, sir, for the bannerworths have left the hall. as for the doctor, sir, you'll see his house in the high-street, with a large brass plate on the door, so that you cannot mistake it. it's no. 9, on the other side of the way." "i thank you for so much information," said the stranger, and rising, he walked to the door. before, however, he left, he turned, and added,--"you can say, if you should by chance meet mr. bannerworth, that a hungarian nobleman wishes to speak to him concerning sir francis varney, the vampyre?" "a what, sir?" "a nobleman from hungary," was the reply. "the deuce!" said the landlord, as he looked after him. "he don't seem at all hungry here, not thirsty neither. what does he mean by a nobleman from hungary? the idea of a man talking about hungry, and not taking any breakfast. he's queering me. i'll be hanged if i'll stand it. here i clearly lose four guineas a week, and then get made game of besides. a nobleman, indeed! i think i see him. why, he isn't quite so big as old slaney, the butcher. it's a do. i'll have at him when he comes back." meanwhile, the unconscious object of this soliloquy passed down the high-street, until he came to dr. chillingworth's, at whose door he knocked. now mrs. chillingworth had been waiting the whole night for the return of the doctor, who had not yet made his appearance, and, consequently, that lady's temper had become acidulated to an uncommon extent and when she heard a knock at the door, something possessed her that it could be no other than her spouse, and she prepared to give him that warm reception which she considered he had a right, as a married man, to expect after such conduct. she hurriedly filled a tolerably sized hand-basin with not the cleanest water in the world, and then, opening the door hurriedly with one hand, she slouced the contents into the face of the intruder, exclaiming,-"now you've caught it!" "d--n!" said the hungarian nobleman, and then mrs. chillingworth uttered a scream, for she feared she had made a mistake. "oh, sir! i'm very sorry: but i thought it was my husband." "but if you did," said the stranger, "there was no occasion to drown him with a basin of soap-suds. it is your husband i want, madam, if he be dr. chillingworth." "then, indeed, you must go on wanting him, sir, for he's not been to his own home for a day and a night. he takes up all his time in hunting after that beastly vampyre." "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. [illustration] 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 how 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 away 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. [illustration] 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." [illustration] 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 towards 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. below, the stream widened, and ran foaming over a hard, stony bottom, and near the middle is a heap of stones--of large stones, that form the bed of the river, from which the water has washed away all earthy particles, and left them by themselves. these stones in winter could not be seen, they were all under water, and the stream washed over in a turbulent and tumultuous manner. but now, when the water was clear and low, they are many of them positively out of the water, the stream running around and through their interstices; the water-weeds here and there lying at the top of the stream, and blossoming beautifully. the daisy-like blossoms danced and waved gently on the moving flood, at the same time they shone in the moonlight, like fairy faces rising from the depths of the river, to receive the principle of life from the moon's rays. 'tis sweet to wander in the moonlight at such an hour, and it is sweet to look upon such a scene with an unruffled mind, and to give way to the feelings that are engendered by a walk by the river side. see, the moon is rising higher and higher, the shadows grow shorter and shorter; the river, which in places was altogether hidden by the tall willow trees, now gradually becomes less and less hidden, and the water becomes more and more lit up. the moonbeams play gracefully on the rippling surface, here and there appearing like liquid silver, that each instant changed its position and surface exposed to the light. such a moment--such a scene, were by far too well calculated to cause the most solemn and serious emotions of the mind, and he must have been but at best insensible, who could wander over meadow and through grove, and yet remain untouched by the scene of poetry and romance in which he breathed and moved. at such a time, and in such a place, the world is alive with all the finer essences of mysterious life. 'tis at such an hour that the spirits quit their secret abodes, and visit the earth, and whirl round the enchanted trees. 'tis now the spirits of earth and air dance their giddy flight from flower to flower. 'tis now they collect and exchange their greetings; the wood is filled with them, the meadows teem with them, the hedges at the river side have them hidden among the deep green leaves and blades. but what is that yonder, on the stones, partially out of the water--what can it be? the more it is looked at, the more it resembles the human form--and yet it is still and motionless on the hard stones--and yet it is a human form. the legs are lying in the water, the arms appear to be partially in and partially out, they seem moved by the stream now and then, but very gently--so slightly, indeed, that it might well be questioned if it moved at all. the moon's rays had not yet reached it; the bank on the opposite side of the stream was high, and some tall trees rose up and obscured the moon. but she was rising higher and higher each moment, and, finally, when it has reached the tops of those trees, then the rays will reach the middle of the river, and then, by degrees, it will reach the stones in the river, and, finally, the body that lies there so still and so mysteriously. how it came there it would be difficult to say. it appeared as though, when the waters were high, the body had floated down, and, at the subsidence of the waters, it had been left upon the stones, and now it was exposed to view. it was strange and mysterious, and those who might look upon such a sight would feel their blood chill, and their body creep, to contemplate the remains of humanity in such a place, and in such a condition as that must be in. a human life had been taken! how? who could tell? perhaps accident alone was the cause of it; perhaps some one had taken a life by violent means, and thrown the body in the waters to conceal the fact and the crime. the waters had brought it down, and deposited it there in the middle of the river, without any human creature being acquainted with the fact. but the moon rises--the beams come trembling through the tree tops and straggling branches, and fall upon the opposite bank, and there lies the body, mid stream, and in comparative darkness. by the time the river is lit up by the moon's rays, then the object on the stones will be visible, then it can be ascertained what appears now only probable, namely, is the dark object a human form or not? in the absence of light it appears to be so, but when the flood of silver light falls upon it, it would be placed then beyond a doubt. the time is approaching--the moon each moment approaches her meridian, and each moment do the rays increase in number and in strength, while the shadows shorten. the opposite bank each moment becomes more and more distinct, and the side of the stream, the green rushes and sedges, all by degrees come full into view. now and then a fish leaps out of the stream, and just exhibits itself, as much as to say, "there are things living in the stream, and i am one of them." the moment is one of awe--the presence of that mysterious and dreadful-looking object, even while its identity remains doubt, chills the heart--it contracts the expanding thoughts to that one object--all interest in the scene lies centered in that one point. what could it be? what else but a human body? what else could assume such a form? but see, nearly half the stream is lit by the moonbeams struggling through the tree tops, and now rising above them. the light increases, and the shadows shorten. the edge of the bed of stones now becomes lit up by the moonlight; the rippling stream, the bubbles, and the tiny spray that was caused by the rush of water against the stones, seemed like sparkling flashes of silver fire. then came the moonbeams upon the body, for it was raised above the level of the water, and shewed conspicuously; for the moonbeams reached the body before they fell on the surrounding water; for that reason then it was the body presented a strange and ghastly object against a deep, dark background, by which it was surrounded. but this did not last long--the water in another minute was lit up by the moon's pale beams, and then indeed could be plainly enough seen the body of a man lying on the heap of stones motionless and ghastly. the colourless hue of the moonlight gave the object a most horrific and terrible appearance! the face of the dead man was turned towards the moon's rays, and the body seemed to receive all the light that could fall upon it. it was a terrible object to look upon, and one that added a new and singular interest to the scene! the world seemed then to be composed almost exclusively of still life, and the body was no impediment to the stillness of the scene. it was, all else considered, a calm, beautiful scene, lovely the night, gorgeous the silvery rays that lit up the face of nature; the hill and dale, meadow, and wood, and river, all afforded contrasts strong, striking, and strange. but strange, and more strange than any contrast in nature, was that afforded to the calm beauty of the night and place by the deep stillness and quietude imposed upon the mind by that motionless human body. the moon's rays now fell upon its full length; the feet were lying in the water, the head lay back, with its features turned towards the quarter of the heavens where the moon shone from; the hair floated on the shallow water, while the face and body were exposed to all influences, from its raised and prominent position. the moonbeams had scarcely settled upon it--scarce a few minutes--when the body moved. was it the water that moved it? it could not be, surely, that the moonbeams had the power of recalling life into that inanimate mass, that lay there for some time still and motionless as the very stones on which it lay. it was endued with life; the dead man gradually rose up, and leaned himself upon his elbow; he paused a moment like one newly recalled to life; he seemed to become assured he did live. he passed one hand through his hair, which was wet, and then rose higher into a sitting posture, and then he leaned on one hand, inclining himself towards the moon. his breast heaved with life, and a kind of deep inspiration, or groan, came from him, as he first awoke to life, and then he seemed to pause for a few moments. he turned gradually over, till his head inclined down the stream. just below, the water deepened, and ran swiftly and silently on amid meads and groves of trees. the vampyre was revived; he awoke again to a ghastly life; he turned from the heap of stones, he gradually allowed himself to sink into deep water, and then, with a loud plunge, he swam to the centre of the river. slowly and surely did he swim into the centre of the river, and down the stream he went. he took long, but easy strokes, for he was going down the stream, and that aided him. for some distance might he be heard and seen through the openings in the trees, but he became gradually more and more indistinct, till sound and sight both ceased, and the vampyre had disappeared. during the continuance of this singular scene, not one word had passed between the landlord and his companions. when the blacksmith fired the fowling-piece, and saw the stranger fall, apparently lifeless, upon the stepping-stones that crossed the river, he became terrified at what he had done, and gazed upon the seeming lifeless form with a face on which the utmost horror was depicted. they all seemed transfixed to the spot, and although each would have given worlds to move away, a kind of nightmare seemed to possess them, which stunned all their faculties, and brought over them a torpidity from which they found it impossible to arouse themselves. but, when the apparently dead man moved again, and when, finally, the body, which appeared so destitute of life, rolled into the stream, and floated away with the tide, their fright might be considered to have reached its climax. the absence of the body, however, had seemingly, at all events, the effect of releasing them from the mental and physical thraldom in which they were, and they were enabled to move from the spot, which they did immediately, making their way towards the town with great speed. as they got near, they held a sort of council of war as to what they should do under the circumstances, the result of which was, that they came to a conclusion to keep all that they had done and seen to themselves; for, if they did not, they might be called upon for some very troublesome explanations concerning the fate of the supposed hungarian nobleman whom they had taken upon themselves to believe was a vampyre, and to shoot accordingly, without taking the trouble to inquire into the legality of such an act. how such a secret was likely to be kept, when it was shared amongst seven people, it is hard to say; but, if it were so kept, it could only be under the pressure of a strong feeling of self-preservation. they were forced individually, of course, to account for their absence during the night at their respective homes, and how they managed to do that is best known to themselves. as to the landlord, he felt compelled to state that, having his suspicions of his guest aroused, he followed him on a walk that he pretended to take, and he had gone so far, that at length he had given up the chase, and lost his own way in returning. thus was it, then, that this affair still preserved all its mystery, with a large superadded amount of fear attendant upon it; for, if the mysterious guest were really anything supernatural, might he not come again in a much more fearful shape, and avenge the treatment he had received? the only person who fell any disappointment in the affair, or whose expectations were not realised, was the boy who had made the appointment with the supposed vampyre at the end of the lane, and who was to have received what he considered so large a reward for pointing out the retreat of sir francis varney. he waited in vain for the arrival of the hungarian nobleman, and, at last, indignation got the better of him, and he walked away. feeling that he had been jilted, he resolved to proceed to the public-house and demand the half-crowns which had been so liberally promised him; but when he reached there he found that the party whom he sought was not within, nor the landlord either, for that was the precise time when that worthy individual was pursuing his guest over meadow and bill, through brake and through briar, towards the stepping stones on the river. what the boy further did on the following day, when he found that he was to reap no more benefit for the adventure, we shall soon perceive. as for the landlord, he did endeavour to catch a few hours' brief repose; but as he dreamed that the hungarian nobleman came in the likeness of a great toad, and sat upon his chest, feeling like the weight of a mountain, while he, the landlord, tried to scream and cry for help, but found that he could neither do one thing nor the other, we may guess that his repose did not at all invigorate him. as he himself expressed it, he got up all of a shake, with a strong impression that he was a very ill-used individual, indeed, to have had the nightmare in the day time. and now we will return to the cottage where the bannerworth family were at all events, making themselves quite as happy as they did at their ancient mansion, in order to see what is there passing, and how dr. chillingworth made an effort to get up some evidence of something that the bannerworth family knew nothing of, therefore could not very well be expected to render him much assistance. that he did, however, make what he considered an important discovery, we shall perceive in the course of the ensuing chapter, in which it will be seen that the best hidden things will, by the merest accident, sometimes come to light, and that, too, when least expected by any one at all connected with the result. chapter lxxxvi. the discovery of the pocket book of marmaduke bannerworth.--its mysterious contents. [illustration] the little episode had just taken place which we have recorded between the old admiral and jack pringle, when henry bannerworth and charles holland stepped aside to converse. "charles," said henry, "it has become absolutely necessary that i should put an end to this state of dependence in which we all live upon your uncle. it is too bad to think, that because, through fighting the battles of his country, he has amassed some money, we are to eat it up." "my dear friend," said charles, "does it not strike you, that it would be a great deal worse than too bad, if my uncle could not do what he liked with his own?" "yes; but, charles, that is not the question." "i think it is, though i know not what other question you can make of it." "we have all talked it over, my mother, my brother, and flora; and my brother and i have determined, if this state of things should last much longer, to find out some means of honourable exertion by which we may, at all events, maintain ourselves without being burdensome to any." "well, well, we will talk of that another time." "nay, but hear me; we were thinking that if we went into some branch of the public service, your uncle would have the pleasure, such we are quite sure it would be to him, of assisting us greatly by his name and influence." "well, well, henry, that's all very well; but for a little time do not throw up the old man and make him unhappy. i believe i am his only relative in the world, and, as he has often said, he intended leaving me heir to all he possesses, you see there is no harm done by you receiving a small portion of it beforehand." "and," said henry, "by that line of argument, we are to find an excuse for robbing your uncle; in the fact, that we are robbing you likewise." "no, no; indeed, you do not view the matter rightly." "well, all i can say is, charles, that while i feel, and while we all feel, the deepest debt of gratitude towards your uncle, it is our duty to do something. in a box which we have brought with us from the hall, and which has not been opened since our father's death, i have stumbled over some articles of ancient jewellery and plate, which, at all events, will produce something." "but which you must not part with." "nay, but, charles, these are things i knew not we possessed, and most ill-suited do they happen to be to our fallen fortunes. it is money we want, not the gewgaws of a former state, to which we can have now no sort of pretension." "nay, i know you have all the argument; but still is there something sad and uncomfortable to one's feelings in parting with such things as those which have been in families for many years." "but we knew not that we had them; remember that, charles. come and look at them. those relics of a bygone age may amuse you, and, as regards myself, there are no circumstances whatever associated with them that give them any extrinsic value; so laugh at them or admire them, as you please, i shall most likely be able to join with you in either feeling." "well, be it so--i will come and look at them; but you must think better of what you say concerning my uncle, for i happen to know--which you ought likewise by this time--how seriously the old man would feel any rejection on your part of the good he fancies he is doing you. i tell you, henry, it is completely his hobby, and let him have earned his money with ten times the danger he has, he could not spend it with anything like the satisfaction that he does, unless he were allowed to dispose of it in this way." "well, well; be it so for a time." "the fact is, his attachment to flora is so great--which is a most fortunate circumstance for me--that i should not be at all surprised that she cuts me out of one half my estate, when the old man dies. but come, we will look at your ancient bijouterie." henry led charles into an apartment of the cottage where some of the few things had been placed that were brought from bannerworth hall, which were not likely to be in constant and daily use. among these things happened to be the box which henry had mentioned, and from which he had taken a miscellaneous assortment of things of an antique and singular character. there were old dresses of a season and of a taste long gone by; ancient articles of defence; some curiously wrought daggers; and a few ornaments, pretty, but valueless, along with others of more sterling pretensions, which henry pointed out to charles. "i am almost inclined to think," said the latter, "that some of these things are really of considerable value; but i do not i profess to be an accurate judge, and, perhaps, i am more taken with the beauty of an article, than the intrinsic worth. what is that which you have just taken from the box?" "it seems a half-mask," said henry, "made of silk; and here are initial letters within it--m. b." "to what do they apply?" "marmaduke bannerworth, my father." "i regret i asked you." "nay, charles, you need not. years have now elapsed since that misguided man put a period to his own existence, in the gardens of bannerworth hall. of course, the shock was a great one to us all, although i must confess that we none of us knew much of a father's affections. but time reconciles one to these dispensations, and to a friend, like yourself, i can talk upon these subjects without a pang." he laid down the mask, and proceeded further in his search in the old box. towards the bottom of it there were some books, and, crushed in by the side of them, there was an ancient-looking pocket-book, which charles pointed out, saying,-"there, henry, who knows but you may find a fortune when you least expect it?" "those who expect nothing," said henry, "will not be disappointed. at all events, as regards this pocket-book, you see it is empty." "not quite. a card has fallen from it." charles took up the card, and read upon it the name of count barrare. "that name," he said, "seems familiar to me. ah! now i recollect, i have read of such a man. he flourished some twenty, or five-and-twenty years ago, and was considered a _roue_ of the first water--a finished gamester; and, in a sort of brief memoir i read once of him, it said that he disappeared suddenly one day, and was never again heard of." "indeed! i'm not puzzled to think how his card came into my father's pocket-book. they met at some gaming-house; and, if some old pocket-book of the count barrare's were shaken, there might fall from it a card, with the name of mr. marmaduke bannerworth upon it." "is there nothing further in the pocket-book--no memoranda?" "i will look. stay! here is something upon one of the leaves--let me see--'mem., twenty-five thousand pounds! he who robs the robber, steals little; it was not meant to kill him: but it will be unsafe to use the money for a time--my brain seems on fire--the remotest hiding-place in the house is behind the picture." "what do you think of that?" said charles. "i know not what to think. there is one thing though, that i do know." "and what is that?" "it is my father's handwriting. i have many scraps of his, and his peculiar hand is familiar to me." "it's very strange, then, what it can refer to." "charles--charles! there is a mystery connected with our fortunes, that i never could unravel; and once or twice it seemed as if we were upon the point of discovering all; but something has ever interfered to prevent us, and we have been thrown back into the realms of conjecture. my father's last words were, 'the money is hidden;' and then he tried to add something; but death stopped his utterance. now, does it not almost seem that this memorandum alluded to the circumstance?" "it does, indeed." "and then, scarcely had my father breathed his last, when a man comes and asks for him at the garden-gate, and, upon hearing that he is dead, utters some imprecations, and walks away." "well, henry, you must trust to time and circumstances to unravel these mysteries. for myself, i own that i cannot do so; i see no earthly way out of the difficulty whatever. but still it does appear to me as if dr. chillingworth knew something or had heard something, with which he really ought to make you acquainted." "do not blame the worthy doctor; he may have made an error of judgment, but never one of feeling; and you may depend, if he is keeping anything from me, that he is doing so from some excellent motive: most probably because he thinks it will give me pain, and so will not let me endure any unhappiness from it, unless he is quite certain as regards the facts. when he is so, you may depend he will be communicative, and i shall know all that he has to relate. but, charles, it is evident to me that you, too, are keeping something." "i!" "yes; you acknowledge to having had an interview, and a friendly one, with varney; and you likewise acknowledge that he had told you things which he has compelled you to keep secret." "i have promised to keep them secret, and i deeply regret the promise that i have made. there cannot be anything to my mind more essentially disagreeable than to have one's tongue tied in one's interview with friends. i hate to hear anything that i may not repeat to those whom i take into my own confidence." "i can understand the feeling; but here comes the worthy doctor." "show him the memorandum." "i will." as dr. chillingworth entered the apartments henry handed him the memorandum that had been found in the old pocket-book, saying as he did so,-"look at that, doctor, and give us your candid opinion upon it." dr. chillingworth fitted on his spectacles, and read the paper carefully. at its conclusion, he screwed up his mouth into an extremely small compass, and doubling up the paper, he put it into his capacious waistcoat pocket, saying as he did so,-"oh! oh! oh! oh! hum!" "well, doctor," said henry; "we are waiting for your opinion." "my opinion! well, then, my dear boy, i must say, my opinion, to the best of my belief is, that i really don't know anything about it." "then, perhaps, you'll surrender us the memorandum," said charles; "because, if you don't know anything, we may as well make a little inquiry." "ha!" said the worthy doctor; "we can't put old heads upon young shoulders, that's quite clear. now, my good young men, be patient and quiet; recollect, that what you know you're acquainted with, and that that which is hidden from you, you cannot very well come to any very correct conclusion upon. there's a right side and a wrong one you may depend, to every question; and he who walks heedlessly in the dark, is very apt to run his head against a post. good evening, my boys--good evening." away bustled the doctor. "well," said charles, "what do you think of that, mr. henry?" "i think he knows what he's about." "that may be; but i'll be hanged if anybody else does. the doctor is by no means favourable to the march of popular information; and i really think he might have given us some food for reflection, instead of leaving us so utterly and entirely at fault as he has; and you know he's taken away your memorandum even." "let him have it, charles--let him have it; it is safe with him. the old man may be, and i believe is, a little whimsical and crotchety; but he means abundantly well, and he's just one of those sort of persons, and always was, who will do good his own way, or not at all; so we must take the good with the bad in those cases, and let dr. chillingworth do as he pleases." "i cannot say it is nothing to me, although those words were rising to my lips, because you know, henry, that everything which concerns you or yours is something to me; and therefore it is that i feel extremely anxious for the solution of all this mystery. before i hear the sequel of that which varney, the vampyre, has so strongly made me a confidant of, i will, at all events, make an effort to procure his permission to communicate it to all those who are in any way beneficially interested in the circumstances. should he refuse me that permission, i am almost inclined myself to beg him to withhold his confidence." "nay, do not do so, charles--do not do that, i implore you. recollect, although you cannot make us joint recipients with you in your knowledge, you can make use of it, probably, to our advantage, in saving us, perchance, from the different consequences, so that you can make what you know in some way beneficial to us, although not in every way." "there is reason in that, and i give in at once. be it so, henry. i will wait on him, and if i cannot induce him to change his determination, and allow me to tell some other as well as flora, i must give in, and take the thing as a secret, although i shall not abandon a hope, even after he has told me all he has to tell, that i may induce him to permit me to make a general confidence, instead of the partial one he has empowered me to do." "it may be so; and, at all events, we must not reject a proffered good because it is not quite so complete as it might be." "you are right; i will keep my appointment with him, entertaining the most sanguine hope that our troubles and disasters--i say our, because i consider myself quite associated in thought, interest, and feelings with your family--may soon be over." "heaven grant it may be so, for your's and flora's sake; but i feel that bannerworth hall will never again be the place it was to us. i should prefer that we sought for new associations, which i have no doubt we may find, and that among us we get up some other home that would be happier, because not associated with so many sad scenes in our history." "be it so; and i am sure that the admiral would gladly give way to such an arrangement. he has often intimated that he thought bannerworth hall a dull place; consequently, although he pretends to have purchased it of you, i think he will be very glad to leave it." [illustration] "be it so, then. if it should really happen that we are upon the eve of any circumstances that will really tend to relieve us from our misery and embarrassments, we will seek for some pleasanter abode than the hall, which you may well imagine, since it became the scene of that dreadful tragedy that left us fatherless, has borne but a distasteful appearance to all our eyes." "i don't wonder at that, and am only surprised that, after such a thing had happened any of you liked to inhabit the place." "we did not like, but our poverty forced us. you have no notion of the difficulties through which we have struggled; and the fact that we had a home rent free was one of so much importance to us, that had it been surrounded by a thousand more disagreeables than it was, we must have put up with it; but now that we owe so much to the generosity of your uncle, i suppose we can afford to talk of what we like and of what we don't like." "you can, henry, and it shall not be my fault if you do not always afford to do so; and now, as the time is drawing on, i think i will proceed at once to varney, for it is better to be soon than late, and get from him the remainder of his story." * * * * * there were active influences at work, to prevent sir francis varney from so quickly as he had arranged to do, carrying out his intention of making charles holland acquainted with the history of the eventful period of his life, which had been associated with marmaduke bannerworth. one would have scarcely thought it possible that anything now would have prevented varney from concluding his strange narrative; but that he was prevented, will appear. the boy who had been promised such liberal payment by the hungarian nobleman, for betraying the place of varney's concealment, we have already stated, felt bitterly the disappointment of not being met, according to promise, at the corner of the lane, by that individual. it not only deprived him of the half-crowns, which already in imagination he had laid out, but it was a great blow to his own importance, for after his discovery of the residence of the vampyre, he looked upon himself as quite a public character, and expected great applause for his cleverness. but when the hungarian nobleman came not, all these dreams began to vanish into thin air, and, like the unsubstantial fabric of a vision, to leave no trace behind them. he got dreadfully aggravated, and his first thought was to go to varney, and see what he could get from him, by betraying the fact that some one was actively in search of him. that seemed, however, a doubtful good, and perhaps there was some personal dread of the vampyre mixed up with the rejection of this proposition. but reject it he did, and then he walked moodily into the town without any fixed resolution of what he should do. all that he thought of was a general idea that he should like to create some mischief, if possible--what it was he cared not, so long as it made a disturbance. now, he knew well that the most troublesome and fidgetty man in the town was tobias philpots, a saddler, who was always full of everybody's business but his own, and ever ready to hear any scandal of his neighbours. "i have a good mind," said the boy, "to go to old philpots, and tell him all about it, that i have." the good mind soon strengthened itself into a fixed resolution, and full of disdain and indignation at the supposed want of faith of the hungarian nobleman, he paused opposite the saddler's door. could he but for a moment have suspected the real reason why the appointment had not been kept with him, all his curiosity would have been doubly aroused, and he would have followed the landlord of the inn and his associate upon the track of the second vampyre that had visited the town. but of this he knew nothing, for that proceeding had been conducted with amazing quietness; and the fact of the hungarian nobleman, when he found that he was followed, taking a contrary course to that in which varney was concealed, prevented the boy from knowing anything of his movements. hence the thing looked to him like a piece of sheer neglect and contemptuous indifference, which he felt bound to resent. he did not pause long at the door of the saddler's, but, after a few moments, he walked boldly in, and said,-"master philpots, i have got something extraordinary to tell you, and you may give me what you like for telling you." "go on, then," said the saddler, "that's just the price i always likes to pay for everything." "will you keep it secret?" said the boy. "of course i will. when did you ever hear of me telling anything to a single individual?" "never to a single individual, but i have heard you tell things to the whole town." "confound your impudence. get out of my shop directly." "oh! very good. i can go and tell old mitchell, the pork-butcher." "no, i say--stop; don't tell him. if anybody is to know, let it be me, and i'll promise you i'll keep it secret." "very good," said the boy, returning, "you shall know it; and, mind, you have promised me to keep it secret, so that if it gets known, you know it cannot be any fault of mine." the fact was, the boy was anxious it should be known, only that in case some consequences might arise, he thought he would quiet his own conscience, by getting a promise of secrecy from tobias philpots, which he well knew that individual would not think of keeping. he then related to him the interview he had had with the hungarian nobleman at the inn, how he had promised a number of half-crowns, but a very small instalment of which he had received. all this master philpots cared very little for, but the information that the dreaded varney, the vampyre, was concealed so close to the town was a matter of great and abounding interest, and at that part of the story he suddenly pricked up his ears amazingly. "why, you don't mean to say that?" he exclaimed. "are you sure it was he?" "yes, i am quite certain. i have seen i him more than once. it was sir francis varney, without any mistake." "why, then you may depend he's only waiting until it's very dark, and then he will walk into somebody, and suck his blood. here's a horrid discovery! i thought we had had enough of master varney, and that he would hardly show himself here again, and now you tell me he is not ten minutes' walk off." "it's a fact," said the boy. "i saw him go in, and he looks thinner and more horrid than ever. i am sure he wants a dollop of blood from somebody." "i shouldn't wonder." "now there is mrs. philpots, you know, sir; she's rather big, and seems most ready to burst always; i shouldn't wonder if the vampyre came to her to-night." "wouldn't you?" said mrs. philpots, who had walked into the shop, and overheard the whole conversation; "wouldn't you, really? i'll vampyre you, and teach you to make these remarks about respectable married women. you young wretch, take that, will you!" she gave the boy such a box on the ears, that the place seemed to spin round with him. as soon as he recovered sufficiently to be enabled to walk, he made his way from the shop with abundance of precipitation, much regretting that he had troubled himself to make a confidant of master philpots. but, however, he could not but tell himself that if his object was to make a general disturbance through the whole place, he had certainly succeeded in doing so. he slunk home perhaps with a feeling that he might be called upon to take part in something that might ensue, and at all events be compelled to become a guide to the place of sir francis varney's retreat, in which case, for all he knew, the vampyre might, by some more than mortal means, discover what a hand he had had in the matter, and punish him accordingly. the moment he hid left the saddler's mrs. philpots, after using some bitter reproaches to her husband for not at once sacrificing the boy upon the spot for the disrespectful manner in which he had spoken of her, hastily put on her bonnet and shawl, and the saddler, although it was a full hour before the usual time, began putting up the shutters of his shop. "why, my dear," he said to mrs. philpots, when she came down stairs equipped for the streets, "why, my dear, where are you going?" "and pray, sir, what are you shutting up the shop for at this time of the evening!" "oh! why, the fact is, i thought i'd just go to the rose and crown, and mention that the vampyre was so near at hand." "well, mr. philpots, and in that case there can be no harm in my calling upon some of my acquaintance and mentioning it likewise." "why, i don't suppose there would be much harm; only remember, mrs. philpots, remember if you please---" "remember what?" "to tell everybody to keep it secret." "oh, of course i will; and mind you do it likewise." "most decidedly." the shop was closed, mr. philpots ran off to the rose and crown, and mrs, philpots, with as much expedition as she could, purposed making the grand tour of all her female acquaintance in the town, just to tell them, as a great secret, that the vampyre, sir francis varney, as he called himself, had taken refuge at the house that was to let down the lane leading to higgs's farm. "but by no means," she said, "let it go no further, because it is a very wrong thing to make any disturbance, and you will understand that it's quite a secret." she was listened to with breathless attention, as may well be supposed, and it was a singular circumstance that at every house she left some other lady put on her bonnet and shawl, and ran out to make the circle of her acquaintance, with precisely the same story, and precisely the same injunctions to secrecy. and, as mr. philpots pursued an extremely similar course, we are not surprised that in the short space of one hour the news should have spread through all the town, and that there was scarcely a child old enough to understand what was being talked about, who was ignorant of the fact, that sir francis varney was to be found at the empty house down the lane. it was an unlucky time, too, for the night was creeping on, a period at which people's apprehension of the supernatural becomes each moment stronger and more vivid--a period at which a number of idlers are let loose for different employments, and when anything in the shape of a row or a riot presents itself in pleasant colours to those who have nothing to lose and who expect, under the cover of darkness, to be able to commit outrages they would be afraid to think of in the daytime, when recognition would be more easy. thus was it that sir francis varney's position, although he knew it not, became momentarily one of extreme peril, and the danger he was about to run, was certainly greater than any he had as yet experienced. had charles holland but known what was going on, he would undoubtedly have done something to preserve the supposed vampyre from the mischief that threatened him, but the time had not arrived when he had promised to pay him a second visit, so he had no idea of anything serious having occurred. perhaps, too, mr. and mrs. philpots scarcely anticipated creating so much confusion, but when they found that the whole place was in an uproar, and that a tumultuous assemblage of persons called aloud for vengeance upon varney, the vampyre, they made their way home again in no small fright. and, now, what was the result of all these proceedings will be best known by our introducing the reader to the interior of the house in which varney had found a temporary refuge, and following in detail his proceedings as he waited for the arrival of charles holland. chapter lxxxvii. the hunt for varney.--the house-tops.--the miraculous escape.--the last place of refuge.--the cottage. [illustration] on the tree tops the moon shines brightly, and the long shadows are shooting its rays down upon the waters, and the green fields appear clothed in a flood of silver light; the little town was quiet and tranquil--nature seemed at rest. the old mansion in which sir francis varney had taken refuge, stood empty and solitary; it seemed as though it were not associated with the others by which it was surrounded. it was gloomy, and in the moonlight it reminded one of things long gone by, existences that had once been, but now no longer of this present time--a mere memento of the past. sir francis varney reclined upon the house-top; he gazed upon the sky, and upon the earth; he saw the calm tranquillity that reigned around, and could not but admire what he saw; he sighed, he seemed to sigh, from a pleasure he felt in the fact of his security; he could repose there without fear, and breathe the balmy air that fanned his cheek. "certainly," he muttered, "things might have been worse, but not much worse; however, they might have been much better; the ignorant are away--the most to be feared, because they have no guide and no control, save what can be exerted over them by their fears and their passions." he paused to look again over the scene, and, as far as the eye could reach, and that, moonlight as it was, was many miles, the country was diversified with hill and dale, meadow and ploughed land; the open fields, and the darker woods, and the silvery stream that ran at no great distance, all presented a scene that was well calculated to warm the imagination, and to give the mind that charm which a cultivated understanding is capable of receiving. there was but one thing wanted to make such a scene one of pure happiness, and that was all absence of care of fears for the future and the wants of life. suddenly there was a slight sound that came from the town. it was very slight, but the ears of sir francis varney were painfully acute of late; the least sound that came across him was heard in a moment, and his whole visage was changed to one of listening interest. the sound was hushed; but his attention was not lulled, for he had been placed in circumstances that made all his vigilance necessary for his own preservation. hence it was, what another would have passed over, or not heard at all, he both heard and noticed. he was not sure of the nature of the sound, it was so slight and so indistinct. there it was again! some persons were moving about in the town. the sounds that came upon the night air seemed to say that there was an unusual bustle in the town, which was, to sir francis varney, ominous in the extreme. what could people in such a quiet, retired place require out at such an hour at night? it must be something very unusual--something that must excite them to a great degree; and sir francis began to feel very uneasy. "they surely," he muttered to himself--"they surely cannot have found out my hiding place, and intend to hunt me from it, the blood-thirsty hounds! they are never satisfied. the mischief they are permitted to do on one occasion is but the precursor to another. the taste has caused the appetite for more, and nothing short of his blood can satisfy it." the sounds increased, and the noise came nearer and nearer, and it appeared as though a number of men had collected together and were coming towards him. yes, they were coming down the lane towards the deserted mansion where he was. for once in his life, sir francis varney trembled; he felt sick at heart, though no man was less likely to give up hope and to despair than he; yet this sign of unrelenting hatred and persecution was too unequivocal and too stern not to produce its effect upon even his mind; for he had no doubt but that they were coming with the express purpose of seeking him. how they could have found him out was a matter he could not imagine. the bannerworths could not have betrayed him--he was sure of that; and yet who could have seen him, so cautious and so careful as he had been, and so very sparing had he lived, because he would not give the slightest cause for all that was about to follow. he hoped to have hidden himself; but now he could hear the tramp of men distinctly, and their voices came now on the night air, though it was in a subdued tone, as if they were desirous of approaching unheard and unseen by their victim. sir francis varney stirred not from his position. he remained silent and motionless. he appeared not to heed what was going on; perhaps he hoped to see them go by--to be upon some false scent; or, if they saw no signs of life, they might leave the place, and go elsewhere. hark! they stop at the house--they go not by; they seem to pause, and then a thundering knock came at the door, which echoed and re-echoed through the empty and deserted house, on the top of which sat, in silent expectation, the almost motionless sir francis varney, the redoubted vampyre. the knock which came so loud and so hard upon the door caused sir francis to start visibly, for it seemed his own knell. then, as if the mob were satisfied with their knowledge of his presence, and of their victory, and of his inability to escape them, they sent up a loud shout that filled the whole neighbourhood with its sound. it seemed to come from below and around the house; it rose from all sides, and that told sir francis varney that the house was surrounded and all escape was cut off; there was no chance of his being able to rush through such a multitude of men as that which now encircled him. with the calmest despair, sir francis varney lay still and motionless on the house-top, and listened to the sounds that proceeded from below. shout after shout arose on the still, calm air of the night; knock after knock came upon the stout old door, which awakened responsive echoes throughout the house that had for many years lain dormant, and which now seemed disturbed, and resounded in hollow murmurs to the voices from without. then a loud voice shouted from below, as if to be heard by any one who might be within,-"sir francis varney, the vampyre, come out and give yourself up at discretion! if we have to search for you, you may depend it will be to punish you; you will suffer by burning. come out and give yourself up." there was a pause, and then a loud shout. sir francis varney paid no attention to this summons, but sat, motionless, on the house-top, where he could hear all that passed below in the crowd. "he will not come out," said one. "ah! he's much too cunning to be caught in such a trap. why, he knows what you would do with him; he knows you would stake him, and make a bonfire about him." "so he has no taste for roasting," remarked another; "but still, it's no use hiding; we have too many hands, and know the house too well to be easily baffled." "that may be; and, although he don't like burning, yet we will unearth the old fox, somehow or other; we have discovered his haunt at last, and certainly we'll have him out." "how shall we get in?" "knock in the door--break open the door! the front door--that is the best, because it leads to all parts of the house, and we can secure any one who attempts to move from one to the other, as they come down." "hurrah!" shouted several men in the crowd. "hurrah!" echoed the mob, with one accord, and the shout rent the air, and disturbed the quietude and serenity that scarce five minutes before reigned through the place. then, as if actuated by one spirit, they all set to work to force the door in. it was strong, and capable of great defence, and employed them, with some labour, for fifteen or twenty minutes, and then, with a loud crash, the door fell in. "hurrah!" again shouted the crowd. these shouts announced the fall of the door, and then, and not until then, did sir francis varney stir. "they have broken in the door," he muttered, "well, if die i must, i will sell my life dearly. however, all is not yet lost, and, in the struggle for life, the loss is not so much felt." he got up, and crept towards the trap that led into the house, or out of it, as the occasion might require. "the vampyre! the vampyre!" shouted a man who stood on a garden wall, holding on by the arm of an apple-tree. "varney, the vampyre!" shouted a second. "hurrah! boys, we are on the right scent; now for a hunt; hurrah! we shall have him now." they rushed in a tumultuous riot up the stone steps, and into the hall. it was a large, spacious place, with a grand staircase that led up to the upper floor, but it had two ends, and then terminated in a gallery. it could not be defended by one man, save at the top, where it could not long be held, because the assailants could unite, and throw their whole weight against the entrance, and thus storm it. this actually happened. they looked up, and, seeing nobody, they rushed up, some by one stair, and some by the other; but it was dark; there were but few of the moon's rays that pierced the gloom of that place, and those who first reached the place which we have named, were seized with astonishment, staggered, and fell. sir francis varney had met them; he stood there with a staff--something he had found about the house--not quite so long as a broom-handle, but somewhat thicker and heavier, being made of stout ash. this formidable weapon, sir francis varney wielded with strength and resolution; he was a tall man, and one of no mean activity and personal strength, and such a weapon, in his hands, was one of a most fearful character, and, for the occasion, much better than his sword. man after man fell beneath the fearful brace of these blows, for though they could not see sir francis, yet he could see them, or the hall-lights were behind them at the time, while he stood in the dark, and took advantage of this to deal murderous blows upon his assailants. this continued for some minutes, till they gave way before such a vigorous defence, and paused. "on, neighbours, on," cried one; "will you be beaten off by one man? rush in at once and you must force him from his position--push him hard, and he must give way." "ay," said one fellow who sat upon the ground rubbing his head; "it's all very well to say push him hard, but if you felt the weight of that d----d pole on your head, you wouldn't be in such a blessed hurry." however true that might be, there was but little attention paid to it, and a determined rush was made at the entrance to the gallery, and they found that it was unoccupied; and that was explained by the slamming of a door, and its being immediately locked upon them; and when the mob came to the door, they found they had to break their way through another door. this did not take long in effecting; and in less than five minutes they had broken through that door which led into another room; but the first man who entered it fell from a crashing blow on the head from the ashen staff of sir francis varney, who hurried and fled, closely pursued, until he came to another door, through which he dashed. here he endeavoured to make a stand and close it, but was immediately struck and grappled with; but he threw his assailant, and turned and fled again. his object had been to defend each inch of the ground as long as he was able; but he found they came too close upon his steps, and prevented his turning in time to try the strength of his staff upon the foremost. he dashed up the first staircase with surprising rapidity, leaving his pursuers behind; and when he had gained the first landing, he turned upon those who pursued him, who could hardly follow him two abreast. "down with the vampyre!" shouted the first, who rushed up heedless of the staff. "down with a fool!" thundered varney, as he struck the fellow a terrific blow, which covered his face with blood, and he fell back into the arms of his companions. a bitter groan and execration arose from them below, and again they shouted, and rushed up headlong. "down with the vampyre!" was again shouted, and met by a corresponding, but deep guttural sound of-"down with a fool!" and sure enough the first again came to the earth without any preparation, save the application of an ashen stick to his skull, which, by-the-bye, no means aided the operation of thinking. several more shared a similar fate; but they pressed hard, and sir francis was compelled to give ground to keep them at the necessary length from him, as they rushed on regardless of his blows, and if he had not he would soon have been engaged in a personal struggle, for they were getting too close for him to use the staff. "down with the vampyre!" was the renewed cry, as they drove him from spot to spot until he reached the roof of the house, and then he ran up the steps to the loft, which he had just reached when they came up to the bottom. varney attempted to draw the ladder up but four or five stout men held that down; then by a sudden turn, as they were getting up, he turned it over, threw those on it down, and the ladder too, upon the heads of those who were below. "down with the vampyre!" shouted the mob, as they, with the most untiring energy, set the ladder, or steps, against the loft, and as many as could held it, while others rushed up to attack varney with all the ferocity and courage of so many bull dogs. it was strange, but the more they were baffled the more enraged and determined they rushed on to a new attack, with greater resolution than ever. on this occasion, however, they were met with a new kind of missile, for sir francis had either collected and placed there for the occasion, or they had been left there for years, a number of old bricks, which lay close at hand. these he took, one by one, and deliberately took aim at them, and flung them with great force, striking down every one they hit. this caused them to recoil; the bricks caused fearful gashes in their heads, and the wounds were serious, the flesh being, in many places, torn completely off. they however, only paused, for one man said,-"be of good heart, comrades, we can do as he does; he has furnished us with weapons, and we can thus attack him in two ways, and he must give way in the end." "hurrah! down with the vampyre!" sounded from all sides, and the shout was answered by a corresponding rush. it was true; sir francis had furnished them with weapons to attack himself, for they could throw them back at him, which they did, and struck him a severe blow on the head, and it covered his face with blood in a moment. "hurrah!" shouted the assailants; "another such a blow, and all will be over with the vampyre." "he's got--" "press him sharp, now," cried another man, as he aimed another blow with a brick, which struck varney on the arm, causing him to drop the brick he held in his hand. he staggered back, apparently in great pain. "up! up! we have him now; he cannot get away; he's hurt; we have him--we have him." and up they went with all the rapidity they could scramble up the steps; but this had given varney time to recover himself; and though his right arm was almost useless, yet he contrived, with his left, to pitch the bricks so as to knock over the first three or four, when, seeing that he could not maintain his position to advantage, he rushed to the outside of the house, the last place he had capable of defence. there was a great shout by those outside, when they saw him come out and stand with his staff, and those who came first got first served, for the blows resounded, while he struck them, and sent them over below. then came a great shout from within and without, and then a desperate rush was made at the door, and, in the next instant, varney was seen flying, followed by his pursuers, one after the other, some tumbling over the tiles, to the imminent hazard of their necks. sir francis varney rushed along with a speed that appeared by far too great to admit of being safely followed, and yet those who followed appeared infected by his example, and appeared heedless of all consequences by which their pursuit might be attended to themselves. "hurrah!" shouted the mob below. "hurrah!" answered the mob on the tiles. then, over several housetops might be seen the flying figure of sir francis varney, pursued by different men at a pace almost equal to his own. they, however, could keep up the same speed, and not improve upon it, while he kept the advantage he first obtained in the start. then suddenly he disappeared. it seemed to the spectators below that he had dropped through a house, and they immediately surrounded the house, as well as they could, and then set up another shout. this took place several times, and as often was the miserable man hunted from his place of refuge only to seek another, from which he was in like manner hunted by those who thirsted for his blood. on one occasion, they drove him into a house which was surrounded, save at one point, which had a long room, or building in it, that ran some distance out, and about twenty feet high. at the entrance to the roof of this place, or leads, he stood and defended himself for some moments with success; but having received a blow himself, he was compelled to retire, while the mob behind forced those in front forward faster than he could by any exertion wield the staff that had so much befriended him on this occasion. he was, therefore, on the point of being overwhelmed by numbers, when he fled; but, alas! there was no escape; a bare coping stone and rails ran round the top of that. there was not much time for hesitation, but he jumped over the rails and looked below. it was a great height, but if he fell and hurt himself, he knew he was at the mercy of the bloodhounds behind him, who would do anything but show him any mercy, or spare him a single pang. he looked round and beheld his pursuers close upon him, and one was so close to him that he seized upon his arm, saying, as he shouted to his companions,-"hurrah, boys! i have him." with an execration, sir francis wielded his staff with such force, that he struck the fellow on the head, crushing in his hat as if it had been only so much paper. the man fell, but a blow followed from some one else which caused varney to relax his hold, and finding himself falling, he, to save himself, sprang away. the rails, at that moment, were crowded with men who leaned over to ascertain the effect of the leap. "he'll be killed," said one. "he's sure to be smashed," said another. "i'll lay any wager he'll break a limb!" said a third. varney came to the earth--for a moment he lay stunned, and not able to move hand or foot. "hurrah!" shouted the mob. their triumph was short, for just as they shouted varney arose, and after a moment or two's stagger he set off at full speed, which produced another shout from the mob; and just at that moment, a body of his pursuers were seen scaling the walls after him. there was now a hunt through all the adjoining fields--from cover after cover they pursued him until he found no rest from the hungry wolves that beset him with cries, resembling beasts of prey rather than any human multitude. sir francis heard them, at the same time, with the despair of a man who is struggling for life, and yet knows he is struggling in vain; he knew his strength was decaying--his immense exertions and the blows he had received, all weakened him, while the number and strength of his foes seemed rather to increase than to diminish. once more he sought the houses, and for a moment he believed himself safe, but that was only a momentary deception, for they had traced him. he arrived at a garden wall, over which he bounded, and then he rushed into the house, the door of which stood open, for the noise and disturbance had awakened most of the inhabitants, who were out in all directions. he took refuge in a small closet on the stairs, but was seen to do so by a girl, who screamed out with fear and fright, "murder! murder!--the wampyre!--the wampyre!" with all her strength, and in the way of screaming that was no little, and then she went off into a fit. this was signal enough, and the house was at once entered, and beset on all sides by the mob, who came impatient of obtaining their victim who had so often baffled them. "there he is--there he is," said the girl, who came to as soon as other people came up. "where?--where?" "in that closet," she said, pointing to it with her finger. "i see'd him go in the way above." sir francis, finding himself betrayed, immediately came out of the closet, just as two or three were advancing to open it, and dealt so hard a blow on the head of the first that came near him that he fell without a groan, and a second shared the same fate; and then sir francis found himself grappled with, but with a violent effort he relieved himself and rushed up stairs. "oh! murder--the wampyre! what shall i do--fire--fire!" these exclamations were uttered in consequence of varney in his haste to get up stairs, having inadvertently stepped into the girl's lap with one foot, while he kicked her in the chin with the other, besides scratching her nose till it bled. "after him--stick to him," shouted the mob, but the girl kicked and sprawled so much they were impeded, till, regardless of her cries, they ran over her and pursued varney, who was much distressed with the exertions he had made. after about a minute's race he turned upon the head of the stair, not so much with the hope of defending it as of taking some breathing time: but seeing his enemies so close, he drew his sword, and stood panting, but prepared. "never mind his toasting-fork," said one bulky fellow, and, as he spoke, he rushed on, but the point of the weapon entered his heart and he fell dead. there was a dreadful execration uttered by those who came up after him, and there was a momentary pause, for none liked to rush on to the bloody sword of sir francis varney, who stood so willing and so capable of using it with the most deadly effect. they paused, as well they might, and this pause was the most welcome thing next to life to the unfortunate fugitive, for he was dreadfully distressed and bleeding. "on to him boys! he can hardly stand. see how he pants. on to him, i say--push him hard." "he pushes hard, i tell you," said another. "i felt the point of his sword, as it came through giles's back.". "i'll try my luck, then," said another, and he rushed up; but he was met by the sword of sir francis, who pierced it through his side, and he fell back with a groan. sir francis, fearful of stopping any longer to defend that point, appeared desirous of making good his retreat with some little advantage, and he rushed up stairs before they had recovered from the momentary consternation into which they had been thrown by the sudden disaster they had received. [illustration] but they were quickly after him, and before he, wearied as he was, could gain the roof, they were up the ladder after him. the first man who came through the trap was again set upon by varney, who made a desperate thrust at him, and it took effect; but the sword snapped by the handle. with an execration, sir francis threw the hilt at the head of the next man he saw; then rushing, with headlong speed, he distanced his pursuers for some house tops. but the row of houses ended at the one he was then at, and he could go no further. what was to be done? the height was by far too great to be jumped; death was certain. a hideous heap of crushed and mangled bones would be the extent of what would remain of him, and then, perhaps, life not extinct for some hours afterwards. he turned round; he saw them coming hallooing over the house tops, like a pack of hounds. sir francis struck his hands together, and groaned. he looked round, and perceived some ivy peeping over the coping-stone. a thought struck him, and he instantly ran to the spot and leaned over. "saved--saved!" he exclaimed. then, placing his hand over, he felt for the ivy; then he got over, and hung by the coping-stone, in a perilous position, till he found a spot on which he could rest his foot, and then he grasped the ivy as low down as he could, and thus he lowered himself a short way, till he came to where the ivy was stronger and more secure to the wall, as the upper part was very dangerous with his weight attached to it. the mob came on, very sure of having sir francis varney in their power, and they did not hurry on so violently, as their position was dangerous at that hour of the night. "easy, boys, easy," was the cry. "the bird is our own; he can't get away, that's very certain." they, however, came on, and took no time about it hardly; but what was their amazement and rage at finding he had disappeared. "where is he?" was the universal inquiry, and "i don't know," an almost universal answer. there was a long pause, while they searched around; but they saw no vestige of the object of their search. "there's no trap door open," remarked one; "and i don't think he could have got in at any one." "perhaps, finding he could not get away, he has taken the desperate expedient of jumping over, and committing suicide, and so escape the doom he ought to be subjected to." "probably he has; but then we can run a stake through him and burn him all the same." they now approached the extreme verge of the houses, and looked over the sides, but they could see nothing. the moon was up, and there was light enough to have seen him if he had fallen to the earth, and they were quite sure that he could not have got up after such a fall as he must have received. "we are beaten after all, neighbours." "i am not so sure of that," was the reply. "he may now be hidden about, for he was too far spent to be able to go far; he could not do that, i am sure." "i think not either." "might he not have escaped by means of that ivy, yonder?" said one of the men, pointing to the plant, as it climbed over the coping-stones of the wall. "yes; it may be possible," said one; "and yet it is very dangerous, if not certain destruction to get over." "oh, yes; there is no possibility of escape that way. why, it wouldn't bear a cat, for there are no nails driven into the wall at this height." "never mind," said another, "we may as well leave no stone unturned, as the saying is, but at once set about looking out for him." the individual who spoke now leant over the coping stone, for some moments, in silence. he could see nothing, but yet he continued to gaze for some moments. "do you see him?" inquired one. "no," was the answer. "ay, ay, i thought as much," was the reply. "he might as well have got hold of a corner of the moon, which, i believe, is more likely--a great deal more likely." "hold still a moment," said the man, who was looking over the edge of the house. "what's the matter now? a gnat flew into your eye?" "no; but i see him--by jove, i see him!" "see who--see who?" "varney, the vampyre!" shouted the man. "i see him about half-way down clinging, like a fly, to the wall. odd zounds! i never saw the like afore!" "hurrah! after him then, boys!" "not the same way, if you please. go yourself, and welcome; but i won't go that way." "just as you please," said the man; "but what's good for the goose is good for the gander is an old saying, and so is jack as good as his master." "so it may be; but cuss me if you ain't a fool if you attempt that!" the man made no reply, but did as varney had done before, got over the coping stone, and then laid hold of the ivy; but, whether his weight was heavier than varney's, or whether it was that the latter had loosened the hold of the ivy or not, but he had no sooner left go of the coping stone than the ivy gave way, and he was precipitated from the height of about fifty feet to the earth--a dreadful fall! there was a pause--no one spoke. the man lay motionless and dead--he had dislocated his neck! the fall had not, however, been without its effect upon varney, for the man's heels struck him so forcibly on his head as he fell, that he was stunned, and let go his hold, and he, too, fell to the earth, but not many feet. he soon recovered himself, and was staggering away, when he was assailed by those above with groans, and curses of all kinds, and then by stones, and tiles, and whatever the mob could lay their hands upon. some of these struck him, and he was cut about in various places, so that he could hardly stand. the hoots and shouts of the mob above had now attracted those below to the spot where sir francis varney was trying to escape, but he had not gone far before the loud yells of those behind him told him that he was again pursued. half dead, and almost wholly spent, unarmed, and defenceless, he scarce knew what to do; whether to fly, or to turn round and die as a refuge from the greater evil of endeavouring to prolong a struggle which seemed hopeless. instinct, however, urged him on, at all risks, and though he could not go very far, or fast, yet on he went, with the crowd after him. "down with the vampyre!--seize him--hold him--burn him! he must be down presently, he can't stand!" this gave them new hopes, and rendered varney's fate almost certain. they renewed their exertions to overtake him, while he exerted himself anew, and with surprising agility, considering how he had been employed for more than two hours. there were some trees and hedges now that opposed the progress of both parties. the height of sir francis varney gave him a great advantage, and, had he been fresh, he might have shown it to advantage in vaulting over the hedges and ditches, which he jumped when obliged, and walked through when he could. every now and then, the party in pursuit, who had been behind him some distance, now they gained on him; however, they kept, every now and then, losing sight of him among the trees and shrubs, and he made direct for a small wood, hoping that when there, he should to be able to conceal himself for some time, so as to throw his pursuers off the track. they were well aware of this, for they increased their speed, and one or two swifter of foot than the others, got a-head of them and cried out aloud as they ran,-"keep up! keep up! he's making for the wood." "he can't stop there long; there are too many of us to beat that cover without finding our game. push, lads, he's our own now, as sure as we know he's on a-head." they did push on, and came in full sight as they saw sir francis enter the wood, with what speed he could make; but he was almost spent. this was a cheering sight to them, and they were pretty certain he would not leave the wood in the state he was then--he must seek concealment. however, they were mistaken, for sir francis varney, as soon as he got into the wood, plunged into the thickest of it, and then paused to gain breath. "so far safe," he muttered; "but i have had a narrow escape; they are not yet done, though, and it will not be safe here long. i must away, and seek shelter and safety elsewhere, if i can;--curses on the hounds that run yelping over the fields!" he heard the shouts of his pursuers, and prepared to quit the wood when he thought the first had entered it. "they will remain here some time in beating about," he muttered; "that is the only chance i have had since the pursuit; curse them! i say again. i may now get free; this delay must save my life, but nothing else will." he moved away, and, at a slow and lazy pace, left the wood, and then made his way across some fields, towards some cottages, that lay on the left. the moon yet shone on the fields; he could hear the shouts of the mob, as various parties went through the wood from one covert to another, and yet unable to find him. then came a great shout upon his ears, as though they had found out he had left the wood. this caused him to redouble his speed, and, fearful lest he should be seen in the moonlight, he leaped over the first fence that he came to, with almost the last effort he could make, and then staggered in at an open door--through a passage--into a front parlour, and there fell, faint, and utterly spent and speechless, at the feet of flora bannerworth. chapter lxxxviii. the reception of the vampyre by flora.--varney subdued. [illustration] we must say that the irruption into the house of the bannerworths by sir francis varney, was certainly unpremeditated by him, for he knew not into whose house he had thus suddenly rushed for refuge from the numerous foes who were pursuing him with such vengeful ire. it was a strange and singular incident, and one well calculated to cause the mind to pause before it passed it by, and consider the means to an end which are sometimes as wide of the mark, as it is in nature possible to be. but truth is stronger than fiction by far, and the end of it was, that, pressed on all sides by danger, bleeding, faint, and exhausted, he rushed into the first house he came to, and thus placed himself in the very house of those whom he had brought to such a state of misfortune. flora bannerworth was seated at some embroidery, to pass away an hour or so, and thus get over the tedium of time; she was not thinking, either, upon the unhappy past; some trifling object or other engaged her attention. but what was her anguish when she saw a man staggering into the room bleeding, and bearing the marks of a bloody contest, and sinking at her feet. her astonishment was far greater yet, when she recognised that man to be sir francis varney. "save me!--save me! miss bannerworth, save me!--only you can save me from the ruthless multitude which follows, crying aloud for my blood." as he spoke, he sank down speechless. flora was so much amazed, not to say terrified, that she knew not what to do. she saw sir francis a suppliant at her feet, a fugitive from his enemies, who would show him no mercy--she saw all this at a moment's glance; and yet she had not recovered her speech and presence of mind enough to enable her to make any reply to him. "save me! miss flora bannerworth, save me!" he again said, raising himself on his hands. "i am beset, hunted like a wild beast--they seek my life--they have pursued me from one spot to another, and i have unwittingly intruded upon you. you will save me: i am sure your kindness and goodness of heart will never permit me to be turned out among such a crew of blood-thirsty butchers as those who pursue me are." "rise, sir francis varney," said flora, after a moment's hesitation; "in such an extremity as that which you are in, it would be inhuman indeed to thrust you out among your enemies." "oh! it would," said varney. "i had thought, until now, i could have faced such a mob, until i was in this extremity; and then, disarmed and thrown down, bruised, beaten, and incapable of stemming such a torrent, i fled from one place to another, till hunted from each, and then instinct alone urged me to greater exertion than before, and here i am--this is now my last and only hope." "rise, sir francis." "you will not let me be torn out and slaughtered like an ox. i am sure you will not." "sir francis, we are incapable of such conduct; you have sought refuge here, and shall find it as far as we are able to afford it to you." "and your brother--and--" "yes--yes--all who are here will do the same; but here they come to speak for themselves." as she spoke, mrs. bannerworth entered, also charles holland, who both started on seeing the vampyre present, sir francis varney, who was too weak to rise without assistance. "sir francis varney," said flora, speaking to them as they entered, "has sought refuge here; his life is in peril, and he has no other hope left; you will, i am sure, do what can be done for him." "mr. holland," said sir francis, "i am, as you may see by my condition, a fugitive, and have been beaten almost to death; instinct alone urged me on to save my life, and i, unknowingly, came in here." "rise, sir francis," said charles holland; "i am not one who would feel any pleasure in seeing you become the victim of any brutal mob. i am sure there are none amongst us who would willingly do so. you have trusted to those who will not betray you." "thank you," said sir francis, faintly. "i thank you; your conduct is noble, and miss bannerworth's especially so." "are you much hurt, sir francis?" inquired charles. "i am much hurt, but not seriously or dangerously; but i am weak and exhausted." "let me assist you to rise," said charles holland. "thank you," said sir francis, as he accepted of the assistance, and when he stood up, he found how incapable he really was, for a child might have grappled with him. "i have been sore beset, mrs. bannerworth," he said, endeavouring to bow to that lady; "and i have suffered much ill-usage. i am not in such a plight as i could wish to be seen in by ladies; but my reasons for coming will be an excuse for my appearance in such disorder." "we will not say anything about that," said charles holland; "under the circumstances, it could not be otherwise." "it could not," said sir francis, as he took the chair miss flora bannerworth placed for him. "i will not ask you for any explanation as to how this came about; but you need some restorative and rest." "i think i suffer more from exhaustion than anything else. the bruises i have, of course, are not dangerous." "can you step aside a few moments?" said mrs. bannerworth. "i will show you where you can remove some of those stains, and make yourself more comfortable." "thank you, madam--thank you. it will be most welcome to me, i assure you." sir francis rose up, and, with the aid of charles holland, he walked to the next room, where he washed himself, and arranged his dress as well as it would admit of its being done. "mr. holland," he said, "i cannot tell you how grateful i feel for this. i have been hunted from the house where you saw me. from what source they learned my abode--my place of concealment--i know not; but they found me out." "i need hardly say, sir francis, that it could not have occurred through me," said charles holland. "my young friend," said sir francis, "i am quite sure you were not; and, moreover, i never, for one moment, suspected you. no, no; some accidental circumstance alone has been the cause. i have been very cautious--i may say extremely so--but at the same time, living, as i have, surrounded by enemies on all sides, it is not to be wondered at that i should be seen by some one, and thus traced to my lair, whither they followed me at their leisure." "they have been but too troublesome in this matter. when they become a little reasonable, it will be a great miracle; for, when their passions and fears are excited, there is no end to the extremes they will perpetrate." "it is so," said varney, "as the history of these last few days amply testifies to me. i could never have credited the extent to which popular excitement could be carried, and the results it was likely to produce." "it is an engine of very difficult control," pursued charles holland; "but what will raise it will not allay it, but add fuel to the fire that burns so fiercely already." "true enough," said sir francis. "if you have done, will you again step this way?" sir francis varney followed charles holland into the sitting-room, and sat down with them, and before him was spread a light supper, with some good wine. "eat, sir francis," said mrs. bannerworth. "such a state as that in which you are, must, of necessity, produce great exhaustion, and you must require food and drink." sir francis bowed as well as he was able, and even then, sore and bruised as he was, fugitive as he had been, he could not forget his courtesy; but it was not without an effort. his equanimity was, however, much disturbed, by finding himself in the midst of the bannerworths. "i owe you a relation," he said, "of what occurred to drive me from my place of concealment." "we should like to hear it, if you are not too far fatigued to relate it," said charles. "i will. i was sitting at the top of that house in which i sought to hide myself, when i heard sounds come that were of a very suspicious nature; but did not believe that it could happen that they had discovered my lurking-place; far from it; though, of late, i had been habitually cautious and suspicious, yet i thought i was safe, till i heard the noise of a multitude coming towards me. i could not be mistaken in it, for the sounds are so peculiar that they are like nothing else. i heard them coming. "i moved not; and when they surrounded the house as far as was practicable, they gave an immense shout, and made the welkin ring with the sound." "i heard a confused noise at a distance," remarked flora; "but i had no idea that anything serious was contemplated. i imagined it was some festival among some trade, or portion of the townspeople, who were shouting from joy." "oh, dear no," said sir francis; "but i am not surprised at the mistake, because there are such occurrences occasionally; but whenever the mob gained any advantage upon me they shouted, and when i was able to oppose them with effect, they groaned at me most horribly." "the deuce," said charles; "the sound, suppose, serves to express their feelings, and to encourage each other." "something of the sort, i dare say," said varney: "but at length, after defending the house with all the desperation that despair imparted to me, i was compelled to fly from floor to floor, until i had reached the roof; there they followed me, and i was compelled again to fly. house after house they followed me to, until i could go no farther," said varney. "how did you escape?" "fortunately i saw some ivy growing and creeping over the coping-stones, and by grasping that i got over the side, and so let myself down by degrees, as well as i was able." "good heavens! what a dreadful situation," exclaimed flora; "it is really horrible!" "i could not do it again, under, i think, any circumstances." "not the same?" said mrs. bannerworth. "i really doubt if i could," said varney. "the truth is, the excitement of the moment was great, and i at that moment thought of nothing but getting away. "the same circumstances, the same fear of death, could hardly be produced in me again, and i am unable to account for the phenomenon on this occasion." "your escape was very narrow indeed," said flora; "it makes me shudder to think of the dangers you have gone through; it is really terrible to think of it." "you," said sir francis, "are young and susceptible, and generous in your disposition, you can feel for me, and do; but how little i could have expected it, it is impossible to say; but your sympathy sinks into my mind and causes such emotions as never can be erased from my soul. "but to proceed. you may guess how dreadful was my position, by the fact that the first man who attempted to get over tore the ivy away and fell, striking me in his fall; he was killed, and i thrown down and stunned. i then made for the wood, closely pursued and got into it; then i baffled them: they searched the wood, and i went through it. i then ran across the country to these houses here; i got over the fence, and in at the back door." "did they see you come?" inquired charles holland. "i cannot say, but i think that they did not; i heard them give a loud shout more than once when on this side of the wood." "you did? how far from here were you when you heard the shouts?" inquired mrs. bannerworth. "i was close here; and, as i jumped over the fence, i heard them shout again; but i think they cannot see so far; the night was moonlight, to be sure, but that is all; the shadow of the hedge, and the distance together, would make it, if not impossible, at least very improbable." "that is very likely," said mrs. bannerworth. "in that case," said charles holland, "you are safe here; for none will suspect your being concealed here." "it is the last place i should myself have thought of," said varney; "and i may say the last place i would knowingly have come to; but had i before known enough of you, i should have been well assured of your generosity, and have freely come to claim your aid and shelter, which accident has so strangely brought me to be a candidate for, and which you have so kindly awarded me." "the night is wearing away," said flora, "and sir francis is doubtless fatigued to an excess; sleep, i dare say, will be most welcome to him." "it will indeed, miss bannerworth," said varney; "but i can do that under any circumstances; do not let me put you to any inconvenience; a chair, and at any hour, will serve me for sleep." "we cannot do for you what we would wish," said flora, looking at her mother; "but something better than that, at all events, we can and will provide for you." "i know not how to thank you," said sir francis varney; "i assure you, of late i have not been luxuriously lodged, and the less trouble i give you the greater i shall esteem the favour." the hour was late, and sir francis varney, before another half hour had elapsed, was consigned to his own reflections, in a small but neat room, there to repose his bruised and battered carcass, and court the refreshing influence of sleep. his reflections were, for nearly an hour, of the most contradictory character; some one passion was trying to overcome the other; but he seemed quite subdued. "i could not have expected this," he muttered; "flora bannerworth has the soul of a heroine. i deserved not such a reception from them; and yet, in my hour of utmost need, they have received me like a favoured friend; and yet all their misfortunes have taken their origin from me; i am the cause of all." filled with these thoughts, he fell asleep; he slept till morning broke. he was not disturbed; it seemed as though the influence of sleep was sweeter far there, in the cottage of the bannerworths, than ever he had before received. it was late on that morning before sir francis rose, and then only through hearing the family about, and, having performed his toilet, so far as circumstances permitted, he descended, and entered the front-parlour, the room he had been in the night before. flora bannerworth was already there; indeed, breakfast was waiting the appearance of sir francis varney. "good morning, miss bannerworth," said sir francis, bowing with his usual dignified manner, but in the kindest and sincerest way he was able to assume. "good morning, sir francis," said flora, rising to receive him; and she could not avoid looking at him as he entered the room. "i hope you have had a pleasant night?" "it has been the best night's rest i have had for some time, miss bannerworth. i assure you i have to express my gratitude to you for so much kindness. i have slept well, and soundly." "i am glad to hear it." "i think yet i shall escape the search of these people who have hunted me from so many places." "i hope you may, indeed, sir francis." "you, miss bannerworth! and do you hope i may escape the vengeance of these people--the populace?" "i do, sir francis, most sincerely hope so. why should i wish evil to you, especially at their hands?" sir francis did not speak for a minute or two, and then he said, turning full upon flora-"i don't know why, miss bannerworth, that i should think so, but perhaps it is because there are peculiar circumstances connected with myself, that have made me feel conscious that i have not deserved so much goodness at your hands." "you have not deserved any evil. sir francis, we could not do that if it were in our power; we would do you a service at any time." "you have done so, miss bannerworth--the greatest that can be performed. you have saved my life." at that moment charles holland entered, and sir francis bowed, as he said,-"i hope you, mr. holland, have slept as well, and passed as good a night as i have passed?" "i am glad you, at least, have passed a quiet one," said charles holland; "you, i dare say, feel all the better for it? how do you feel yourself? are you much hurt?" "not at all, not at all," said sir francis varney. "only a few bruises, and so forth, some of which, as you may perceive, do not add to one's personal appearance. a week or two's quiet would rid me of them. at all events, i would it may do the same with my enemies." "i wish they were as easily gotten rid of myself," said charles; "but as that cannot be, we must endeavour to baffle them in the best way we may." "i owe a debt to you i shall never be able to repay; but where there is a will, they say there is a way; and if the old saying be good for anything, i need not despair, though the way is by no means apparent at present." "time is the magician," said flora, "whose wand changes all things--the young to the aged, and the aged to nothing." "certainly, that is true," said varney, "and many such changes have i seen. my mind is stored with such events; but this is sadness, and i have cause to rejoice." * * * * the breakfast was passed off in pleasing conversation, and varney found himself much at home with the bannerworths, whose calm and even tenour was quite new to him. he could not but admit the charms of such a life as that led by the bannerworths; but what it must have been when they were supplied by ample means, with nothing to prey upon their minds, and no fearful mystery to hang on and weigh down their spirits, he could scarcely imagine. they were amiable, accomplished; they were in the same mind at all times, and nothing seemed to ruffle them; and when night came, he could not but acknowledge to himself that he had never formed half the opinion of them they were deserving of. of course during that day he was compelled to lie close, so as not to be seen by any one, save the family. he sat in a small room, which was overlooked by no other in the neighbourhood, and he remained quiet, sometimes conversing, and sometimes reading, but at the same time ever attentive to the least sound that appeared at all of a character to indicate the approach of persons for any purpose whatever. at supper time he spoke to flora and to charles holland, saying,-"there are certain matters connected with myself--i may say with you now--sure all that has happened will make it so--of which you would be glad to hear some thing." "you mean upon the same subject upon which i had some conversation with you a day or two back?" "yes, the same. allow me one week, and you shall know all. i will then relate to you that which you so much desire to know--one week, and all shall be told." "well," said charles holland, "this has not been exacted from you as the price of your safety, but you can choose your own time, of course; what you promise is most desired, for it will render those happy who now are much worse than they were before these occurrences took place." "i am aware of all that; grant me but one week, and then you shall be made acquainted with all." "i am satisfied, sir francis," said flora; "but while here under our roof, we should never have asked you a question." "of this, miss bannerworth, the little i have seen of you assures me you would not do so; however, i am the more inclined to make it--i am under so deep an obligation to you all, that i can never repay it." * * * * * sir francis varney retired to rest that night--his promise to the bannerworths filled his mind with many reflections--the insecurity of his own position, and the frail tenure which he even held in the hands of those whom he had most injured. this produced a series of reflections of a grave and melancholy nature, and he sat by his window, watching the progress of the clouds, as they appeared to chase each other over the face of the scene--now casting a shade over the earth, and then banishing the shadows, and throwing a gentle light over the earth's surface, which was again chased away, and shadows again fell upon the scene below. how long he had sat there in melancholy musing he knew not; but suddenly he was aroused from his dreams by a voice that shook the skies, and caused him to start to his feet. "hurrah!--hurrah!--hurrah!" shouted the mob, which had silently collected around the cottage of the bannerworths. "curses!" muttered sir francis, as he again sank in his chair, and struck his head with his hand. "i am hunted to death--they will not leave me until my body has graced a cross-road." "hurrah!--down with the vampyre--pull him out!" then came an instant knocking at the doors, and the people on the outside made so great a din, that it seemed as though they contemplated knocking the house down at once, without warning the inmates that they waited there. there was a cessation for about a minute, when one of the family hastened to the door, and inquired what was wanted. "varney, the vampyre," was the reply. "you must seek him elsewhere." "we will search this place before we go further," replied a man. "but he is not here." "we have reason to believe otherwise. open the door, and let us in--no one shall be hurt, or one single object in the house; but we must come in, and search for the vampyre." "come to-morrow, then." "that will not do," said the voice; "open, or we force our way in without more notice." at the same a tremendous blow was bestowed upon the door, and then much force was used to thrust it in. a consultation was suddenly held among the inmates, as to what was to be done, but no one could advise, and each was well aware of the utter impossibility of keeping the mob out. "i do not see what is to become of me," said sir francis varney, suddenly appearing before them. "you must let them in; there is no chance of keeping them off, neither can you conceal me. you will have no place, save one, that will be sacred from their profanation." "and which is that?" "flora's own room." all started at the thought that flora's chamber could in any way be profaned by any such presence as sir francis varney's. however, the doors below were suddenly burst open, amid loud cries from the populace, who rushed in in great numbers, and began to search the lower rooms, immediately. "all is lost!" said sir francis varney, as he dashed away and rushed to the chamber of flora, who, alarmed at the sounds that were now filling the house, stood listening to them. "miss bannerworth--" began varney. "sir francis!" "yes, it is indeed i, miss bannerworth; hear me, for one moment." "what is the matter?" "i am again in peril--in more imminent peril than before; my life is not worth a minute's purchase, unless you save me. you, and you alone, can now save me. oh! miss bannerworth, if ever pity touched your heart, save me from those only whom i now fear. i could meet death in any shape but that in which they will inflict it upon me. hear their execrations below!" "death to the vampyre! death to varney! burn him! run a stake through his body!" [illustration] "what can i do, sir francis?" "admit me to your chamber." "sir francis, are you aware of what you are saying?" "i am well. it is a request which you would justly scorn to reply to, but now my life--recollect you have saved me once--my life,--do not now throw away the boon you have so kindly bestowed. save me, miss bannerworth." "it is not possible. i--" "nay, miss bannerworth, do you imagine this is a time for ceremony, or the observances of polished life! on my honour, you run no risk of censure." "where is varney? where is the vampyre? he ain't far off." "hear--hear them, miss bannerworth. they are now at the foot of the stairs. not a moment to lose. one minute more, and i am in the hands of a crew that has no mercy." "hurrah! upstairs! he's not below. upstairs, neighbours, we shall have him yet!" these words sounded on the stairs: half-a-dozen more steps, and varney would be seen. it was a miracle he was not heard begging for his life. varney cast a look of despair at the stairhead and felt for his sword, but it was not there, he had lost it. he struck his head with his clenched hand, and was about to rush upon his foes, when he heard the lock turn; he looked, and saw the door opened gently, and flora stood there; he passed in, and sank cowering into a chair, at the other end of the room, behind some curtains. the door was scarcely shut ere some tried to force it, and then a loud knocking came at the door. "open! open! we want varney, the vampyre. open! or we will burst it open." flora did open it, but stood resolutely in the opening, and held up her hand to impose silence. "are you men, that you can come thus to force yourselves upon the privacy of a female? is there nothing in the town or house, that you must intrude in numbers into a private apartment? is no place sacred from you?" "but, ma'am--miss--we only want varney, the vampyre." "and can you find him nowhere but in a female's bedroom? shame on you! shame on you! have you no sisters, wives, or mothers, that you act thus?" "he's not there, you may be sure of that, jack," said a gruff voice. "let the lady be in quiet; she's had quite enough trouble with him to sicken her of a vampyre. you may be sure that's the last place to find him in." with this they all turned away, and flora shut the door and locked it upon them, and varney was safe. "you have saved me," said varney. "hush!" said flora. "speak not; there maybe some one listening." sir francis varney stood in the attitude of one listening most anxiously to catch some sounds; the moon fell across his face, and gave it a ghastly hue, that, added to his natural paleness and wounds, gave him an almost unearthly aspect. the sounds grew more and more distant; the shouts and noise of men traversing the apartments subsided, and gradually the place became restored to its original silence. the mob, after having searched every other part of the house, and not finding the object of their search, they concluded that he was not there, but must have made his escape before. * * * * * this most desperate peril of sir francis varney seemed to have more effect upon him than anything that had occurred during his most strange and most eventful career. when he was assured that the riotous mob that had been so intent upon his destruction was gone, and that he might emerge from his place of concealment, he did so with an appearance of such utter exhaustion that the bannerworth family could not but look upon him as a being who was near his end. at any time his countenance, as we long have had occasion to remark, was a strange and unearthly looking one; but when we come to superadd to the strangeness of his ordinary appearance the traces of deep mental emotion, we may well say that varney's appearance was positively of the most alarming character. when he was seated in the ordinary sitting apartment of the bannerworths, he drew a long sighing breath, and placing his hand upon his heart, he said, in a faint tone of voice,-"it beats now laboriously, but it will soon cease its pulsations for ever." these words sounded absolutely prophetic, there was about them such a solemn aspect, and he looked at the same time that he uttered them so much like one whose mortal race was run, and who was now a candidate for the grave. "do not speak so despairingly," said charles holland; "remember, that if your life has been one of errors hitherto, how short a space of time may suffice to redeem some of them at least, and the communication to me which you have not yet completed may to some extent have such an effect." "no, no. it may contribute to an act of justice, but it can do no good to me. and yet do not suppose that because such is my impression that i mean to hesitate in finishing to you that communication." "i rejoice to hear you say so, and if you would, now that you must be aware of what good feelings towards you we are all animated with, remove the bar of secrecy from the communication, i should esteem it a great favour." varney appeared to be considering for a few moments, and then he said,-"well, well. let the secrecy no longer exist. have it removed at once. i will no longer seek to maintain it. tell all, charles holland--tell all." thus empowered by the mysterious being, charles holland related briefly what varney had already told him, and then concluded by saying,-"that is all that i have myself as yet been made aware of, and i now call upon sir francis varney to finish his narration." "i am weak," said varney, "and scarcely equal to the task; but yet i will not shrink from the promise that i have made. you have been the preservers of my life, and more particularly to you, flora bannerworth, am i indebted for an existence, which otherwise must have been sacrificed upon the altar of superstition." "but you will recollect, master varney," said the admiral, who had sat looking on for some time in silent wonder, "you must recollect, master varney, that the people are, after all, not so much to blame for their superstition, because, whether you are a vampyre or not, and i don't pretend to come to a positive opinion now, you took good care to persuade them you were." "i did," said varney, with a shudder; "but why did i?" "well, you know best." "it was, then, because i did believe, and do believe, that there is something more than natural about my strangely protracted existence; but we will waive that point, and, before my failing strength, for it appears to me to be failing, completely prevents me from doing so, let me relate to you the continued particulars of the circumstances that made me what i am." flora bannerworth, although she had heard before from the lips of charles holland the to her dreadful fact, that her father, in addition to having laid violent hands upon his own life, was a murderer, now that that fearful circumstance was related more publicly, felt a greater pang than she had done when it was whispered to her in the accents of pure affection, and softened down by a gentleness of tone, which charles holland's natural delicacy would not allow him to use even to her whom he loved so well in the presence of others. she let her beautiful face be hidden by her hands, and she wept as she listened to the sad detail. varney looked inquiringly in the countenance of charles holland, because, having given him leave to make flora acquainted with the circumstance, he was rather surprised at the amount of emotion which it produced in her. charles holland answered the appealing look by saying,-"flora is already aware of the facts, but it naturally affects her much to hear them now repeated in the presence of others, and those too, towards whom she cannot feel--" what charles holland was going to say was abruptly stopped short by the admiral, who interposed, exclaiming,-"why, what do you mean, you son of a sea cook? the presence of who do you mean? do you mean to say that i don't feel for miss flora, bless her heart! quite as much as a white-faced looking swab like you? why, i shall begin to think you are only fit for a marine." "nay, uncle, now do not put yourself out of temper. you must be well aware that i could not mean anything disrespectful to you. you should not suppose such a state of things possible; and although, perhaps, i did not express myself so felicitously as i might, yet what i intended to say, was--" "oh, bother what you intended to say. you go on, mr. vampyre, with your story. i want to know what became of it all; just you get on as quick as you can, and let us know what you did after the man was murdered." "when the dreadful deed was committed," said varney, "and our victim lay weltering in his blood, and had breathed his last, we stood like men who for the first time were awakened to the frightful consequences of what they had done. "i saw by the dim light that hovered round us a great change come over the countenance of marmaduke bannerworth, and he shook in every limb. "this soon passed away, however, and the powerful and urgent necessity which arose of avoiding the consequences of the deed that we had done, restored us to ourselves. we stooped and took from the body the ill-gotten gains of the gambler. they amounted to an immense sum, and i said to marmaduke bannerworth,-"'take you the whole of this money and proceed to your own home with it, where you will be least suspected. hide it in some place of great secrecy, and to-morrow i will call upon you, when we will divide it, and will consider of some means of safely exchanging the notes for gold.' "he agreed to this, and placed the money in his pocket, after which it became necessary that we should dispose of the body, which, if we did not quickly remove, must in a few hours be discovered, and so, perchance, accompanied by other criminating circumstances, become a frightful evidence against us, and entail upon us all those consequences of the deed which we were so truly anxious to escape from. "it is ever the worst part of the murderer's task, that after he has struck the blow that has deprived his victim of existence, it becomes his frightful duty to secrete the corpse, which, with its dead eyes, ever seems to be glaring upon him such a world of reproach. "that it is which should make people pause ere they dipped their hands in the blood of others, and that it is which becomes the first retribution that the murderer has to endure for the deep crime that he has committed. "we tore two stakes from a hedge, and with their assistance we contrived to dig a very superficial hole, such a hole as was only sufficient, by placing a thin coating of earth over it, to conceal the body of the murdered man. "and then came the loathsome task of dragging him into it--a task full of horror, and from which we shrunk aghast; but it had to be done, and, therefore, we stooped, and grasping the clothes as best we might, we dragged the body into the chasm we had prepared for its reception. glad were we then to be enabled to throw the earth upon it and to stamp upon it with such vehemence as might well be supposed to actuate men deeply anxious to put out of sight some dangerous and loathsome object. "when we had completed this, and likewise gathered handsfull of dust from the road, and dry leaves, and such other matter, to sprinkle upon the grave, so as to give the earth an appearance of not having been disturbed, we looked at each other and breathed from our toil. "then, and not till then, was it that we remembered that among other things which the gambler had won of marmaduke were the deeds belonging to the dearbrook property." "the dearbrook property!" exclaimed henry bannerworth; "i know that there was a small estate going by that name, which belonged to our family, but i always understood that long ago my father had parted with it." "yes; it was mortgaged for a small sum--a sum not a fourth part of its value--and it had been redeemed by marmaduke bannerworth, not for the purpose of keeping it, but in order that he might sell it outright, and so partially remedy his exhausted finances." "i was not aware of that," returned henry. "doubtless you were not, for of late--i mean for the twelve months or so preceding your father's death--you know he was much estranged from all the family, so that you none of you knew much of what he was doing, except that he was carrying on a very wild and reckless career, such as was sure to end in dishonour and poverty; but i tell you he had the title deeds of the dearbrook property, and that they were only got from him, along with everything else of value that he possessed, at the gaming-table, by the man who paid such a fearful penalty for his success. "it was not until after the body was completely buried, and we had completed all our precautions for more effectually hiding it from observation, that we recollected the fact of those important papers being in his possession. it was marmaduke bannerworth who first remembered it, and he exclaimed,-"'by heaven, we have buried the title deeds of the property, and we shall have again to exhume the corpse for the purpose of procuring them.' "now those deeds were nothing to me, and repugnant as i had felt from the first to having anything whatever to do with the dead body, it was not likely that i would again drag it from the earth for such an object. "'marmaduke bannerworth,' i said, 'you can do what you please, and take the consequences of what you do, but i will not again, if i can help it, look upon the face of that corpse. it is too fearful a sight to contemplate again. you have a large sum of money, and what need you care now for the title deeds of a property comparatively insignificant?' "'well, well,' he said, 'i will not, at the present time, disturb the remains; i will wait to see if anything should arise from the fact of the murder; if it should turn out that no suspicion of any kind is excited, but that all is still and quiet, i can then take measures to exhume the corpse, and recover those papers, which certainly are important.' "by this time the morning was creeping on apace, and we thought it prudent to leave the spot. we stood at the end of the lane for a few moments conversing, and those moments were the last in which i ever saw marmaduke bannerworth." "answer me a question," said henry. "i will; ask me what you please, i will answer it." "was it you that called at bannerworth hall, after my father's melancholy death, and inquired for him?" "i did; and when i heard of the deed that he had done, i at once left, in order to hold counsel with myself as to what i should do to obtain at least a portion of the property, one-half of which, it was understood, was to have been mine. i heard what had been the last words used by marmaduke bannerworth on the occasion of his death, and they were amply sufficient to let me know what had been done with the money--at all events, so far as regards the bestowal of it in some secret place; and from that moment the idea of, by some means or another, getting the exclusive possession of it, never forsook my mind. "i thought over the matter by day and, by night; and with the exception of having a knowledge of the actual hiding-place of the money, i could see, in the clearest possible manner, how the whole affair had been transacted. there can be no doubt but that marmaduke bannerworth had reached home safely with the large sum of which he had become possessed, and that he had hidden it securely, which was but an ordinary measure of precaution, when we come to consider how the property had been obtained. "then i suspect that, being alone, and left to the gloom of his own miserable thoughts, they reverted so painfully to the past that he was compelled to drink deeply for the purpose of drowning reflection. "the natural consequence of this, in his state, was, that partial insanity supervened, and at a moment when frenzy rose far above reflection, he must have committed the dreadful act which hurried him instantaneously to eternity." "yes," said henry; "it must have been so; you have guessed truly. he did on that occasion drink an immense quantity of wine; but instead of stilling the pangs of remorse it must have increased them, and placed him in such a frenzied condition of intellect, that he found it impossible to withstand the impulse of it, unless by the terrific act which ended his existence." "yes, and which at once crushed all my expectations of the large fortune which was to have been mine; for even the one-half of the sum which had been taken from the gamester's pocket would have been sufficient to have enabled me to live for the future in affluence. "i became perfectly maddened at the idea that so large a sum had passed out of my hands. i constantly hovered about bannerworth hall, hoping and expecting that something might arise which would enable me to get admittance to it, and make an active search through its recesses for the hidden treasure. "all my exertions were in vain. i could hit upon no scheme whatever; and at length, wearied and exhausted, i was compelled to proceed to london for the sake of a subsistence. it is only in that great metropolis that such persons as myself, destitute of real resources, but infinitely reckless as regards the means by which they acquire a subsistence, can hope to do so. once again, therefore, i plunged into the vortex of london life, and proceeded, heedless of the criminality of what i was about, to cater for myself by robbery, or, indeed, in any manner which presented a prospect of success. it was during this career of mine, that i became associated with some of the most desperate characters of the time; and the offences we committed were of that daring character that it could not be wondered at eventually so formidable a gang of desperadoes must be by force broken up. "it so occurred, but unknown to us, that the police resolved upon making one of the most vigorous efforts to put an end to the affair, and in consequence a watch was set upon every one of our movements. "the result of this was, as might have been expected, our complete dispersion, and the arrest of some our members, and among them myself. "i knew my fate almost from the first. our depredations had created such a sensation, that the legislature, even, had made it a matter of importance that we should be suppressed, and it was an understood thing among the judges, that the severest penalties of the law should be inflicted upon any one of the gang who might be apprehended and convicted. "my trial scarcely occupied an hour, and then i was convicted and sentenced to execution, with an intimation from the judge that it would be perfectly absurd of me to dream, for one moment, of a remission of that sentence. "in this state of affairs, and seeing nothing but death before me, i gave myself up to despair, and narrowly missed cheating the hangman of his victim. "more dead than alive, i was, however, dragged out to be judicially murdered, and i shall never forget the crowd of frightful sensations that came across my mind upon that terrific occasion. "it seemed as if my fate had then reached its climax, and i have really but a dim recollection of the terrible scene. "i remember something of the confused murmur arising from an immense throng of persons. i remember looking about me, and seeing nothing but what appeared to me an immense sea of human heads, and then suddenly i heard a loud roar of execration burst from the multitude. "i shrunk back terrified, and it did, indeed, seem to me a brutal thing thus to roar and shout at a man who was brought out to die. i soon, however, found that the mob who came to see such a spectacle was not so debased as i imagined, but that it was at the hangman, who had suddenly made his appearance on the scaffold, at whom they raised that fearful yell. "some one--i think it was one of the sheriffs--must have noticed that i was labouring under the impression that the cry from the mob was levelled at me, for he spoke, saying,-"'it is at the hangman they shout,' and he indicated with his finger that public functionary. in my mind's eye i think i see him now, and i am certain that i shall never forget the expression of his face. it was perfectly fearful; and afterwards, when i learned who and what he was, i was not surprised that he should feel so acutely the painfully degrading office which he had to perform. "the fatal rope was in a few minutes adjusted to my neck. i felt its pressure, and i heard the confused sounds of the monotonous voice of the clergyman, as he muttered some prayers, that i must confess sounded to me at the time like a mockery of human suffering. "then suddenly there was a loud shout--i felt the platform give way beneath my feet--i tried to utter a yell of agony, but could not--it seemed to me as if i was encompassed by fire, and then sensation left me, and i knew no more. * * * * * "the next feelings of existence that came over me consisted in a frightful tingling sensation throughout my veins, and i felt myself making vain efforts to scream. all the sensations of a person suffering from a severe attack of nightmare came across me, and i was in such an agony, that i inwardly prayed for death to release me from such a cruel state of suffering. then suddenly the power to utter a sound came to me, and i made use of it well, for the piercing shriek i uttered, must have struck terror into the hearts of all who heard it, since it appalled even myself. "then i suppose i must have fainted, but when i recovered consciousness again, i found myself upon a couch, and a man presenting some stimulus to me in a cup. i could not distinguish objects distinctly, but i heard him say, 'drink, and you will be better.' "i did drink, for a raging thirst consumed me, and then i fell into a sound sleep, which, i was afterwards told, lasted nearly twenty-four hours, and when i recovered from that, i heard again the same voice that had before spoken to me, asking me how i was. "i turned in the direction of the sound, and, as my vision was now clearer, i could see that it was the hangman, whose face had made upon the scaffold such an impression upon me--an impression which i then considered my last in this world, but which turned out not to be such by many a mingled one of pain and pleasure since. "it was some time before i could speak, and when i did, it was only in a few muttered words, to ask what had happened, and where i was. "'do you not remember,' he said, 'that you were hanged?' "'i do--i do,' was my reply. 'is this the region of damned souls?' "'no; you are still in this world, however strange you may think it. listen to me, and i will briefly tell you how it is that you have come back again, as it were, from the very grave, to live and walk about among the living." "i listened to him with a strange and rapt attention, and then he told how a young and enthusiastic medical man had been anxious to try some experiments with regard to the restoration of persons apparently dead, and he proceeded to relate how it was that he had given ear to the solicitations of the man, and had consented to bring my body after it was hung for him to experiment upon. he related how the doctor had been successful, but how he was so terrified at his own success, that he hastily fled, and had left london, no one knowing whither he had gone. "i listened to this with the most profound attention, and then he concluded, by saying to me,-"'there can be no doubt but my duty requires of me to give you up again to the offended laws of your country. i will not, however, do that, if you will consent to an arrangement that i shall propose to you.' "i asked him what the arrangement was, and he said that if i would solemnly bind myself to pay to him a certain sum per annum, he would keep my secret, and forsaking his calling as hangman, endeavour to do something that should bring with it pleasanter results. i did so solemnly promise him, and i have kept my word. by one means or another i have succeeded in procuring the required amount, and now he is no more." "i believe," cried henry, "that he has fallen a victim to the blind fury of the populace." "you are right, he has so, and accordingly i am relieved from the burden of those payments; but it matters little, for now i am so near the tomb myself, that, together with all my obligations, i shall soon be beyond the reach of mortal cavilling." "you need not think so, varney; you must remember that you are at present suffering from circumstances, the pressure of which will soon pass away, and then you will resume your wonted habits." "what did you do next?" said the admiral.--"let's know all while you are about it." "i remained at the hangman's house for some time, until all fear of discovery was over, and then he removed me to a place of greater security, providing me from his own resources with the means of existence, until i had fully recovered my health, and then he told me to shift for myself. "during my confinement though, i had not been idle mentally, for i concocted a plan, by which i should be enabled not only to live well myself, but to pay to the hangman, whose name was mortimore, the annual sum i had agreed upon. i need not go into the details of this plan. of course it was neither an honest nor respectable one, but it succeeded, and i soon found myself in a position to enable me thereby to keep my engagement, as well as to supply me with means of plotting and planning for my future fortunes. "i had never for a moment forgotten that so large a sum of money was somewhere concealed about bannerworth hall, and i still looked forward to obtaining it by some means or another. "it was in this juncture of affairs, that one night i was riding on horseback through a desolate part of england. the moon was shining sweetly, as i came to a broad stream of water, across which, about a mile further on, i saw that there was a bridge, but being unwilling to waste time by riding up to it, and fancying, by the lazy ripple of the waters, that the river was not shallow, i plunged my horse boldly into the stream. "when we reached its centre, some sudden indisposition must have seized the horse, for instead of swimming on well and gallantly as it had done before, it paused for a moment, and then plunged headlong into the torrent. "i could not swim, and so, for a second time, death, with all its terrors, appeared to be taking possession of me. the waters rolled over my head, gurgling and hissing in my ears, and then all was past. i know no more, until i found myself lying upon a bright green meadow, and the full beams of the moon shining upon me. "i was giddy and sick, but i rose, and walked slowly away, each moment gathering fresh strength, and from that time to this, i never discovered how i came to be rescued from the water, and lying upon that green bank. it has ever been a mystery to me, and i expect it ever will. "then from that moment the idea that i had a sort of charmed life came across me, and i walked about with an impression that such was the case, until i came across a man who said that he was a hungarian, and who was full of strange stories of vampyres. among other things, he told me that a vampyre could not be drowned, for that the waters would cast him upon its banks, and, if the moonbeams fell upon him, he would be restored to life. "this was precisely my story, and from that moment i believed myself to be one of those horrible, but charmed beings, doomed to such a protracted existence. the notion grew upon me day by day, and hour by hour, until it became quite a fixed and strong belief, and i was deceiving no one when i played the horrible part that has been attributed to me." "but you don't mean to say that you believe you are a vampyre now?" said the admiral. "i say nothing, and know not what to think. i am a desperate man, and what there is at all human in me, strange to say, all of you whom i sought to injure, have awakened." "heed not that," said henry, "but continue your narrative. we have forgiven everything, and that ought to suffice to quiet your mind upon such a subject." "i will continue; and, believe me, i will conceal nothing from you. i look upon the words i am now uttering as a full, candid, and free confession; and, therefore, it shall be complete. "the idea struck me that if, by taking advantage of my supposed preternatural gifts, i could drive you from bannerworth hall, i should have it to myself to hunt through at my leisure, and possibly find the treasure. i had heard from marmaduke bannerworth some slight allusion to concealing the money behind a picture that was in a bed-room called the panelled chamber. by inquiry, i ascertained that in that bed-room slept flora bannerworth. "i had resolved, however, at first to try pacific measures, and accordingly, as you are well aware, i made various proposals to you to purchase or to rent bannerworth hall, the whole of which you rejected; so that i found myself compelled to adopt the original means that had suggested themselves to me, and endeavour to terrify you from the house. "by prowling about, i made myself familiar with the grounds, and with all the plan of the residence, and then one night made my appearance in flora's chamber by the window." "but how do you account," said charles holland, "for your extraordinary likeness to the portrait?" "it is partly natural, for i belong to a collateral branch of the family; and it was previously arranged. i had seen the portrait in marmaduke bannerworth's time, and i knew some of its peculiarities and dress sufficiently well to imitate them. i calculated upon producing a much greater effect by such an imitation; and it appears that i was not wrong, for i did produce it to the full." "you did, indeed," said henry; "and if you did not bring conviction to our minds that you were what you represented yourself to be, you at least staggered our judgments upon the occasion, and left us in a position of great doubt and difficulty." "i did; i did all that, i know i did; and, by pursuing that line of conduct, i, at last, i presume, entirely forced you from the house." "that you did." "flora fainted when i entered her chamber; and the moment i looked upon her sweet countenance my heart smote me for what i was about; but i solemnly aver, that my lips never touched her, and that, beyond the fright, she suffered nothing from varney, the vampyre." "and have you succeeded," said henry, "in your object now?" "no; the treasure has yet to be found. mortimore, the hangman, followed me into the house, guessing my intention, and indulging a hope that he would succeed in sharing with me its proceeds. but he, as well as myself, was foiled, and nothing came of the toilsome and anxious search but disappointment and bitterness." "then it is supposed that the money is still concealed?" "i hope so; i hope, as well, that it will be discovered by you and yours; for surely none can have a better right to it than you, who have suffered so much on its account." "and yet," remarked henry, "i cannot help thinking it is too securely hidden from us. the picture has been repeatedly removed from its place, and produced no results; so that i fear we have little to expect from any further or more protracted research." "i think," said varney, "that you have everything to expect. the words of the dying marmaduke bannerworth, you may depend, were not spoken in vain; and i have every reason to believe that, sooner or later, you must, without question, become the possessors of that sum." "but ought we rightly to hold it?" "who ought more rightly to hold it?" said varney; "answer me that." "that's a sensible enough idea of your's," said the admiral; "and if you were twice over a vampyre, i would tell you so. it's a very sensible idea; i should like to know who has more right to it than those who have had such a world of trouble about it." "well, well," said henry, "we must not dispute, as yet, about a sum of money that may really never come to hand. for my own part, i have little to hope for in the matter; but, certainly, nothing shall be spared, on my part, to effect such a thorough search of the hall as shall certainly bring it to light, if it be in existence." "i presume, sir francis varney," said charles holland, "that you have now completed your narrative?" "i have. after events are well known to you. and, now, i have but to lie down and die, with the hope of finding that rest and consolation in the tomb which has been denied me hitherto in this world. my life has been a stormy one, and full of the results of angry passions. i do hope now, that, for the short time i have to live, i shall know something like serenity, and die in peace." "you may depend, varney, that, as long as you have an asylum with us," said the admiral--"and that you may have as long as you like,--you may be at peace. i consider that you have surrendered at discretion, and, under such circumstances, an enemy always deserves honourable treatment, and always gets it on board such a ship as this." "there you go again," said jack, "calling the house a ship." "what's that to you, if i were to call it a bowsprit? ain't i your captain, you lubber, and so, sure to be right, while you are wrong, in the natural order of things? but you go and lay down, master varney, and rest yourself, for you seem completely done up." varney did look fearfully exhausted; and, with the assistance of henry and charles, he went into another apartment, and laid down upon a couch, showing great symptoms of debility and want of power. and now it was a calm; varney's stay at the cottage of the bannerworths was productive of a different mood of mind than ever he had possessed before. he looked upon them in a very different manner to what he had been used to. he had, moreover, considerably altered prospects; there could not be the same hopes and expectations that he once had. he was an altered man. he saw in the bannerworths those who had saved his life, and who, without doubt, had possessed an opinion, not merely obnoxious to him, but must have had some fearful misgivings concerning his character, and that, too, of a nature that usually shuts out all hope of being received into any family. but, in the hour of his need, when his life was in danger, no one else would have done what they had done for him, especially when so relatively placed. moreover, he had been concealed, when to do so was both dangerous and difficult; and then it was done by flora bannerworth herself. time flew by. the mode of passing time at the cottage was calm and serene. varney had seldom witnessed anything like it; but, at the same time, he felt more at ease than ever he had; he was charmed with the society of flora--in fact, with the whole of the little knot of individuals who there collected together; from what he saw he was gratified in their society; and it seemed to alleviate his mental disquiet, and the sense he must feel of his own peculiar position. but varney became ill. the state of mind and body he had been in for some time past might be the cause of it. he had been much harassed, and hunted from place to place. there was not a moment in which his life was not in danger, and he had, moreover, more than one case, received some bodily injuries, bruises, and contusions of a desperate character; and yet he would take no notice of them, but allow them to get well again, as best they could. [illustration] his escapes and injuries had made a deep impression upon his mind, and had no doubt a corresponding effect upon his body, and varney became very ill. flora bannerworth did all that could be done for one in his painful position, and this greatly added to the depths of thought that occasionally beset him, and he could scarcely draw one limb after the other. he walked from room to room in the twilight, at which time he had more liberty permitted him than at any other, because there was not the same danger in his doing so; for, if once seen, there could be no manner of doubt but he would have been pursued until he was destroyed, when no other means of escape were at hand; and varney himself felt that there could be no chance of his again escaping from them, for his physical powers were fast decaying; he was not, in fact, the same man. he came out into the parlour from the room in which he had been seated during the day. flora and her mother were there, while charles holland and henry bannerworth had both at that moment entered the apartment. "good evening, miss bannerworth," said sir francis, bowing to her, and then to her mother, mrs. bannerworth; "and you, mr. holland, i see, have been out enjoying the free breeze that plays over the hot fields. it must be refreshing." "it is so, sir," said charles. "i wish we could make you a partaker in our walks." "i wish you could with all my heart," said varney. "sir francis," said flora, "must be a prisoner for some short time longer yet." "i ought not to consider it in any such light. it is not imprisonment. i have taken sanctuary. it is the well spring of life to me," said varney. "i hope it may prove so; but how do you find yourself this evening, sir francis varney?" "really, it is difficult to say--i fluctuate. at times, i feel as though i should drop insensible on the earth, and then i feel better than i have done for some time previously." "doctor chillingworth will be here bye and bye, no doubt; and he must see what he can do for you to relieve you of these symptoms," said flora. "i am much beholden to you--much beholden to you; but i hope to be able to do without the good doctor's aid in this instance, though i must admit i may appear ungrateful." "not at all--not at all." "have you heard any news abroad to-day?" inquired varney. "none, sir francis--none; there is nothing apparently stirring; and now, go out when you would, you would find nothing but what was old, quiet, and familiar." "we cannot wish to look upon anything with mere charms for a mind at ease, than we can see under such circumstances; but i fear there are some few old and familiar features that i should find sad havoc in." "you would, certainly, for the burnings and razings to the ground of some places, have made some dismal appearances; but time may efface that, and then the evil may die away, and the future will become the present, should we be able to allay popular feeling." "yes," said sir francis; "but popular prejudices, or justice, or feeling, are things not easily assuaged. the people when once aroused go on to commit all kinds of excess, and there is no one point at which they will step short of the complete extirpation of some one object or other that they have taken a fancy to hunt." "the hubbub and excitement must subside." "the greater the ignorance the more persevering and the more brutal they are," said sir francis; "but i must not complain of what is the necessary consequence of their state." "it might be otherwise." "so it might, and no mischief arise either; but as we cannot divert the stream, we may as well bend to the force of a current too strong to resist." "the moon is up," said flora, who wished to turn the conversation from that to another topic. "i see it yonder through the trees; it rises red and large--it is very beautiful--and yet there is not a cloud about to give it the colour and appearance it now wears." "exactly so," said sir francis varney; "but the reason is the air is filled with a light, invisible vapour, that has the effect you perceive. there has been much evaporation going on, and now it shows itself in giving the moon that peculiar large appearance and deep colour." "ay, i see; it peeps through the trees, the branches of which cut it up into various portions. it is singular, and yet beautiful, and yet the earth below seems dark." "it is dark; you would be surprised to find it so if you walked about. it will soon be lighter than it is at this present moment." "what sounds are those?" inquired sir francis varney, as he listened attentively. "sounds! what sounds?" returned henry. "the sounds of wheels and horses' feet," said varney. "i cannot even hear them, much less can i tell what they are," said henry. "then listen. now they come along the road. cannot you hear them now?" said varney. "yes, i can," said charles holland; "but i really don't know what they are, or what it can matter to us; we don't expect any visitors." "certainly, certainly," said varney. "i am somewhat apprehensive of the approach of strange sounds." "you are not likely to be disturbed here," said charles. "indeed; i thought so when i had succeeded in getting into the house near the town, and so far from believing it was likely i should be discovered, that i sat on the house-top while the mob surrounded it." "did you not hear them coming?" "i did." "and yet you did not attempt to escape from them?" "no, i could not persuade them i was not there save by my utter silence. i allowed them to come too close to leave myself time to escape--besides, i could hardly persuade myself there could be any necessity for so doing." "it was fortunate it was as it happened afterwards, that you were able to reach the wood, and get out of it unperceived by the mob." "i should have been in an unfortunate condition had i been in their hands long. a man made of iron would not be able to resist the brutality of those people." as they were speaking, a gig, with two men, drove up, followed by one on horseback. they stopped at the garden-gate, and then tarried to consult with each other, as they looked at the house. "what can they want, i wonder?" inquired henry; "i never saw them before." "nor i," said charles holland. "do you not know them at all?" inquired varney. "no," replied flora; "i never saw them, neither can i imagine what is their object in coming here." "did you ever see them before?" inquired henry of his mother, who held up her hand to look more carefully at the strangers; then, shaking her head, she declared she had never seen such persons as those. "i dare say not," said charles holland. "they certainly are not gentlemen; but here they come; there is some mistake, i daresay--they don't want to come here." as they spoke, the two strangers got down; after picking up a topcoat they had let fall, they turned round, and deliberately put it into the chaise again; they walked up the path to the door, at which they knocked. the door was opened by the old woman, when the two men entered. "does francis beauchamp live here?" "eh?" said the old woman, who was a little deaf, and she put her hand behind her ear to catch the sounds more distinctly--"eh?--who did you say?" sir francis varney started as the sounds came upon his ear, but he sat still an attentive listener. "are there any strangers in the house?" inquired the other officer, impatiently. "who is here?" "strangers!" said the old woman; "you are the only strangers that i have seen here." "come," said the officer to his companion, "come this way; there are people in this parlour. our business must be an apology for any rudeness we may commit." as he spoke he stepped by the old woman, and laying his hand upon the handle of the door, entered the apartment, at the same time looking carefully around the room as if he expected some one. "ladies," said the stranger, with an off-hand politeness that had something repulsive in it, though it was meant to convey a notion that civility was intended; "ladies, i beg pardon for intruding, but i am looking for a gentleman." "you shall hear from me again soon," said sir francis, in an almost imperceptible whisper. "what is the object of this intrusion?" demanded henry bannerworth, rising and confronting the stranger. "this is a strange introduction." "yes, but not an unusual one," said the stranger, "in these cases--being unavoidable, at the least." "sir," said charles holland, "if you cannot explain quickly your business here, we will proceed to take those measures which will at least rid ourselves of your company." "softly, sir. i mean no offence--not the least; but i tell you i do not come for any purpose that is at all consonant to my wishes. i am a bow-street officer in the execution of my duty--excuse me, therefore." "whom do you want?" "francis beauchamp; and, from the peculiarity of the appearance of this individual here, i think i may safely request the pleasure of his company." varney now rose, and the officer made a rush at him, when he saw him do so, saying,-"surrender in the king's name." varney, however, paid no attention to that, but rushed past, throwing his chair down to impede the officer, who could not stay himself, but fell over it, while varney made a rush towards the window, which he cleared at one bound, and crossing the road, was lost to sight in a few seconds, in the trees and hedges on the other side. "accidents will happen," said the officer, as he rose to his feet; "i did not think the fellow would have taken the window in that manner; but we have him in view, and that will be enough." "in heaven's name," said henry, "explain all about this; we cannot understand one word of it--i am at a loss to understand one word of it." "we will return and do so presently," said the officer as he dashed out of the house after the fugitive at a rapid and reckless speed, followed by his companion. the man who had been left with the chaise, however, was the first in the chase; seeing an escape from the window, he immediately guessed that he was the man wanted, and, but for an accident, he would have met varney at the gate, for, as he was getting out in a hurry, his foot became entangled with the reins, and he fell to the ground, and varney at the same moment stepped over him. "curse his infernal impudence, and d--n these reins!" muttered the man in a fury at the accident, and the aggravating circumstance of the fugitive walking over him in such a manner, and so coolly too--it was vexing. the man, however, quickly released himself, and rushed after varney across the road, and kept on his track for some time. the moon was still rising, and shed but a gloomy light around. everything was almost invisible until you came close to it. this was the reason why varney and his pursuer met with several severe accidents--fumbles and hard knocks against impediments which the light and the rapid flight they were taking did not admit of their avoiding very well. they went on for some time, but it was evident varney knew the place best, and could avoid what the man could not, and that was the trees and the natural impediments of the ground, which varney was acquainted with. for instance, at full speed across a meadow, a hollow would suddenly present itself, and to an accustomed eye the moonlight might enable it to be distinguished at a glance what it was, while to one wholly unaccustomed to it, the hollow would often look like a hillock by such a light. this varney would clear at a bound, which a less agile and heavier person would step into, lifting up his leg to meet an impediment, when he would find it come down suddenly some six or eight inches lower than he anticipated, almost dislocating his leg and neck, and producing a corresponding loss of breath, which was not regained by the muttered curse upon such a country where the places were so uneven. having come to one of these places, which was a little more perceptible than the others, he made a desperate jump, but he jumped into the middle of the hole with such force that he sprained his ankle, besides sinking into a small pond that was almost dry, being overgrown with rushes and aquatic plants. "well?" said the other officer coming up--"well?" "well, indeed!" said the one who came first; "it's anything but well. d--n all country excursions say i." "why, bob, you don't mean to say as how you are caught in a rat-trap?" "oh, you be d----d! i am, ain't i?" "yes; but are you going to stop there, or coming out, eh? you'll catch cold." "i have sprained my ankle." "well?" "it ain't well, i tell you; here have i a sprained foot, and my wind broken for a month at least. why were you not quicker? if you had been sharper we should have had the gentleman, i'll swear!" "i tumbled down over the chair, and he got out of the window, and i come out of the door." "well, i got entangled in the reins; but i got off after him, only his long legs carried him over everything. i tell you what, wilkinson, if i were to be born again, and intended to be a runner, i would bespeak a pair of long legs." "why?" "because i should be able to get along better. you have no idea of how he skimmed along the ground; it was quite beautiful, only it wasn't good to follow it." "a regular sky scraper!" "yes, or something of that sort; he looked like a patent flying shadow." "well, get up and lead the way; we'll follow you." "i dare say you will--when i lead the way back there; for as to going out yonder, it is quite out of the question. i want supper to-night and breakfast to-morrow morning." "well, what has that to do with it?" "just this much: if you follow any farther, you'll get into the woods, and there you'll be, going round and round, like a squirrel in a cage, without being able to get out, and you will there get none of the good things included under the head of those meals." "i think so too," said the third. "well, then, let's go back; we needn't run, though it might be as well to do so." "it would be anything but well. i don't gallop back, depend upon it." the three men now slowly returned from their useless chase, and re-trod the way they had passed once in such a hurry that they could hardly recognize it. "what a dreadful bump i came against that pole standing there," said one. "yes, and i came against a hedge-stake, that was placed so as the moon didn't show any light on it. it came into the pit of my stomach. i never recollect such a pain in my life; for all the world like a hot coal being suddenly and forcibly intruded into your stomach." "well, here's the road. i must go up to the house where i started him from. i promised them some explanation. i may as well go and give it to them at once." "do as you will. i will wait with the horse, else, perhaps, that beauchamp will again return and steal him." the officer who had first entered the house now returned to the bannerworths, saying, "i promised you i would give you some explanation as to what you have witnessed." "yes," said henry; "we have been awaiting your return with some anxiety and curiosity. what is the meaning of all this? i am, as we are all, in perfect ignorance of the meaning of what took place." "i will tell you. the person whom you have had here, and goes by the name of varney, is named francis beauchamp." "indeed! are you assured of this?" "yes, perfectly assured of it; i have it in my warrant to apprehend him by either name." "what crime had he been guilty of?" "i will tell you: he has been _hanged_." "hanged!" exclaimed all present. "what do you mean by that?" added henry; "i am at a loss to understand what you can mean by saying he was hanged." "what i say is literally true." "pray tell us all about it. we are much interested in the fact; go on, sir." "well, sir, then i believe it was for murder that francis beauchamp was hanged--yes, hanged; a common execution, before a multitude of people, collected to witness such an exhibition." "good god!" exclaimed henry bannerworth. "and was--but that is impossible. a dead man come to life again! you must be amusing yourself at our expense." "not i," replied the officer. "here is my warrant; they don't make these out in a joke." and, as he spoke, he produced the warrant, when it was evident the officer spoke the truth. "how was this?" "i will tell you, sir. you see that this varney was a regular scamp, gamester, rogue, and murderer. he was hanged, and hung about the usual time; he was cut down and the body was given to some one for dissection, when a surgeon, with the hangman, one montgomery, succeeded in restoring the criminal to life." "but i always thought they broke the neck when they were hanged; the weight of the body would alone do that." "oh, dear, no, sir," said the officer; "that is one of the common every day mistakes; they don't break the neck once in twenty times." "indeed!" "no; they die of suffocation only; this man, beauchamp, was hanged thus, but they contrived to restore him, and then he assumed a new name, and left london." "but how came you to know all this?" "oh! it came to us, as many things usually do, in a very extraordinary manner, and in a manner that appears most singular and out of the way; but such it was. "the executioner who was the means of his being restored, or one of them, wished to turn him to account, and used to draw a yearly sum of money from him, as hush money, to induce them to keep the secret; else, the fact of his having escaped punishment would subject him to a repetition of the same punishment; when, of course, a little more care would be taken that he did not escape a second time." "i dare say not." "well, you see, varney, or rather beauchamp, was to pay a heavy sum to this man to keep him quiet, and to permit him to enjoy the life he had so strangely become possessed of." "i see," said holland. "well, this man, montgomery, had always some kind of suspicion that varney would murder him." "murder him! and be the means of saving his life; surely he could not be so bad as that." "why, you see, sir, this hangman drew a heavy sum yearly from him; thus making him only a mine of wealth to himself; this, no doubt, would rankle in the other's heart, to think he should be so beset, and hold life upon such terms." "i see, now." "yes; and then came the consideration that he did not do it from any good motive, merely a selfish one, and he was consequently under no obligation to him for what he had done; besides, self-preservation might urge him on, and tell him to do the deed. "however that may be, montgomery dreaded it, and was resolved to punish the deed if he could not prevent it. he, therefore, left general orders with his wife, whenever he went on a journey to varney, if he should be gone beyond a certain time, she was to open a certain drawer, and take out a sealed packet to the magistrate at the chief office, who would attend to it. "he has been missing, and his wife did as she was desired, and now we have found what he there mentioned to be true; but, now, sir, i have satisfied you and explained to you why we intruded upon you, we must now leave and seek for him elsewhere." "it is most extraordinary, and that is the reason why his complexion is so singular." "very likely." they poured out some wine, which was handed to the officers, who drank and then quitted the house, leaving the inmates in a state of stupefaction, from surprise and amazement at what they had heard from the officers. there was a strange feeling came over them when they recollected the many occurrences they had witnessed, and even the explanation of the officers; it seemed as if some mist had enveloped objects and rendered them indistinct, but which was fast rising, and they were becoming plainer and more distinct every moment in which they were regarded. there was a long pause, and flora was about to speak, when suddenly there came the sound of a footstep across the garden. it was slow but unsteady, and paused between whiles until it came close beneath the windows. they remained silent, and then some one was heard to climb up the rails of the veranda, and then the curtains were thrust aside, but not till after the person outside had paused to ascertain who was there. then the curtains were opened, and the visage of sir francis varney appeared, much altered; in fact, completely worn and exhausted. it was useless to deny it, but he looked ghastly--terrific; his singular visage was as pallid as death; his eyes almost protruding, his mouth opened, and his breathing short, and laboured in the extreme. he climbed over with much difficulty, and staggered into the room, and would have spoken, but he could not; befell senseless upon the floor, utterly exhausted and motionless. there was a long pause, and each one present looked at each other, and then they gazed upon the inanimate body of sir francis varney, which lay supine and senseless in the middle of the floor. * * * * the importance of the document, said to be on the dead body, was such that it would admit of no delay before it was obtained, and the party determined that it should be commenced instanter. lost time would be an object to them; too much haste could hardly be made; and now came the question of, "should it be to-night, or not?" "certainly," said henry bannerworth; "the sooner we can get it, the sooner all doubt and distress will be at an end; and, considering the turn of events, that will be desirable for all our sakes; besides, we know not what unlucky accident may happen to deprive us of what is so necessary." "there can be none," said mr. chillingworth; "but there is this to be said, this has been such an eventful history, that i cannot say what might or what might not happen." "we may as well go this very night," said charles holland. "i give my vote for an immediate exhumation of the body. the night is somewhat stormy, but nothing more; the moon is up, and there will be plenty of light." "and rain," said the doctor. "little or none," said charles holland. "a few gusts of wind now and then drive a few heavy plashes of rain against the windows, and that gives a fearful sound, which is, in fret, nothing, when you have to encounter it; but you will go, doctor?" "yes, most certainly. we must have some tools." "those may be had from the garden," said henry. "tools for the exhumation, you mean?" "yes; pickaxe, mattocks, and a crowbar; a lantern, and so forth," said the doctor. "you see i am at home in this; the fact is, i have had more than one affair of this kind on my hands before now, and whilst a student i have had more than one adventure of a strange character." "i dare say, doctor," said charles holland, "you have some sad pranks to answer for; you don't think of it then, only when you find them accumulated in a heap, so that you shall not be able to escape them; because they come over your senses when you sleep at night." "no, no," said chillingworth; "you are mistaken in that. i have long since settled all my accounts of that nature; besides, i never took a dead body out of a grave but in the name of science, and never for my own profit, seeing i never sold one in my life, or got anything by it." "that is not the fact," said henry; "you know, doctor, you improved your own talents and knowledge." "yes, yes; i did." "well, but you profited by such improvements?" "well, granted, i did. how much more did the public not benefit then," said the doctor, with a smile. "ah, well, we won't argue the question," said charles; "only it strikes me that the doctor could never have been a doctor if he had not determined upon following a profession." "there may be a little truth in that," said chillingworth; "but now we had better quit the house, and make the best of our way to the spot where the unfortunate man lies buried in his unhallowed grave." "come with me into the garden," said henry bannerworth; "we shall there be able to suit ourselves to what is required. i have a couple of lanterns." "one is enough," said chillingworth; "we had better not burden ourselves more than we are obliged to do; and we shall find enough to do with the tools." "yes, they are not light; and the distance is by far too great to make walking agreeable and easy; the wind blows strong, and the rain appears to be coming up afresh, and, by the time we have done, we shall find the ground will become slippy, and bad for walking." "can we have a conveyance?" "no, no," said the doctor; "we could, but we must trouble the turnpike man; besides, there is a shorter way across some fields, which will be better and safer." "well, well," said charles holland; "i do not mind which way it is, as long as you are satisfied yourselves. the horse and cart would have settled it all better, and done it quicker, besides carrying the tools." "very true, very true," said the doctor; "all that is not without its weight, and you shall choose which way you would have it done; for my part, i am persuaded the expedition on foot is to be preferred for two reasons." "and what are they?" "the first is, we cannot obtain a horse and cart without giving some detail as to what you want it for, which is awkward, on account of the hour. moreover, you could not get one at this moment in time." "that ought to settle the argument," said henry bannerworth; "an impossibility, under the circumstances, at once is a clincher, and one that may be allowed to have some weight." "you may say that," said charles. "besides which, you must go a greater distance, and that, too, along the main road, which is objectionable." "then we are agreed," said charles holland, "and the sooner we are off the better; the night grows more and more gloomy every hour, and more inclement." "it will serve our purpose the better," said chillingworth. "what we do, we may as well do now." "come with me to the garden," said henry, "and we will take the tools. we can go out the back way; that will preclude any observation being made." they all now left the apartment, wrapped up in great overcoats, to secure themselves against the weather, and also for the purpose of concealing themselves from any chance passenger. in the garden they found the tools they required, and having chosen them, they took a lantern, with the mean of getting a light when they got to their journey's end, which they would do in less than an hour. after having duly inspected the state of their efficiency, they started away on their expedition. the night had turned gloomy and windy; heavy driving masses of clouds obscured the moon, which only now and then was to be seen, when the clouds permitted her to peep out. at the same time, there were many drifting showers, which lasted but a few minutes, and then the clouds were carried forwards by some sudden gust of wind so that, altogether, it was a most uncomfortable night as well could be imagined. however, there was no time to lose, and, under all circumstances, they could not have chosen a better night for their purpose than the one they had; indeed, they could not desire another night to be out on such a purpose. they spoke not while they were within sight of the houses, though at the distance of many yards, and, at the same time, there was a noise through the trees that would have carried their voices past every object, however close; but they would make assurance doubly sure. "i think we are fairly away now," said henry, "from all fear of being recognized." "to be sure you are. who would recognize us now, if we were met?" "no one." "i should think not; and, moreover, there would be but small chance of any evil coming from it, even if it were to happen that we were to be seen and known. nobody knows what we are going to do, and, if they did, there is no illegality in the question." "certainly not; but we wish the matter to be quite secret, therefore, we don't wish to be seen by any one while upon this adventure." "exactly," said chillingworth; "and, if you'll follow my guidance, you shall meet nobody." "we will trust you, most worthy doctor. what have you to say for our confidence?" "that you will find it is not misplaced." just as the doctor had uttered the last sound, there came a hearty laugh upon the air, which, indeed, sounded but a few paces in advance of them. the wind blew towards them, and would, therefore, cause the sounds to come to them, but not to go away in the direction they were going. the whole party came to a sudden stand still; there was something so strange in hearing a laugh at that moment, especially as chillingworth was, at that moment, boasting of his knowledge of the ground and the certainty of their meeting no one. "what is that?" inquired henry. "some one laughing, i think," said chillingworth. "of that there can be little or no doubt," said charles holland; "and, as people do not usually laugh by themselves so heartily, it may be presumed there are, at least, two." "no doubt of it." "and, moreover, their purpose cannot be a very good one, at this hour of the night, and of such a night, too. i think we had better be cautious." "hush! follow me silently," said henry. as he spoke, he moved cautiously from the spot where he stood, and, at the same time, he was followed by the whole party, until they came to the hedge which skirted a lane, in which were seated three men. they had a sort of tent erected, and that was hung upon a part of the hedge which was to windward of them, so that it sheltered them from wind and rain. henry and chillingworth both peeped over the bank, and saw them seated beneath this kind of canopy. they were shabby, gipsy-looking men, who might be something else--sheep-stealers, or horse-stealers, in fact, anything, even to beggars. "i say, jack," said one; "it's no bottle to-night." "no; there's nobody about these parts to-night. we are safe, and so are they." "exactly." "besides, you see, those who do happen to be out are not worth talking to." "no cash." "none, not enough to pay turnpike for a walking-slick, at the most." "besides, it does us no good to take a few shillings from a poor wretch, who has more in family than he has shillings in pocket." "ay, you are right, quite right. i don't like it myself, i don't; besides that, there's fresh risk in every man you stop, and these poor fellows will fight hard for a few shillings, and there is no knowing what an unlucky blow may do for a man." "that is very true. has anything been done to-night?" "nothing," said one. "only three half crowns," said the other; "that is the extent of the common purse to-night." "and i," said the third, "i have got a bottle of bad gin from the cat and cabbage-stump." "how did you manage it?" "why, this way. i went in, and had some beer, and you know i can give a long yarn when i want; but it wants only a little care to deceive these knowing countrymen, so i talked and talked, until they got quite chatty, and then i put the gin in my pocket." "good." "well, then, the loaf and beef i took out of the safe as i came by, and i dare say they know they have lost it by this time." "yes, and so do we. i expect the gin will help to digest the beef, so we mustn't complain of the goods." "no; give us another glass, jim." jim held the glass towards him, when the doctor, animated by the spirit of mischief, took a good sized pebble, and threw it into the glass, smashing it, and spilling the contents. in a moment there was a change of scene; the men were all terrified, and started to their feet, while a sudden gust of wind caused their light to go out; at the same time their tent-cloth was thrown down by the wind, and fell across their heads. "come along," said the doctor. there was no need of saying so, for in a moment the three were as if animated by one spirit, and away they scudded across the fields, with the speed of a race horse. in a few minutes they were better than half a mile away from the spot. "in absence of all authentic information," said the doctor, speaking as well as he could, and blowing prodigiously between each word, as though he were fetching breath all the way from his heels, "i think we may conclude we are safe from them. we ought to thank our stars we came across them in the way we did." "but, doctor, what in the name of heaven induced you to make such a noise, to frighten them, in fact, and to tell them some one was about?" "they were too much terrified to tell whether it was one, or fifty. by this time they are out of the county; they knew what they were talking about." "and perhaps we may meet them on the road where we are going, thinking it a rare lonely spot where they can hide, and no chance of their being found out." [illustration] "no," said the doctor; "they will not go to such a place; it has by far too bad a name for even such men as those to go near, much less stop in." "i can hardly think that," said charles holland, "for these fellows are too terrified for their personal safety, to think of the superstitious fears with which a place may be regarded; and these men, in such a place as the one you speak of, they will be at home." "well, well, rather than be done, we must fight for it; and when you come to consider we have one pick and two shovels, we shall be in full force." "well said, doctor; how far have we to go?" "not more than a quarter of a mile." they pursued their way through the fields, and under the hedge-rows, until they came to a gate, where they stopped awhile, and began to consult and to listen. "a few yards up here, on the left," said the doctor; "i know the spot; besides, there is a particular mark. now, then, are you all ready?" "yes, all." "here," said the doctor, pointing out the marks by which the spot might be recognized; "here is the spot, and i think we shall not be half a foot out of our reckoning." "then let us begin instanter," said henry, as he seized hold of the pickaxe, and began to loosen the earth by means of the sharp end. "that will do for the present," said chillingworth; "now let me and charles take a turn with our shovels, and you will get on again presently. throw the earth up on the bank in one heap, so that we can put it on again without attracting any attention to the spot by its being left in clods and uneven." "exactly," said henry, "else the body will be discovered." they began to shovel away, and continued to do so, after it had been picked up, working alternately, until at length charles stuck his pick-axe into something soft, and upon pulling it up, he found it was the body. a dreadful odour now arose from the spot, and they were at no loss to tell where the body lay. the pick-axe had stuck into the deceased's ribs and clothing, and thus lifted it out of its place. "here it is," said the doctor; "but i needn't tell you that; the charnel-house smell is enough to convince you of the fact of where it is." "i think so; just show a light upon the subject, doctor, and then we can see what we are about--do you mind, doctor--you have the management of the lantern, you know?" "yes, yes," said chillingworth; "i see you have it--don't be in a hurry, but do things deliberately and coolly whatever you do--you will not be so liable to make mistakes, or to leave anything undone." "there will be nothing of any use to you here, doctor, in the way of dissection, for the flesh is one mass of decay. what a horrible sight, to be sure!" "it is; but hasten the search." "well, i must; though, to confess the truth, i'd sooner handle anything than this." "it is not the most pleasant thing in the world, for there is no knowing what may be the result--what creeping thing has made a home of it." "don't mention anything about it." henry and charles holland now began to search the pockets of the clothes of the dead body, in one of which was something hard, that felt like a parcel. "what have you got there?" said chillingworth, as he held his lantern up so that the light fell upon the ghastly object that they were handling. "i think it is the prize," said charles holland; "but we have not got it out yet, though i dare say it won't be long first, if this wind will but hold good for about five minutes, and keep the stench down." they now tore open the packet and pulled out the papers, which appeared to have been secreted upon his person. "be sure there are none on any other part of the body," said chillingworth, "because what you do now, you had better do well, and leave nothing to after thought, because it is frequently impracticable." "the advice is good," said henry, who made a second search, but found nothing. "we had better re-bury him," said the doctor; "it had better be done cleanly. well, it is a sad hole for a last resting-place, and yet i do not know that it matters--it is all a matter of taste--the fashion of the class, or the particular custom of the country." there was but little to be said against such an argument, though the custom of the age had caused them to look upon it more as a matter of feeling than in such a philosophical sense as that in which the doctor had put it. "well, there he is now--shovel the earth in, charles," said henry bannerworth, as he himself set the example, which was speedily and vigorously followed by charles holland, when they were not long before the earth was thrown in and covered up with care, and trodden down so that it should not appear to be moved. "this will do, i think," said henry. "yes; it is not quite the same, but i dare say no one will try to make any discoveries in this place; besides, if the rain continues to come down very heavy, why, it will wash much of it away, and it will make it look all alike." there was little inducement to hover about the spot, but henry could not forbear holding up the papers to the light of the lantern to ascertain what they were. "are they all right?" inquired the doctor. "yes," replied henry, "yes. the dearbrook estate. oh! yes; they are the papers i am in want of." "it is singularly fortunate, at least, to be successful in securing them. i am very glad a living person has possession of them, else it would have been very difficult to have obtained it from them." "so it would; but now homeward is the word, doctor; and on my word there is reason to be glad, for the rain is coming on very fast now, and there is no moon at all--we had better step out." they did, for the three walked as fast as the nature of the soil would permit them, and the darkness of the night. chapter lxxxix. tells what became of the second vampyre who sought varney. [illustration] we left the hungarian nobleman swimming down the stream; he swam slowly, and used but little exertion in doing so. he appeared to use his hands only as a means of assistance. the stream carried him onwards, and he aided himself so far that he kept the middle of the stream, and floated along. where the stream was broad and shallow, it sometimes left him a moment or two, without being strong enough to carry him onwards; then he would pause, as if gaining strength, and finally he would, when he had rested, and the water came a little faster, and lifted him, make a desperate plunge, and swim forward, until he again came in deep water, and then he went slowly along with the stream, as he supported himself. it was strange thus to see a man going down slowly, and without any effort whatever, passing through shade and through moonlight--now lost in the shadow of the tall trees, and now emerging into that part of the stream which ran through meadows and cornfields, until the stream widened, and then, at length, a ferry-house was to be seen in the distance. then came the ferryman out of his hut, to look upon the beautiful moonlight scene. it was cold, but pure, and brilliantly light. the chaste moon was sailing through the heavens, and the stars diminished in their lustre by the power of the luminous goddess of night. there was a small cottage--true, it was somewhat larger than was generally supposed by any casual observer who might look at it. the place was rambling, and built chiefly of wood; but in it lived the ferryman, his wife, and family; among these was a young girl about seventeen years of age, but, at the same time, very beautiful. they had been preparing their supper, and the ferryman himself walked out to look at the river and the shadows of the tall trees that stood on the hill opposite. while thus employed, he heard a plashing in the water, and on turning towards the quarter whence the sound proceeded for a few yards, he came to the spot where he saw the stranger struggling in the stream. "good god!" he muttered to himself, as he saw the struggle continued; "good god! he will sink and drown." as he spoke, he jumped into his boat and pushed it off, for the purpose of stopping the descent of the body down the stream, and in a moment or two it came near to him. he muttered,-"come, come--he tries to swim; life is not gone yet--he will do now, if i can catch hold of him. swimming with one's face under the stream doesn't say much for his skill, though it may account for the fact that he don't cry out." as the drowning man neared, the ferryman held on by the boat-hook, and stooping down, he seized the drowning man by the hair of the head, and then paused. after a time, he lifted him up, and placed him across the edge of the boat, and then, with some struggling of his own, he was rolled over into the boat. "you are safe now," muttered the ferryman. the stranger spoke not, but sat or leaned against the boat's head, sobbing and catching at his breath, and spitting off his stomach the water it might be presumed he had swallowed. the ferryman put back to the shore, when he paused, and secured his boat, and then pulled the stranger out, saying,-"do you feel any better now?" "yes," said the stranger; "i feel i am living--thanks to you, my good friend; i owe you my life." "you are welcome to that," replied the ferryman; "it costs me nothing; and, as for my little trouble, i should be sorry to think of that, when a fellow-being's life was in danger." "you have behaved very well--very well, and i can do little more now than thank you, for i have been robbed of all i possessed about me at the moment." "oh! you have been robbed?" "aye, truly, i have, and have been thrown into the water, and thus i have been nearly murdered." "it is lucky you escaped from them without further injury," said the ferryman; "but come in doors, you must be mad to stand here in the cold." "thank you; your hospitality is great, and, at this moment, of the greatest importance to me." "such as we have," said the honest ferryman, "you shall be welcome to. come in--come in." he turned round and led the way to the house, which he entered, saying--as he opened the small door that led into the main apartment, where all the family were assembled, waiting for the almost only meal they had had that day, for the ferryman had not the means, before the sun had set, of sending for food, and then it was a long way before it could be found, and then it was late before they could get it,-"wife, we have a stranger to sleep with us to-night, and for whom we must prepare a bed." "a stranger!" echoed the wife--"a stranger, and we so poor!" "yes; one whose life i have saved, and who was nearly drowned. we cannot refuse hospitality upon such an occasion as that, you know, wife." the wife looked at the stranger as he entered the room, and sat down by the fire. "i am sorry," he said, "to intrude upon you; but i will make you amends for the interruption and inconvenience i may cause you; but it is too late to apply elsewhere, and yet i am doubtful, if there were, whether i could go any further." "no, no," said the ferryman; "i am sure a man who has been beaten and robbed, and thrown into a rapid and, in some parts, deep stream, is not fit to travel at this time of night." "you are lonely about here," said the stranger, as he shivered by the fire. "yes, rather; but we are used to it." "you have a family, too; that must help to lighten the hours away, and help you over the long evenings." "so you may think, stranger, and, at times, so it is; but when food runs short, it is a long while to daylight, before any more money can be had. to be sure, we have fish in the river, and we have what we can grow in the garden; but these are not all the wants that we feel, and those others are sometimes pinching. however, we are thankful for what we have, and complain but little when we can get no more; but sometimes we do repine--though i cannot say we ought--but i am merely relating the fact, whether it be right or wrong." "exactly. how old is your daughter?" "she is seventeen come allhallow's eve." "that is not far hence," said the stranger. "i hope i may be in this part of the country--and i think i shall--i will on that eve pay you a visit; not one on which i shall be a burden to you, but one more useful to you, and more consonant to my character." "the future will tell us all about that," said the ferryman; "at present we will see what we can do, without complaining, or taxing anybody." the stranger and the ferryman sat conversing for some time before the fire, and then the latter pointed out to him which was his bed--one made up near the fire, for the sake of its warmth; and then the ferryman retired to the next room, a place which was merely divided by an imperfect partition. however, they all fell soundly asleep. the hours on that day had been longer than usual; there was not that buoyancy of spirit; when they retired, they fell off into a heavy, deep slumber. from this they were suddenly aroused by loud cries and piercing screams from one of the family. so loud and shrill were the cries, that they all started up, terrified and bewildered beyond measure, unable to apply their faculties to any one object. "help--help, father!--help!" shrieked the voice of the young girl whom we have before noticed. the ferryman jumped up, and rushed to the spot where his daughter lay. "fanny," he said--"fanny, what ails thee--what ails thee? tell me, my dear child." "oh!" she exclaimed, almost choked--"oh, father! are we all alone? i am terrified." "what ails thee--what ails thee? tell me what caused you to scream out in such a manner?" "i--i--that is i, father, thought--but no, i am sure it was reality. where is the stranger?" "a light--a light!" shouted the fisherman. in another moment a light was brought him, and he discovered the stranger reclining in his bed, but awake, and looking around him, as if in the utmost amazement. "what has happened?" he said--"what has happened?" "that is more than i know as yet," the man replied. "come, fanny," he added, "tell me what it is you fear. what caused you to scream out in that dreadful manner?" "oh, father--the vampyre!" "great god! what do you mean, fanny, by that?" "i hardly know, father. i was fast asleep, when i thought i felt something at my throat; but being very sound asleep, i did not immediately awake. presently i felt the sharp pang of teeth being driven into the flesh of my neck--i awoke, and found the vampyre at his repast. oh, god! oh, god! what shall i do?" "stay, my child, let us examine the wound," said the fisherman, and he held the candle to the spot where the vampyre's teeth had been applied. there, sure enough, were teeth marks, such as a human being's would make were they applied, but no blood had been drawn therefrom. "come, come, fanny; so far, by divine providence, you are not injured; another moment, and the mischief would have been done entire and complete, and you would have been his victim." then turning to the stranger, he said,-"you have had some hand in this. no human being but you could come into this place. the cottage door is secured. you must be the vampyre." "i!" "yes; who else could?" "i!--as heaven's my judge--but there, it's useless to speak of it; i have not been out of my bed. in this place, dark as it is, and less used to darkness than you, i could not even find my way about.--it is impossible." "get out of your bed, and let me feel," said the ferryman, peremptorily--"get out, and i will soon tell." the stranger arose, and began to dress himself, and the ferryman immediately felt the bed on which he had been lying; but it was ice cold--so cold that he started upon his legs in an instant, exclaiming with vehemence,-"it is you, vile wretch! that has attempted to steal into the cottage of the poor man, and then to rob him of his only child, and that child of her heart's blood, base ingrate!" "my friend, you are wrong, entirely wrong. i am not the creature you believe me. i have slept, and slept soundly, and awoke not until your daughter screamed." "scoundrel!--liar!--base wretch! you shall not remain alive to injure those who have but one life to lose." as he spoke, the ferryman made a desperate rush at the vampyre, and seized him by the throat, and a violent struggle ensued, in which the superior strength of the ferryman prevailed, and he brought his antagonist to the earth, at the same time bestowing upon him some desperate blows. "thou shall go to the same element from which i took thee," said the ferryman, "and there swim or sink as thou wilt until some one shall drag thee ashore, and when they do, may they have a better return than i." as he spoke, he dragged along the stranger by main force until they came to the bank of the river, and then pausing, to observe the deepest part, he said,-"here, then, you shall go." the vampyre struggled, and endeavoured to speak, but he could not; the grasp at his throat prevented all attempts at speech; and then, with a sudden exertion of his strength, the ferryman lifted the stranger up, and heaved him some distance into the river. then in deep water sank the body. the ferryman watched for some moments, and farther down the stream he saw the body again rise upon the current and struggling slightly, as for life--now whirled around and around, and then carried forward with the utmost velocity. this continued as far as the moonlight enabled the ferryman to see, and then, with a slow step and clouded brow, he returned to his cottage, which he entered, and closed the door. chapter xc. dr. chillingworth at the hall.--the encounter of mystery.--the conflict.--the rescue, and the picture. [illustration] there have been many events that have passed rapidly in this our narrative; but more have yet to come before we can arrive at that point which will clear up much that appears to be most mysterious and unaccountable. doctor chillingworth, but ill satisfied with the events that had yet taken place, determined once more upon visiting the hall, and there to attempt a discovery of something respecting the mysterious apartment in which so much has already taken place. he communicated his design to no one; he resolved to prosecute the inquiry alone. he determined to go there and await whatever might turn up in the shape of events. he would not for once take any companion; such adventures were often best prosecuted alone--they were most easily brought to something like an explanatory position, one person can often consider matters more coolly than more. at all events, there is more secrecy than under any other circumstances. perhaps this often is of greater consequence than many others; and, moreover, when there is more than one, something is usually overdone. where one adventurous individual will rather draw back in a pursuit, more than one would induce them to urge each other on. in fact, one in such a case could act the part of a spy--a secret observer; and in that case can catch people at times when they could not under any other circumstances be caught or observed at all. "i will go," he muttered; "and should i be compelled to run away again, why, nobody knows anything about it and nobody will laugh at me." this was all very well; but mr. chillingworth was not the man to run away without sufficient cause. but there was so much mystery in all this that he felt much interested in the issue of the affair. but this issue he could not command; at the same time he was determined to sit and watch, and thus become certain that either something or nothing was to take place. even the knowledge of that much--that some inexplicable action was still going on--was far preferable to the uncertainty of not knowing whether what had once been going on was still so or not, because, if it had ceased, it was probable that nothing more would ever be known concerning it, and the mystery would still be a mystery to the end of time. "it shall be fathomed if there be any possibility of its being discovered," muttered chillingworth. "who would have thought that so quiet and orderly a spot as this, our quiet village, would have suffered so much commotion and disturbance? far from every cause of noise and strife, it is quite as great a matter of mystery as the vampyre business itself. "i have been so mixed up in this business that i must go through with it. by the way, of the mysteries, the greatest that i have met with is the fact of the vampyre having anything to do with so quiet a family as the bannerworths." mr. chillingworth pondered over the thought; but yet he could make nothing of it. it in no way tended to elucidate anything connected with the affair, and it was much too strange and singular in all its parts to be submitted to any process of thought, with any hope of coming to anything like a conclusion upon the subject--that must remain until some facts were ascertained, and to obtain them mr. chillingworth now determined to try. this was precisely what was most desirable in the present state of affairs; while things remained in the present state of uncertainty, there would be much more of mystery than could ever be brought to light. one or two circumstances cleared up, the minor ones would follow in the same train, and they would be explained by the others; and if ever that happy state of things were to come about, why, then there would be a perfect calm in the town. as mr. chillingworth was going along, he thought he observed two men sitting inside a hedge, close to a hay-rick, and thinking neither of them had any business there, he determined to listen to their conversation, and ascertain if it had any evil tendency, or whether it concerned the late event. having approached near the gate, and they being on the other side, he got over without any noise, and, unperceived by either of them, crept close up to them. "so you haven't long come from sea?" "no; i have just landed." "how is it you have thrown aside your seaman's clothes and taken to these?" "just to escape being found out." "found out! what do you mean by that? have you been up to anything?" "yes, i have, jack. i have been up to something, worse luck to me; but i'm not to be blamed either." "what is it all about?" inquired his companion. "i always thought you were such a steady-going old file that there was no going out of the even path with you." "nor would there have been, but for one simple circumstance." "what was that?" "i will tell you, jack--i will tell you; you will never betray me, i am sure." "never, by heavens!" "well, then, listen--it was this. i had been some time aboard our vessel. i had sailed before, but the captain never showed any signs of being a bad man, and i was willing enough to sail with him again. "he knew i was engaged to a young woman in this country, and that i was willing to work hard to save money to make up a comfortable home for us both, and that i would not sail again, but that i intended to remain ashore, and make up my mind to a shore life." "well, you would have a house then?" "exactly; and that's what i wished to do. well, i made a small venture in the cargo, and thought, by so doing, that i should have a chance of realizing a sum of money that would put us both in a comfortable line of business. "well, we went on very smoothly until we were coming back. we had disposed of the cargo, and i had received some money, and this seemed to cause our captain to hate me, because i had been successful; but i thought there was something else in it than that, but i could not tell what it was that made him so intolerably cross and tyrannous. "well, i found out, at length, he knew my intended wife. he knew her very well, and at the same time he made every effort he could to induce me to commit some act of disobedience and insubordination; but i would not, for it seemed to me he was trying all he could to prevent my doing my duty with anything like comfort. "however, i learned the cause of all this afterwards. it was told me by one of the crew. "'bill,' said my mate, 'look out for yourself.' "'what's in the wind?' said i. "'only the captain has made a dead set at you, and you'll be a lucky man if you escape.' "'what's it all about?' said i. 'i cannot understand what he means. i have done nothing wrong. i don't see why i should suddenly be treated in this way.' "'it's all about your girl, bill.' "'indeed!' said i. 'what can that have to do with the captain? he knows nothing of her.' "'oh, yes, he does,' he said. 'if it were not for you he would have the girl himself.' "'i see now,' said i. "'ay, and so can a blind man if you open his eyes; but he wants to make you do wrong--to goad you on to do something that will give him the power of disgracing you, and, perhaps, of punishing you.' "'he won't do that,' said i. "'i am glad to hear you say so, bill; for, to my mind, he has made up his mind to go the whole length against you. i can't make it out, unless he wishes you were dead.' "'i dare say he does,' said i; 'but i will take care i will live to exact a reckoning when he comes ashore.' "'that is the best; and when we are paid off, bill, if you will take it out of him, and pay him off, why, i don't care if i lend you a hand.' "'we'll say more about that, dick,' said i, 'when we get ashore and are paid off. if we are overheard now, it will be said that we are conspiring, or committing mutiny, or something of that sort.' "'you are right, bill,' he said--'you are right. we'll say no more about this now, but you may reckon upon me when we are no longer under his orders.' "'then there's no danger, you know.' "well, we said nothing about this, but i thought of it, and i had cause enough, too, to think of it; for each day the captain grew more and more tyrannous and brutal. i knew not what to do, but kept my resolution of doing my duty in spite of all he could do, though i don't mind admitting i had more than one mind to kill him and myself afterwards. "however, i contrived to hold out for another week or two, and then we came into port, and were released from his tyranny. i got paid off, and then i met my messmate, and we had some talk about the matter. "'the worst of it is,' said i, 'we shall have some difficulty to catch him; and, if we can, i'll be sworn we shall give him enough to last him for at least a voyage or two.' "'he ought to have it smart,' said my messmate; 'and i know where he is to be found.' "'do you?--at what hour?' "'late at night, when he may be met with as he comes from a house where he spends his evenings." "'that will be the best time in the world, when we shall have less interference than at any other time in the day. but we'll have a turn to-night if you will be with me, as he will be able to make too good a defence to one. it will be a fight, and not a chastisement.' "'it will. i will be with you; you know where to meet me. i shall be at the old spot at the usual time, and then we will go.' "we parted; and, in the evening, we both went together, and sought the place where we should find him out, and set upon him to advantage. "he was nearly two hours before he came; but when he did come, we saluted him with a rap on the head, that made him hold his tongue; and then we set to, and gave him such a tremendous drubbing, that we left him insensible; but he was soon taken away by some watchmen, and we heard that he was doing well; but he was dreadfully beaten; indeed, it would take him some weeks before he could be about in his duties. "he was fearfully enraged, and offered fifty pounds reward to any one who could give him information as to who it was that assaulted him. "i believe he had a pretty good notion of who it was; but he could not swear to me; but still, seeing he was busying himself too much about me, i at once walked away, and went on my way to another part of the country." "to get married?" "ay, and to get into business." "then, things are not quite so bad as i thought for at first." "no--no, not so bad but what they might have been worse a great deal; only i cannot go to sea any more, that's quite certain." "you needn't regret that." "i don't know." "why not know? are you not going to be married?--ain't that much better?" "i can't say," replied the sailor; "there's no knowing how my bargain may turn out; if she does well, why, then the cruising is over; but nothing short of that will satisfy me; for if my wife is at all not what i wish her to be, why, i shall be off to sea." "i don't blame you, either; i would do so too, if it were possible; but you see, we can't do so well on land as you do at sea; we can be followed about from pillar to post, and no bounds set to our persecution." "that's true enough," said the other; "we can cut and run when we have had enough of it. however, i must get to the village, as i shall sleep there to-night, if i find my quarters comfortable enough." "come on, then, at once," said his companion; "it's getting dark now; and you have no time to lose." these two now got up, and walked away towards the village; and chillingworth arose also, and pursued his way towards the hall, while he remarked to himself,-"well--well, they have nothing to do with that affair at all events. by-the-bye, i wonder what amount of females are deserted in the navy; they certainly have an advantage over landsmen, in the respect of being tied to tiresome partners; they can, at least, for a season, get a release from their troubles, and be free at sea." however, mr. chillingworth got to the hall, and unobserved, for he had been especially careful not to be seen; he had watched on all sides, and no signs of a solitary human being had he seen, that could in any way make the slightest observation upon him. indeed, he had sheltered himself from observation at every point of his road, especially so when near bannerworth hall, where there were plenty of corners to enable him to do so; and when he arrived there, he entered at the usual spot, and then sat down a few moments in the bower. "i will not sit here," he muttered. "i will go and have a watch at that mysterious picture; there is the centre of attraction, be it what it may." as he spoke, he arose and walked into the house, and entered the same apartment which has been so often mentioned to the reader. here he took a chair, and sat down full before the picture, and began to contemplate it. "well, for a good likeness, i cannot say i ever saw anything more unprepossessing. i am sure such a countenance as that could never have won a female heart. surely, it is more calculated to terrify the imagination, than to soothe the affections of the timid and shrinking female. "however, i will have an inspection of the picture, and see if i can make anything of it." as he spoke, he put his hand upon the picture with the intention of removing it, when it suddenly was thrust open, and a man stepped down. the doctor was for a moment completely staggered, it was so utterly unexpected, and he stepped back a pace or two in the first emotion of his surprise; but this soon passed by, and he prepared to close with his antagonist, which he did without speaking a word. there was a fair struggle for more than two or three minutes, during which the doctor struggled and fought most manfully; but it was evident that mr. chillingworth had met with a man who was his superior in point of strength, for he not only withstood the utmost force that chillingworth could bring against him, but maintained himself, and turned his strength against the doctor. chillingworth panted with exertion, and found himself gradually losing ground, and was upon the point of being thrown down at the mercy of his adversary, who appeared to be inclined to take all advantages of him, when an occurrence happened that altered the state of affairs altogether. while they were struggling, the doctor borne partially to the earth--but yet struggling, suddenly his antagonist released his hold, and staggered back a few paces. "there, you swab--take that; i am yard-arm and yard-arm with you, you piratical-looking craft--you lubberly, buccaneering son of a fish-fag." before, however, jack pringle, for it was he who came so opportunely to the rescue of doctor chillingworth, could find time to finish the sentence, he found himself assailed by the very man who, but a minute before, he had, as he thought, placed _hors de combat_. [illustration] a desperate fight ensued, and the stranger made the greatest efforts to escape with the picture, but found he could not get off without a desperate struggle. he was, at length, compelled to relinquish the hope of carrying that off, for both mr. chillingworth and jack pringle were engaged hand to hand; but the stranger struck jack so heavy a blow on the head, that made him reel a few yards, and then he escaped through the window, leaving jack and mr. chillingworth masters of the field, but by no means unscathed by the conflict in which they had been engaged. chapter xci. the grand consultation broken up by mrs. chillingworth, and the disappearance of varney. [illustration] remarkable was the change that had taken place in the circumstances of the bannerworth family. from a state of great despondency, and, indeed, absolute poverty, they had suddenly risen to comfort and independence. it seemed as if the clouds that had obscured their destiny, had now, with one accord, dissipated, and that a brighter day was dawning. not only had the circumstances of mental terror which had surrounded them given way in a great measure to the light of truth and reflection, but those pecuniary distresses which had pressed upon them for a time, were likewise passing away, and it seemed probable that they would be in a prosperous condition. _the acquisition of the title deeds of the estate_, which they thought had passed away from the family for ever, became to them, in their present circumstances, an immense acquisition, and brought to their minds a feeling of great contentment. many persons in their situation would have been extremely satisfied at having secured so strong an interest in the mind of the old admiral, who was very wealthy, and who, from what he had already said and done, no doubt fully intended to provide handsomely for the bannerworth family. and not only had they this to look forward to, if they had chosen to regard it as an advantage, but they knew that by the marriage of flora with charles holland she would have a fortune at her disposal, while he (charles) would be the last man in the world to demur at any reasonable amount of it being lavished upon her mother and her brothers. but all this did not suit the high and independent spirit of henry bannerworth. he was one who would rather have eaten the dust that he procured for himself by some meritorious exertion, than have feasted on the most delicate viands placed before him from the resources of another. but now that he knew this small estate, the title deeds of which had been so singularly obtained, had once really belonged to the family, but had been risked and lost at the gaming-table, he had no earthly scruple in calling such property again his own. as to the large sum of money which sir francis varney in his confessions had declared to have found its way into the possession of marmaduke bannerworth, henry did not expect, and scarcely wished to become possessed of wealth through so tainted a source. "no," he said to himself frequently; "no--i care not if that wealth be never forthcoming, which was so badly got possession of. let it sink into the earth, if, indeed, it be buried there; or let it rot in some unknown corner of the old mansion. i care not for it." in this view of the case he was not alone, for a family more unselfish, or who cared so little for money, could scarcely have been found; but admiral bell and charles holland argued now that they had a right to the amount of money which marmaduke bannerworth had hidden somewhere, and the old admiral reasoned upon it rather ingeniously, for he said,-"i suppose you don't mean to dispute that the money belongs to somebody, and in that case i should like to know who else it belonged to, if not to you? how do you get over that, master henry?" "i don't attempt to get over it at all," said henry; "all i say is, that i do dislike the whole circumstances connected with it, and the manner in which it was come by; and, now that we have a small independence, i hope it will not be found. but, admiral, we are going to hold a family consultation as to what we shall do, and what is to become of varney. he has convinced me of his relationship to our family, and, although his conduct has certainly been extremely equivocal, he has made all the amends in his power; and now, as he is getting old, i do not like to throw him upon the wide world for a subsistence." "you don't contemplate," said the admiral, "letting him remain with you, do you?" "no; that would be objectionable for a variety of reasons; and i could not think of it for a moment." "i should think not. the idea of sitting down to breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper with a vampyre, and taking your grog with a fellow that sucks other people's blood!" "really, admiral, you do not really still cling to the idea that sir francis varney is a vampyre." "i really don't know; he clings to it himself, that's all i can say; and i think, under those circumstances, i might as well give him the benefit of his own proposition, and suppose that he is a vampyre." "really, uncle," said charles holland, "i did think that you had discarded the notion." "did you? i have been thinking of it, and it ain't so desirable to be a vampyre, i am sure, that any one should pretend to it who is not; therefore, i take the fellow upon his own showing. he is a vampyre in his own opinion, and so i don't see, for the life of me, why he should not be so in ours." "well," said henry, "waving all that, what are we to do with him? circumstances seem to have thrown him completely at our mercy. what are we to do with him, and what is to become of him for the future?" "i'll tell you what i'll do," said the admiral. "if he were ten times a vampyre, there is some good in the fellow; and i will give him enough to live upon if he will go to america and spend it. they will take good care there that he sucks no blood out of them; for, although an american would always rather lose a drop of blood than a dollar, they keep a pretty sharp look out upon both." "the proposal can be made to him," said henry, "at all events. it is one which i don't dislike, and probably one that he would embrace at once; because he seems, to me, to have completely done with ambition, and to have abandoned those projects concerning which, at one time, he took such a world of trouble." "don't you trust to that," said the admiral. "what's bred in the bone don't so easily get out of the flesh; and once or twice, when master varney has been talking, i have seen those odd looking eyes of his flash up for a moment, as if he were quite ready to begin his old capers again, and alarm the whole country side." "i must confess," said charles holland, "that i myself have had the impression once or twice that varney was only subdued for a time, and that, with a proper amount of provocation, he would become again a very serious fellow, and to the full as troublesome as he has been." "do you doubt his sincerity?" said henry. "no, i do not do that, henry: i think varney fully means what he says; but i think, at the same time, that he has for so long lead a strange, wild, and reckless life, that he will find it very far from easy, if indeed possible, to shake off his old habits and settle down quietly, if not to say comfortably." "i regret," said henry, "that you have such an impression; but, while i do so, i cannot help admitting that it is, to a considerable extent, no more than a reasonable one; and perhaps, after all, my expectation that varney will give us no more trouble, only amounts to a hope that he will not do so, and nothing more. but let us consider; there seems to be some slight difference of opinion among us, as to whether we should take up our residence at this new house of ours, which we did not know we owned, at dearbrook, or proceed to london, and there establish ourselves, or again return to bannerworth hall, and, by a judicious expenditure of some money, make that a more habitable place than it has been for the last twenty years." "now, i'll tell you what," said the admiral, "i would do. it's quite out of the question for any body to live long unless they see a ship; don't you think so, miss flora?" "why, how can you ask flora such a question, uncle," said charles holland, "when you know she don't care a straw about ships, and only looks upon admirals as natural curiosities?" "excepting one," said flora, "and he is an admiral who is natural but no curiosity, unless it be that you, can call him such because he is so just and generous, and, as for ships, who can help admiring them; and if admiral bell proposes that we live in some pleasant, marine villa by the sea-coast, he shall have my vote and interest for the proceeding." "bravo! huzza!" cried the admiral. "i tell you what it is, master charley--you horse marine,--i have a great mind to cut you out, and have miss flora myself." "don't, uncle," said charles; "that would be so very cruel, after she has promised me so faithfully. how do you suppose i should like it; come now, be merciful." at this moment, and before any one could make another remark, there came rather a sharp ring at the garden-gate bell, and henry exclaimed,-"that's mr. chillingworth, and i am glad he has come in time to join our conference. his advice is always valuable; and, moreover, i rather think he will bring us some news worth the hearing." the one servant who they had to wait upon them looked into the room, and said,--"if you please, here is mrs. chillingworth." "mistress? you mean mr." "no; it is mrs. chillingworth and her baby." "the devil!" said the admiral; "what can she want?" "i'll come and let you know," said mrs. chillingworth, "what i want;" and she darted into the room past the servant. "i'll soon let you know, you great sea crab. i want my husband; and what with your vampyre, and one thing and another, i haven't had him at home an hour for the past three weeks. what am i to do? there is all his patients getting well as fast as they can without him; and, when they find that out, do you think they will take any more filthy physic? no, to be sure not; people ain't such fools as to do anything of the sort." "i'll tell you what we will do, ma'am," said the admiral; "we'll all get ill at once, on purpose to oblige ye; and i'll begin by having the measles." "you are an old porpoise, and i believe it all owing to you that my husband neglects his wife and family. what's vampyres to him, i should like to know, that he should go troubling about them? i never heard of vampyres taking draughts and pills." "no, nor any body else that had the sense of a goose," said the admiral; "but if it's your husband you want, ma'am, it's no use your looking for him here, for here he is not." "then where is he? he is running after some of your beastly vampyres somewhere, i'll be bound, and you know where to send for him." "then you are mistaken; for, indeed, we don't. we want him ourselves, ma'am, and can't find him--that's the fact." "it's all very well talking, sir, but if you were a married woman, with a family about you, and the last at the breast, you'd feel very different from what you do now." "i'm d----d if i don't suppose i should," said the admiral; "but as for the last, ma'am, i'd soon settle that. i'd wring its neck, and shove it overboard." "you would, you brute? it's quite clear to me you never had a child of your own." "mrs. chillingworth," said henry, "i think you have no right to complain to us of your domestic affairs. where your husband goes, and what he does, is at his own will and pleasure, and, really, i don't see that we are to be made answerable as to whether he is at home or abroad; to say nothing of the bad taste--and bad taste it most certainly is, of talking of your private affairs to other people." "oh, dear!" said mrs. chillingworth; "that's your idea, is it, you no-whiskered puppy?" "really, madam, i cannot see what my being destitute of whiskers has to do with the affair; and i am inclined to think my opinion is quite as good without them as with them." "i will speak," said flora, "to the doctor, when i see him." "will you, miss doll's-eyes? oh, dear me! you'll speak to the doctor, will you?" "what on earth do you want?" said henry. "for your husband's sake, whom we all respect, we wish to treat you with every imaginable civility; but we tell you, candidly, that he is not here, and, therefore, we cannot conceive what more you can require of us." "oh, it's a row," said the admiral; "that's what she wants--woman like. d----d a bit do they care what it's about as long as there's a disturbance. and now, ma'am, will you sit down and have a glass of grog?" "no, i will not sit down; and all i can say is, that i look upon this place as a den full of snakes and reptiles. that's my opinion; so i'll not stay any longer; but, wishing that great judgments may some day come home to you all, and that you may know what it is to be a mother, with five babies, and one at the breast, i despise you all and leave you." so saying, mrs. chillingworth walked from the place, feeling herself highly hurt and offended at what had ensued; and they were compelled to let her go just as she was, without giving her any information, for they had a vivid recollection of the serious disturbance she had created on a former occasion, when she had actually headed a mob, for the purpose of hunting out varney, the vampyre, from bannerworth hall, and putting an end consequently, as she considered, to that set of circumstances which kept the doctor so much from his house, to the great detriment of a not very extensive practice. "after all," said flora, "mrs. chillingworth, although she is not the most refined person in the world, is to be pitied." "what!" cried the admiral; "miss doll's-eyes, are you taking her part?" "oh, that's nothing. she may call me what she likes." "i believe she is a good wife to the doctor," said henry, "notwithstanding his little eccentricities; but suppose we now at once make the proposal we were thinking of to sir francis varney, and so get him to leave england as quickly as possible and put an end to the possibility of his being any more trouble to anybody." "agreed--agreed. it's the best thing that can be done, and it will be something gained to get his consent at once." "i'll run up stairs to him," said charles, "and call him down at once. i scarcely doubt for a moment his acquiescence in the proposal." charles holland rose, and ran up the little staircase of the cottage to the room which, by the kindness of the bannerworth family, had been devoted to the use of varney. he had not been gone above two minutes, when he returned, hastily, with a small scrap of paper in his hand, which he laid before henry, saying,-"there, what think you of that?" henry, upon taking up the paper, saw written upon it the words,-"_the farewell of varney the vampyre_." "he is gone," said charles holland. "the room is vacant. i saw at a glance that he had removed his hat, and cloak, and all that belonged to him. he's off, and at so short a warning, and in so abrupt a manner, that i fear the worst." "what can you fear?" "i scarcely know what; but we have a right to fear everything and anything from his most inexplicable being, whose whole conduct has been of that mysterious nature, as to put him past all calculation as regards his motives, his objects, or his actions. i must confess that i would have hailed his departure from england with feelings of satisfaction; but what he means now, by this strange manoeuvre, heaven, and his own singular intellect, can alone divine." "i must confess," said flora, "i should not at all have thought this of varney. it seems to me as if something new must have occurred to him. altogether, i do not feel any alarm concerning his actions as regards us. i am convinced of his sincerity, and, therefore, do not view with sensations of uneasiness this new circumstance, which appears at present so inexplicable, but for which we may yet get some explanation that will be satisfactory to us all." "i cannot conceive," said henry, "what new circumstances could have occurred to produce this effect upon varney. things remain just as they were; and, after all, situated as he is, if any change had taken place in matters out of doors, i do not see how he could become acquainted with them, so that his leaving must have been a matter of mere calculation, or of impulse at the moment--heaven knows which--but can have nothing to do with actual information, because it is quite evident he could not get it." "it is rather strange," said charles holland, "that just as we were speculating upon the probability of his doing something of this sort, he should suddenly do it, and in this singular manner too." "oh," said the old admiral, "i told you i saw his eye, that was enough for me. i knew he would do something, as well as i know a mainmast from a chain cable. he can't help it; it's in the nature of the beast, and that's all you can say about it." chapter xcii. the misadventure of the doctor with the picture. the situation of dr. chillingworth and jack pringle was not of that character that permitted much conversation or even congratulation. they were victors it was true, and yet they had but little to boast of besides the victory. victory is a great thing; it is like a gilded coat, it bewilders and dazzles. nobody can say much when you are victorious. what a sound! and yet how much misery is there not hidden beneath it. this victory of the worthy doctor and his aid amounted to this, they were as they were before, without being any better, but much the worse, seeing they were so much buffetted that they could hardly speak, but sat for some moments opposite to each other, gasping for breath, and staring each other in the face without speaking. the moonlight came in through the window and fell upon the floor, and there were no sounds that came to disturb the stillness of the scene, nor any object that moved to cast a shadow upon the floor. all was still and motionless, save the two victors, who were much distressed and bruised. "well!" said jack pringle, with a hearty execration, as he wiped his face with the back of his hand; "saving your presence, doctor, we are masters of the field, doctor; but it's plaguey like capturing an empty bandbox after a hard fight." "but we have got the picture, jack--we have got the picture, you see, and that is something. i am sure we saved that." "well, that may be; and a pretty d----d looking picture it is after all. why, it's enough to frighten a lady into the sulks. i think it would be a very good thing if it were burned." "well," said the doctor, "i would sooner see it burned than in the hands of that--" "what?" exclaimed jack. "i don't know," said mr. chillingworth; "but thief i should say, for it was somewhat thief-like to break into another man's house and carry off the furniture." "a pirate--a regular land shark." "something that is not the same as an honest man, jack; but, at all events, we have beaten him back this time." "yes," said jack, "the ship's cleared; no company is better than bad company, doctor." "so it is, and yet it don't seem clear in terms. but, jack, it you hadn't come in time, i should have been but scurvily treated. he was too powerful for me; i was as nigh being killed as ever i have been; but you were just in time to save me." "well, he was a large, ugly fellow, sure enough, and looked like an old tree." "did you see him?" "yes, to be sure i did." "well, i could not catch a glimpse of his features. in fact, i was too much employed to see anything, and it was much too dark to notice anything particular, even if i had had leisure." "why, you had as much to do as you could well manage, i must say that, at all events. i didn't see much of him myself; only he was a tall, out-of-the-way sort of chap--a long-legged shark. he gave me such a dig or two as i haven't had for a long while, nor don't want to get again; though i don't care if i face the devil himself. a man can't do more than do his best, doctor." "no, jack; but there are very few who do do their best, and that's the truth. you have, and have done it to some purpose too. but i have had enough for one day; he was almost strong enough to contend against us both." "yes, so he was." "and, besides that, he almost carried away the picture--that was a great hindrance to him. don't you think we could have held him if we had not been fighting over the picture?" "yes, to be sure we could; we could have gone at him bodily, and held him. he would not have been able to use his hands. we could have hung on him, and i am sure if i came to grapple yard-arm and yard-arm, he would have told a different tale; however, that is neither here nor there. how long had you been here?" "not very long," replied the doctor, whose head was a little confused by the blows which he had received. "i can't now tell how long, but only a short time, i think." "where did he come from?" inquired jack. "come from, jack?" "yes, doctor, where did he came from?--the window, i suppose--the same way he went out, i dare say--it's most likely." "oh, no, no; he come down from behind the picture. there's some mystery in that picture, i'll swear to it; it's very strange he should make such a desperate attempt to carry it away." "yes; one would think," said jack, "there was more in it than we can see--that it is worth more than we can believe; perhaps somebody sets particular store by it." "i don't know," said mr. chillingworth, shaking his head, "i don't know how that may be; but certain it is, the picture was the object of his visit here--that is very certain." "it was; he was endeavouring to carry it off," said jack; "it would be a very good ornament to the black hole at calcutta." "the utility of putting it where it cannot be seen," remarked mr. chillingworth, "i cannot very well see; though i dare say it might be all very well." "yes--its ugly features would be no longer seen; so far, it would be a good job. but are you going to remain here all night, and so make a long watch of it, doctor?" "why, jack," said the doctor, "i did intend watching here; but now the game is disturbed, it is of no use remaining here. we have secured the picture, and now there will be no need of remaining in the house; in fact, there is no fear of robbery now." "not so long as we are here," said jack pringle; "the smugglers won't show a head while the revenue cutter is on the look out." "certainly not, jack," said mr. chillingworth; "i think we have scared them away--the picture is safe." "yes--so long as we are here." "and longer, too, i hope." jack shook his head, as much as to intimate that he had many doubts upon such a point, and couldn't be hurried into any concession of opinion of the safety of such a picture as that--much as he disliked it, and as poor an opinion as he had of it. "don't you think it will be safe?" "no," said jack. "and why not?" said mr. chillingworth, willing to hear what jack could advance against the opinion he had expressed, especially as he had disturbed the marauder in the very act of robbery. "why, you'll be watched by this very man; and when you are gone, he will return in safety, and take this plaguey picture away with him." "well, he might do so," said mr. chillingworth, after some thought; "he even endangered his own escape for the purpose of carrying it off." "he wants it," said jack. "what, the picture?" "aye, to be sure; do you think anybody would have tried so hard to get away with it? he wants it; and the long and the short of it is, he will have it, despite all that can be done to prevent it; that's my opinion." "well, there is much truth in that; but what to do i don't know." "take it to the cottage," suggested jack. "the picture must be more than we think for; suppose we carry it along." "that is no bad plan of yours, jack," said mr. chillingworth; "and, though a little awkward, yet it is not the worst i have heard; but--but--what will they say, when they see this frightful face in that quiet, yet contented house?" "why, they'll say you brought it," said jack; "i don't see what else they can say, but that you have done well; besides, when you come to explain, you will make the matter all right to 'em." "yes, yes," said chillingworth; "and, as the picture now seems to be the incomprehensible object of attack, i will secure that, at all events." "i'll help you." "thank you, jack; your aid will be welcome; at least, it was so just now." "all right, doctor," said jack. "i may be under your hands some day." "i'll physic you for nothing," said mr. chillingworth. "you saved my life. one good turn deserves another; i'll not forget." "thank you," said jack, as he made a wry face. "i hope you won't have occasion. i'd sooner have a can of grog than any bottle of medicine you can give me; i ain't ungrateful, neither." "you needn't name it; i am getting my breath again. i suppose we had better leave this place, as soon as we conveniently can." "exactly. the sooner the better; we can take it the more leisurely as we go." the moon was up; there were no clouds now, but there was not a very strong light, because the moon was on the wane. it was one of those nights during which an imperceptible vapour arises, and renders the moon somewhat obscure, or, at least, it robs the earth of her rays; and then there were shadows cast by the moon, yet they grew fainter, and those cast upon the floor of the apartment were less distinct than at first. there seemed scarce a breath of air stirring; everything was quiet and still; no motion--no sound, save that of the breathing of the two who sat in that mysterious apartment, who gazed alternately round the place, and then in each other's countenances. suddenly, the silence of the night was disturbed by a very slight, but distinct noise, which struck upon them with peculiar distinctness; it was a gentle tap, tap, at the window, as if some one was doing it with their fingernail. they gazed on each other, for some moments, in amazement, and then at the window, but they saw nothing; and yet, had there been anything, they must have seen it, but there was not even a shadow. "well," said mr. chillingworth, after he had listened to the tap, tap, several times, without being able to find out or imagine what it could arise from, "what on earth can it be?" "don't know," said jack, very composedly, squinting up at the window. "can't see anything." "well, but it must be something," persisted mr. chillingworth; "it must be something." "i dare say it is; but i don't see anything. i can't think what it can be, unless--" "unless what? speak out," said the doctor, impatiently. "why, unless it is davy jones himself, tapping with his long finger-nails, a-telling us as how we've been too long already here." "then, i presume, we may as well go; and yet i am more disposed to deem it some device of the enemy to dislodge us from this place, for the purpose of enabling them to effect some nefarious scheme or other they have afloat." "it may be, and is, i dare say, a do of some sort or other," said jack; "but what' can it be?" "there it is again," said the doctor; "don't you hear it? i can, as plain as i can hear myself." "yes," said jack; "i can hear it plain enough, and can see it, too; and that is more. yes, yes, i can tell all about it plain enough." "you can? well, then, shew me," said the doctor, as he strode up to the window, before which jack was standing gazing upon one particular spot of the shattered window with much earnestness. "where is it?" "look there," said jack, pointing with his finger to a particular spot, to which the doctor directed his attention, expecting to see a long, skinny hand tapping against the glass; but he saw nothing. "where is it?" "do you see that twig of ivy, or something of the sort?" inquired jack. "yes, i do." "very well, watch that; and when the wind catches it--and there is but very little--it lifts it up, and then, falling down again, it taps the glass." just as he spoke, there came a slight gust of wind; and it gave a practical illustration to his words; for the tapping was heard as often as the plant was moved by the wind. "well," said mr. chillingworth, "however simple and unimportant the matter may be, yet i cannot but say i am always well pleased to find a practical explanation of it, so that there will be no part left in doubt." "there is none about that," said jack. "none. well, we are not beset, then. we may as well consider of the manner of our getting clear of this place. what sort of burthen this picture may be i know not; but i will make the attempt to carry it." "avast, there," said jack; "i will carry it: at all events, i'll take the first spell, and, if i can't go on, we'll turn and turn about." "we can divide the weight from the first, and then neither of us will be tired at all." "just as you please, sir," said jack pringle. "i am willing to obey orders; and, if we are to get in to-night before they are all a-bed, we had better go at once; and then we shall not disturb them." "good, jack," said mr. chillingworth; "very good: let us begin to beat our retreat at once." "very good," said jack. they both rose and approached the picture, which stood up in one corner, half reclining against the wall; the light, at least so much as there was, fell upon it, and gave it a ghastly and deathly hue, which made mr. chillingworth feel an emotion he could not at all understand; but, as soon as he could, he withdrew his eyes from off the picture, and they proceeded to secure it with some cord, so that they might carry it between them the easier--with less trouble and more safety. these preparations did not take long in making, and, when completed, they gave another inquiring look round the chamber, and mr. chillingworth again approached the window, and gazed out upon the garden below, but saw nothing to attract his attention. turning away, he came to the picture, with which jack pringle had been standing. they proceeded towards the stairs, adopting every precaution they could take to prevent any surprise and any attempt upon the object of their solicitude. then they came to the great hall, and, having opened the door, they carried it out; then shutting the door, they both stood outside of bannerworth hall; and, before taking the picture up in their hands, they once more looked suspiciously around them. there was nothing to be seen, and so, shouldering the ominous portrait, they proceeded along the garden till they conveyed it into the roadway. "now," said jack, "we are off; we can scud along under press of sail, you know." "i would rather not," said the doctor, "for two reasons; one of which is, i can't do it myself, and the other is, we should run the risk of injuring the picture; besides this, there is no reason for so doing." "very well," said jack, "make it agreeable to yourself, doctor. see you, jack's alive, and i am willing to do all i can to help you." "i am very glad of your aid," said mr. chillingworth; "so we will proceed slowly. i shall be glad when we are there; for there are few things more awkward than this picture to carry." "it is not heavy," said jack, giving it a hitch up, that first pulled the doctor back, and then pushed him forward again. "no; but stop, don't do that often, jack, or else i shall be obliged to let go, to save myself from falling," said the doctor. "very sorry," said jack; "hope it didn't inconvenience you; but i could carry this by myself." "and so could i," returned mr. chillingworth; "but the probability is there would be some mischief done to it, and then we should be doing more harm than good." "so we should," said jack. they proceeded along with much care and caution. it was growing late now, and no one was about--at least, they met none. people did not roam about much after dark, especially since the reports of the vampyre became current, for, notwithstanding all their bravery and violence while in a body, yet to meet and contend with him singly, and unseen, was not at all a popular notion among them; indeed, they would sooner go a mile out of their way, or remain in doors, which they usually did. the evening was not precisely dark, there was moonlight enough to save it from that, but there was a mist hanging about, that rendered objects, at a short distance, very indistinct. their walk was uninterrupted by any one, and they had got through half the distance without any disturbance or interruption whatever. when they arrived at the precincts of the village, jack pringle said to dr. chillingworth, "do you intend going through the village, doctor?" "why not? there will be nobody about, and if there should be, we shall be safe enough from any molestation, seeing there are none here who would dare to harm us; it is the shortest way, too." "very good," said jack; "i am agreeable, and as for any one harming me, they know better; but, at all events, there's company, and there's less danger, you know, doctor; though i'm always company to myself, but haven't any objection to a messmate, now and then." they pursued their way in silence, for some distance, the doctor not caring about continuing the talk of jack, which amounted to nothing; besides, he had too much to do, for, notwithstanding the lightness of the picture, which jack had endeavoured to persuade the doctor of, he found it was heavy and ungainly; indeed, had he been by himself he would have had some trouble to have got it away. "we are nearly there," said jack, putting down his end of the picture, which brought doctor chillingworth to a standstill. "yes, we are; but what made you stop?" "why, you see," said jack, giving his trowsers a hitch, "as i said before, we are nearly there." "well, what of that? we intended to go there, did we not?" inquired chillingworth. "yes, exactly; that is, you intended to do so, i know, but i didn't." "what do you mean by that?" inquired chillingworth; "you are a complete riddle to-night, jack; what is the matter with you?" "nothing; only, you see, i don't want to go into the cottage, 'cause, you see, the admiral and i have had what you may call a bit of a growl, and i am in disgrace there a little, though i don't know why, or wherefore; i always did my duty by him, as i did by my country. the ould man, however, takes fits into his head; at the same time i shall take some too; jack's as good as his master, ashore, at all events." "well, then, you object to go in?" said chillingworth. "that is the state of the case; not that i'm afraid, or have any cause to be ashamed of myself; but i don't want to make anybody else uncomfortable, by causing black looks." "very well, jack," said the doctor. "i am much obliged to you, and, if you don't like to come, i won't press you against your inclination." "i understand, doctor. i will leave you here, if you can manage the rest of the way by yourself; there are not two hundred yards now to go, so you are all safe; so good bye." "good bye, jack," said doctor chillingworth, who stood wiping his forehead, whilst the picture was standing up against the poles. "do you want a hand up first?" "no, thank you; i can get it up very well without any trouble--it's not so heavy." "good bye, then," said jack; and, in a few moments more, jack pringle was out of sight, and the doctor was alone with the ominous picture. he had not far to go, and was within hail of the cottage; but it was late, and yet he believed he should find them up, for the quietude and calmness of the evening hour was that which most chimed with their feelings. at such a time they could look out upon the face of nature, and the freedom of thought appeared the greater, because there was no human being to clash with the silence and stillness of the scene. "well," muttered chillingworth, "i'll go at once to the cottage with my burthen. how they will look at me, and wonder what could induce me to bring this away. i can hardly help smiling at the thought of how they will look at the apparition i shall make." thus filled with notions that appeared to please him, the doctor shouldered the picture, and walked slowly along until he reached the dead wall that ran up to the entrance, or nearly so, of the gardens. there was a plantation of young trees that overhung the path, and cast a deep shadow below--a pleasant spot in hot weather. the doctor had been carrying the picture, resting the side of it on the small of his arm, and against his shoulder; but this was an inconvenient posture, because the weight of the picture cut his arm so much, that he was compelled to pause, and shift it more on his shoulder. "there," he muttered, "that will do for the present, and last until i reach the cottage garden." he was proceeding along at a slow and steady pace, bestowing all his care and attention to the manner of holding the picture, when he was suddenly paralysed by the sound of a great shout of such a peculiar character, that he involuntarily stopped, and the next moment, something heavy came against him with great force, just as if a man had jumped from the wall on to him. this was the truth, for, in another moment, and before he could recover himself, he found that there was an attempt to deprive him of the picture. this at once aroused him, and he made an instant and a vigorous defence; but he was compelled to let go his hold of the picture, and turn to resist the infuriated attack that was now commenced upon himself. for some moments it was doubtful who would be the victor; but the wind and strength of the doctor were not enough to resist the powerful adversary against whom he had to contend, and the heavy blows that were showered down upon him. at first he was enabled to bear up against this attack; and then he returned many of the blows with interest; but the stunning effect of the blows he received himself, was such that he could not help himself, and felt his senses gradually failing, his strength becoming less and less. in a short time, he received such a blow, that he was laid senseless on the earth in an instant. how long he remained thus he could not say; but it could not have been long, for all around him seemed just as it was before he was attacked. the moon had scarcely moved, and the shadows, such as they were, were falling in the same direction as before. "i have not been long here," he muttered, after a few moments' reflection; "but--but--" he stopped short; for, on looking around him, he saw the object of his solicitude was gone. the picture was nowhere to be seen. it had been carried off the instant he had been vanquished. "gone!" he said, in a low, disconsolate tone; "and after all i have done!" he wiped his hand across his brow, and finding it cut, he looked at the back of his hand, and saw by the deep colour that it was blood, indeed, he could now feel it trickle down his face. what to do he hardly knew; he could stand, and after having got upon his feet, he staggered back against the wall, against which he leaned for support, and afterwards he crept along with the aid of its support, until he came to the door. he was observed from the window, where henry and charles holland, seeing him come up with such an unsteady gait, rushed to the door to ascertain what was the matter. "what, doctor!" exclaimed henry bannerworth; "what is the matter?" "i am almost dead, i think," said chillingworth. "lend me your arm, henry." henry and charles holland immediately stepped out, and took him between them into the parlour, and placed him upon a couch. "what on earth has happened, doctor?--have you got into disgrace with the populace?" "no, no; give me some drink--some water, i am very faint--very faint." "give him some wine, or, what's better, some grog," said the admiral. "why, he's been yard-arm with some pirate or other, and he's damaged about the figure-head. you ain't hurt in your lower works, are you, doctor?" said the admiral. but the doctor took no notice of the inquiry; but eagerly sipped the contents of a glass that charles holland had poured out of a bottle containing some strong hollands, and which appeared to nerve him much. "there!" said the admiral, "that will do you good. how did all this damage to your upper works come about, eh?" "let him wash his face and hands first; he will be better able to talk afterwards." "oh, thank you," said chillingworth. "i am much better; but i have had some hard bruises." "how did it happen?" "i went by myself to watch in the room where the picture was in bannerworth hall." "where the picture was!" said henry; "where it is, you mean, do you not, doctor?" "no; where it was, and where it is not now." "gone!" "yes, gone away; i'll tell you all about it. i went there to watch, but found nobody or nothing there; but suddenly a man stepped out from behind the picture, and we had a fight over it; after which, just as i was getting the worst of it, jack pringle came in." "the dog!" muttered the admiral. "yes, he came in just in time, i believe, to save my life; for the man, whoever he was, would not have hesitated about it." "well, jack is a good man," said the admiral; "there may be worse, at least." "well, we had a desperate encounter for some minutes, during which this fellow wanted to carry off the picture." "carry off the picture?" "yes; we had a struggle for that; but we could not capture him; he was so violent that he broke away and got clear off." "with the picture?" "no, he left the picture behind. well, we were very tired and bruised, and we sat down to recover ourselves from our fatigue, and to consider what was best to be done; but we were some time before we could leave, and then we determined that we would take the picture away with us, as it seemed to be coveted by the robber, for what object we cannot tell." "well, well--where is the picture?" "you shall hear all about it in a minute, if you'll let me take my time. i am tired and sore. well, we brought the picture out, and jack helped me carry it till he came within a couple of hundred yards of the cottage, and there left me." "the lubber!" said the admiral, interjectionally. "well, i rested awhile, and then taking the picture on my shoulders, i proceeded along with it until i came to the wall, when suddenly i heard a great shout, and then down came something heavy upon me, just as if a man had jumped down upon me." "and--and--" "yes," said the doctor, "it was--" "was what?" inquired the admiral. "just what you all seemed to anticipate; you are all before me, but that was it." "a man?" "yes; i had a struggle with him, and got nearly killed, for i am not equal to him in strength. i was sadly knocked about, and finally all the senses were knocked out of me, and i was, i suppose, left for dead." "and what became of the picture?" "i don't know; but i suppose it was taken away, as, when i came to myself, it was gone; indeed, i have some faint recollection of seeing him seize the portrait as i was falling." there was a pause of some moments, during which all the party appeared to be employed with their own thoughts, and the whole were silent. "do you think it was the same man who attacked you in the house that obtained the picture?" at last inquired henry bannerworth. "i cannot say, but i think it most probable that it was the same; indeed, the general appearance, as near as i could tell in the dark, was the same; but what i look upon as much stronger is, the object appears to be the same in both cases." "that is very true," said henry bannerworth--"very true; and i think it more than probable myself. but come, doctor, you will require rest and nursing after your dangers." chapter xciii. the alarm at anderbury.--the suspicions of the bannerworth family, and the mysterious communication. [illustration] about twenty miles to the southward of bannerworth hall was a good-sized market-town, called anderbury. it was an extensive and flourishing place, and from the beauty of its situation, and its contiguity to the southern coast of england, it was much admired; and, in consequence, numerous mansions and villas of great pretension had sprang up in its immediate neighbourhood. betides, there were some estates of great value, and one of these, called anderbury-on-the-mount, in consequence of the mansion itself, which was of an immense extent, being built upon an eminence, was to be let, or sold. this town of anderbury was remarkable not only for the beauty of its aspect, but likewise for the quiet serenity of its inhabitants, who were a prosperous, thriving race, and depended very much upon their own resources. there were some peculiar circumstances why anderbury-on-the-mount was to let. it had been for a great number of years in possession of a family of the name of milltown, who had resided there in great comfort and respectability, until an epidemic disorder broke out, first among the servants, and then spreading to the junior branches of the family, and from them to their seniors, produced such devastation, that in the course of three weeks there was but one young man left of the whole family, and he, by native vigour of constitution, had baffled the disorder, and found himself alone in his ancestral halls, the last of his race. soon a settled melancholy took possession of him, and all that had formerly delighted him now gave him pain, inasmuch as it brought to his mind a host of recollections of the most agonising character. in vain was it that the surrounding gentry paid him every possible attention, and endeavoured to do all that was in their power to alleviate the unhappy circumstances in which he was placed. if he smiled, it was in a sad sort, and that was very seldom; and at length he announced his intention of leaving the neighbourhood, and seeking abroad, and in change of scene, for that solace which he could not expect to find in his ancestral home, after what had occurred within its ancient walls. there was not a chamber but which reminded him of the past--there was not a tree or a plant of any kind or description but which spoke to him plainly of those who were now no more, and whose merry laughter had within his own memory made that ancient place echo with glee, filling the sunny air with the most gladsome shouts, such as come from the lips of happy youth long before the world has robbed it of any of its romance or its beauty. there was a general feeling of regret when this young man announced the fact of his departure to a foreign land; for he was much respected, and the known calamities which he had suffered, and the grief under which he laboured, invested his character with a great and painful interest. an entertainment was given to him upon the eve of his departure, and on the next day he was many miles from the place, and the estate of anderbury-on-the-mount was understood to be sold or let. the old mansion had remained, then, for a year or two vacant, for it was a place of too much magnitude, and required by far too expensive an establishment to keep it going, to enable any person whose means were not very large to think of having anything to do with it. so, therefore, it remained unlet, and wearing that gloomy aspect which a large house, untenanted, so very quickly assumes. it was quite a melancholy thing to look upon it, and to think what it must have once been, and what it might be still, compared to what it actually was; and the inhabitants of the neighbourhood had made up their minds that anderbury-on-the-mount would remain untenanted for many a year to come, and, perhaps, ultimately fall into ruin and decay. but in this they were doomed to be disappointed, for, on the evening of a dull and gloomy day, about one week after the events we have recorded as taking place at bannerworth hall and its immediate neighbourhood, a travelling carriage, with four horses and an out-rider, came dashing into the place, and drew up at the principal inn in the town, which was called the anderbury arms. the appearance of such an equipage, although not the most unusual thing in the world, in consequence of the many aristocratic families who resided in the neighbourhood, caused, at all events, some sensation, and, perhaps, the more so because it drove up to the inn instead of to any of the mansions of the neighbourhood, thereby showing that the stranger, whoever he was, came not as a visitor, but either merely baited in the town, being on his road somewhere else, or had some special business in it which would soon be learned. the out-rider, who was in handsome livery, had gallopped on in advance of the carriage a short distance, for the purpose of ordering the best apartments in the inn to be immediately prepared for the reception of his master. "who is he?" asked the landlord. "it's the baron stolmuyer saltsburgh." "bless my heart, i never heard of him before; where did he come from--somewhere abroad i suppose?" "i can't tell you anything of him further than that he is immensely rich, and is looking for a house. he has heard that there is one to let in this immediate neighbourhood, and that's what has brought him from london, i suppose." "yes, there is one; and it is called anderbury-on-the-mount." "well, he will very likely speak to you about it himself, for here he comes." by this time the carriage had halted at the door of the hotel, and, the door being opened, and the steps lowered, there alighted from it a tall man attired in a kind of pelisse, or cloak, trimmed with rich fur, the body of it being composed of velvet. upon his head he wore a travelling cap, and his fingers, as he grasped the cloak around him, were seen to be covered with rings of great value. such a personage, coming in such style, was, of course, likely to be honoured in every possible way by the landlord of the inn, and accordingly he was shown most obsequiously to the handsomest apartment in the house, and the whole establishment was put upon the alert to attend to any orders he might choose to give. he had not been long in the place when he sent for the landlord, who, hastily scrambling on his best coat, and getting his wife to arrange the tie of his neckcloth, proceeded to obey the orders of his illustrious guest, whatever they might chance to be. he found the baron stolmuyer reclining upon a sofa, and having thrown aside his velvet cloak, trimmed with rich fur, he showed that underneath it he wore a costume of great richness and beauty, although, certainly, the form it covered was not calculated to set it off to any great advantage, for the baron was merely skin and bone, and looked like a man who had just emerged from a long illness, for his face was ghastly pale, and the landlord could not help observing that there was a strange peculiarity about his eyes, the reason of which he could not make out. "you are the landlord of this inn, i presume," said the baron, "and, consequently, no doubt well acquainted with the neighbourhood?" "i have the honour to be all that, sir. i have been here about sixteen years, and in that time i certainly ought to know something of the neighbourhood." "'tis well; some one told me there was a little cottage sort of place to let here, and as i am simple and retired in my habits i thought that it might possibly suit me." "a little cottage, sir! there are certainly little cottages to let, but not such as would suit you; and if i might have presumed, sir, to think, i should have considered anderbury-on-the-mount, which is now to let, would have been the place for you. it is a large place, sir, and belonged to a good family, although they are now all dead and gone, except one, and it's he who wants to let the old place." "anderbury-on-the-mount," said the baron, "was the name of the place mentioned to me; but i understood it was a little place." "oh! sir, that is quite a mistake; who told you so? it's the largest place about here; there are a matter of twenty-seven rooms in it, and it stands altogether upon three hundred acres of ground." "and have you the assurance," said the baron, "to call that anything but a cottage, when the castle of the stolmuyers, at saltzburgh, has one suite of reception rooms thirty in number, opening into each other, and the total number of apartments in the whole building is two hundred and sixty, it is surrounded by eight miles of territory." "the devil!" said the landlord. "i beg your pardon, sir, but when i am astonished, i generally say the devil. they want eight hundred pounds a year for anderbury-on-the-mount." "a mere trifle. i will sleep here to-night, and in the morning i will go and look at the place. it is near the sea?" "half a mile, sir, exactly, from the beach; and one of the most curious circumstances of all connected with it is, that there is a subterranean passage from the grounds leading right away down to the sea-coast. a most curious place, sir, partly cut out of the cliff, with cellars in it for wine, and other matters, that in the height of summer are kept as cool as in the deep winter time. it's more for curiosity than use, such a place; and the old couple, that now take care of the house, make a pretty penny, i'll be bound, though they won't own it, by showing that part of the place." "it may suit me, but i shall be able to give a decisive answer when i see it on the morrow. you will let my attendants have what they require, and see that my horses be well looked to." "certainly, oh! certainly, sir, of course; you might go far, indeed, sir, before you found an inn where everything would be done as things are done here. is there anything in particular, sir, you would like for dinner?" "how can i tell that, idiot, until the dinner time arrives?" "well, but, sir, in that case, you know, we scarcely know what to do, because you see, sir, you understand--" "it is very strange to me that you can neither see nor understand your duty. i am accustomed to having the dinner tables spread with all that money can procure; then i choose, but not before, what it suits me to partake of." "wil, sir, that is a very good way, and perhaps we ain't quite so used to that sort of thing as we ought to be in these parts; but another time, sir, we shall know better what we are about, without a doubt, and i only hope, sir, that we shall have you in the neighbourhood for a long time; and so, sir, putting one thing to another, and then drawing a conclusion from both of them, you see, sir, you will be able to understand." "peace! begone! what is the use of all this bellowing to me--i want it not--i care not for it." the baron spoke these words so furiously, that the landlord was rather terrified than otherwise, and left the room hastily, muttering to himself that he had never come across such a tiger, and wondering where the baron could have possibly come from, and what amount of wealth he could be possessed of, that would enable him to live in such a princely style as he mentioned. if the baron stolmuyer of saltzburgh had wished ever so much to impress upon the minds of all persons in the neighbourhood the fact of his wealth and importance, he could not have adopted a better plan to accomplish that object than by first of all impressing such facts upon the mind of the landlord of the anderbury arms, for in the course of another hour it was tolerably well spread all over the town, that never had there been such a guest at the anderbury arms; and that he called anderbury-on-the-mount, with all its rooms--all its outbuildings, and its three hundred acres of ground, a cottage. this news spread like wildfire, awaking no end of speculation, and giving rise to the most exaggerated rumours, so that a number of persons came to the inn on purpose to endeavour to get a look at the baron; but he did not stir from his apartments, so that these wondermongers were disappointed, and even forced to go away as wise as they came; but in the majority of cases they made up their minds that in the morning they should surely be able to obtain a glimpse of him, which was considered a great treat, for a man with an immense income is looked upon in england as a natural curiosity. the landlord took his guest at his word as regards the dinner, and provided such a repast as seldom, indeed, graced the board at the anderbury arms--a repast sufficient for twenty people, and certainly which was a monstrous thing to set before one individual. the baron, however, made no remark, but selected a portion from some of the dishes, and those dishes that he did select from, were of the simplest kind, and not such as the landlord expected him to take, so that he really paid about one hundred times the amount he ought to have done for what actually passed his lips. and then what a fidget the landlord was in about his wines, for he doubted not but such a guest would be extremely critical and hard to please; but, to his great relief, the baron declined taking any wine, merely washing down his repast with a tumbler of cool water; and then, although the hour was very early, he retired at once to rest. the landlord was not disposed to disregard the injunction which the baron had given him to attend carefully on his servants and horses, and after giving orders that nothing should be stinted as regarded the latter, he himself looked to the creature-comforts of the former, and he did this with a double motive, for not only was he anxious to make the most he could out of the baron in the way of charges, but he was positively panting with curiosity to know more about so singular a personage, and he thought that surely the servants must be able to furnish him with some particulars regarding their eccentric master. in this, however, he was mistaken, for although they told him all they knew, that amounted to so little as really not to be worth the learning. they informed him that they had been engaged all in the last week, and that they knew nothing of the baron whatever, or where he came from, or what he was, excepting that he paid them most liberal wages, and was not very exacting in the service he required of them. this was very unsatisfactory, and when the landlord started on a mission, which he considered himself bound to perform, to a mr. leek, in the town, who had the letting of anderbury-on-the-mount, he was quite vexed to think what a small amount of information he was able to carry to him. "i can tell him," he said to himself as he went quickly towards the agent's residence; "i can tell him the baron's name, and that in the morning he wants to look at anderbury-on-the-mount; but that's all i know of him, except that he is a most extraordinary man--indeed, the most extraordinary that i ever came near." mr. leek, the house agent, notwithstanding the deficiency of the facts contained in the landlord's statement, was well enough satisfied to hear that any one of apparent wealth was inquiring after the large premises to let, for, as he said truly to the landlord,-"the commission on letting and receiving the rentals of such a property is no joke to me." "precisely," said the landlord. "i thought it was better to come and tell you at once, for there can be no doubt that he is enormously rich." "if that be satisfactorily proved, it's of no consequence what he is, or who he is, and you may depend i shall be round to the inn early in the morning to attend upon him; and in that case, perhaps, if you have any conversation with him, you will be so good as to mention that i will show him over the premises at his own hour, and you shall not be forgotten, you may depend, if any arrangement is actually come to. it will be just as well for you to tell him what a nice property it is, and that it is to be let for eight hundred a year, or sold outright for eight thousand pounds." "i will, you may depend, mr. leek. a most extraordinary man you will find him; not the handsomest in the world, i can tell you, but handsome is as handsome does, say i; and, if he takes anderbury-on-the-mount, i have no doubt but he will spend a lot of money in the neighbourhood, and we shall all be the better of that, of course, as you well know, sir." this then was thoroughly agreed upon between these high contracting powers, and the landlord returned home very well satisfied, indeed, with the position in which he had put the affair, and resolved upon urging on the baron, as far as it lay within his power so to do, to establish himself in the neighbourhood, and to allow him to be purveyor-in-general to his household, which, if the baron continued in his liberal humour, would be unquestionably a very pleasant post to occupy. chapter xciv. the visitor, and the death in the subterranean passage. [illustration] about an hour and a half after the baron had retired to rest, and while the landlord was still creeping about enjoining silence on the part of the establishment, so that the slumbers of a wealthy and, no doubt, illustrious personage should not be disturbed, there arrived a horseman at the anderbury arms. he was rather a singular-looking man, with a shifting, uneasy-looking glance, as if he were afraid of being suddenly pounced upon and surprised by some one; and although his apparel was plain, yet it was good in quality, and his whole appearance was such as to induce respectful attention. the only singular circumstance was, that such a traveller, so well mounted, should be alone; but that might have been his own fancy, so that the absence of an attendant went for nothing. doubtless, if the whole inn had not been in such a commotion about the illustrious and wealthy baron, this stranger would have received more consideration and attention than he did. upon alighting, he walked at once into what is called the coffee-room of the hotel, and after ordering some refreshments, of which he partook but sparingly, he said, in a mild but solemn sort of tone, to the waiter who attended upon him,-"tell the baron stolmuyer, of saltzburgh, that there is one here who wants to see him." "i beg your pardon, sir," said the waiter, "but the baron is gone to bed." "it matters not to me. if you nor no one else in this establishment will deliver the message i charge you with, i must do so myself." "i'll speak to my master, sir; but the baron is a very great gentleman indeed, and i don't think my master would like to have him disturbed." the stranger hesitated for a time, and then he said,-"show me the baron's apartment. perhaps i ought not to ask any one person connected with this establishment to disturb him, when i am quite willing to do so myself. show me the way." "well, but, sir, the baron may get in a rage, and say, very naturally, that we had no business to let anybody walk up to his room and disturb him, because we wouldn't do so ourselves. so that you see, sir, when you come to consider, it hardly seems the right sort of thing." "since," said the stranger, rising, "i cannot procure even the common courtesy of being shown to the apartment of the person whom i seek, i must find him myself." as he spoke he walked out of the room, and began ascending the staircase, despite the remonstrances of the waiter, who called after him repeatedly, but could not induce him to stop; and when he found that such was the case, he made his way to the landlord, to give the alarm that, for all he knew to the contrary, some one had gone up stairs to murder the baron. this information threw the landlord into such a fix, that he knew not what to be at. at one moment he was for rushing up stairs and endeavouring to interfere, and at another he thought the best plan would be to pretend that he knew nothing about it. while he was in this state of uncertainty, the stranger succeeded in making his way up stairs to the floor from which proceeded the bedrooms, and, apparently, having no fear whatever of the baron stolmuyer's indignation before his eyes, he opened door after door, until he came to one which led him into the apartment occupied by that illustrious individual. the baron, half undressed only, lay in an uneasy slumber upon the bed, and the stranger stood opposite to him for some minutes, as if considering what he should do. "it would be easy," he said, "to kill him; but it will pay me better to spare him. i may be wrong in supposing that he has the means which i hope he has; but that i shall soon discover by his conversation." stretching out, his hand, he tapped the baron lightly on the shoulder, who thereupon opened his eyes and sprang to his feet instantly, glancing with fixed earnestness at the intruder, upon whose face shone the light of a lamp which was burning in the apartment. then the baron shrunk back, and the stranger, folding his arms, said,-"you know me. let our interview be as brief as possible. there needs no explanations between us, for we both know all that could be said. by some accident you have become rich, while i continue quite otherwise. it matters not how this has occurred, the fact is everything. i don't know the amount of your possessions; but, from your style of living, they must be great, and therefore it is that i make no hesitation in asking of you, as a price for not exposing who and what you are, a moderate sum." "i thought that you were dead." "i know you did; but you behold me here, and, consequently, that delusion vanishes." "what sum do you require, and what assurance can i have that, when you get it, the demand will not be repeated on the first opportunity?" "i can give you no such assurance, perhaps, that would satisfy you entirely; but, for more reasons than i choose to enter into, i am extremely anxious to leave england at once and forever. give me the power to do so that i require, and you will never hear of me again." [illustration] the baron hesitated for some few seconds, during which he looked scrutinizingly at his companion, and then he said, in a tone of voice that seemed as if he were making the remark to himself rather than to the other,-"you look no older than you did when last we parted, and that was years ago." "why should i look older? you know as well as i that i need not. but, to be brief, i do not wish to interfere with any plans or projects you may have on hand. i do not wish to be a hindrance to you. let me have five thousand pounds, and i am off at once and forever, i tell you." "five thousand! the man raves--five thousand pounds! say one thousand, and it is yours." "no; i have fixed my price; and if you do not consent, i now tell you that i will blazon forth, even in this house, who and what you are; and, let your schemes of ambition or of cupidity be what they may, you may be assured that i will blast them all." "this is no place in which to argue such a point; come out into the open air; 'walls have ears;' but come out, and i will give you such special reasons why you should not now press your claim at all, that you shall feel much beholden to me for them, and not regret your visit." "if that we come to terms, i no more desire than you can do that any one should overhear our conversation. i prefer the open air for any conference, be it whatever it may--much prefer it; and therefore most willingly embrace your proposition. come out." the baron put on his travelling cap, and the rich velvet cloak, edged with fur, that he possessed, and leaving his chamber a few paces in advance of his strange visitor, he descended the staircase, followed by him. in the hall of the hotel they found the landlord and almost the whole of the establishment assembled, in deep consultation as to whether or not any one was to go up stairs and ascertain if the stranger who had sought the baron's chamber was really a friend or an enemy. but when they saw the two men coming down, at all events apparently amicably, it was a great relief, and the landlord rushed forward and opened the door, for which piece of service he got a very stately bow from the baron, and a slight inclination of the head from his visitor, and then they both passed out. "i have ascertained," said the man who came on horseback, "that for the last week in london you have lived in a style of the most princely magnificence, and that you came down here, attended as if you were one of the first nobles of the land." "these things amuse the vulgar," said the baron. "i do not mind admitting to you that i contemplate residing on this spot, and perhaps contracting a marriage." "another marriage?" "and why not? if wives will die suddenly, and no one knows why, who is to help it. i do not pretend to control the fates." "this, between us, is idle talk indeed--most idle; for we know there are certain circumstances which account for the strangest phenomena; but what roaring sound is that which comes so regularly and steadily upon the ear." "it is the sea washing upon the coast. the tide is no doubt advancing, and, as the eddying surges roll in upon the pebbly shore, they make what, to my mind, is this pleasant music." "i did not think we were so near the ocean. the moon is rising; let us walk upon the beach, and as that sound is such pleasant music, you shall hear it while i convince you what unpleasant consequences will arise from a refusal of the modest and moderate terms i offer you." "we shall see, we shall see; but i must confess it does seem to me most extraordinary that you ask of me a positive fortune, for fear you should deprive me of a portion of one; but you cannot mean what you say." while they were talking they reached a long strip of sand which was by the seashore, at the base of some cliffs, through which was excavated the passage from the coast into the grounds of anderbury house, and which had been so expatiated upon by the landlord of the inn, in his description of the advantages attendant upon that property. there were some rude steps, leading to a narrow arched door-way, which constituted an entrance to this subterraneous region; and as the moonlight streamed over the wide waste of waters, and fell upon this little door-way in the face of the cliff, he became convinced that it was the entrance to that excavation, and he eyed it curiously. "what place is that?" said his companion. "it is a private entrance to the grounds of a mansion in this neighbourhood." "private enough, i should presume; for if there be any other means of reaching the house, surely no one would go through such a dismal hole as that towards it; but come, make up your mind at once. there need be no quarrelling upon the subject of our conference, but let it be a plain matter of yes or no. is it worth your while to be left alone in peace, or is it not?" "it is worth my while, but not at such a price as that you mentioned; and i cannot help thinking that some cheaper mode of accomplishing the same object will surely present itself very shortly." "i do not understand you; you talk ambiguously." "but my acts," said the baron, "shall be clear and plain enough, as you shall see. could you believe it possible that i was the sort of person to submit tamely to any amount of extortion you chose to practise upon me. there was a time when i thought you possessed great sense and judgment when i thought that you were a man who weighed well the chances of what you were about; but now i know to the contrary; and i think for less than a thousand pounds i may succeed in ridding myself of you." "i do not understand you; you had better beware how you tamper with me, for i am not one who will be calmly disposed to put up with much. the sense, tact, and worldly knowledge which you say you have before, from time to time, given me credit for, belongs to me still, and i am not likely easily to commit myself." "indeed; do you think you bear such a charmed life that nothing can shake it?" "i think nothing of the sort; but i know what i can do--i am armed." "and i; and since it comes to this, take the reward of your villany; for it was you who made me what i am, and would now seek to destroy my every hope of satisfaction." as the baron spoke he drew from his breast a small pistol, which, with the quickness of thought, he held full in the face of his companion, and pulled the trigger. there can be no doubt on earth that his intention was to commit the murder, but the pistol missed fire, and he was defeated in his intention at that moment. then the stranger laughed scornfully, and drawing a pistol from his pocket, he presented it at the baron's head, saying,-"do i not bear a charmed life? if i had not, should i have escaped death from you now? no, i could not; but you perceive that even a weapon that might not fail you upon another occasion is harmless against me; and can you expect that i will hesitate now to take full and ample revenge upon you for this dastardly attempt?" these words were spoken with great volubility, so much so, indeed, that they only occupied a few very brief seconds in delivering; and then, perhaps, the baron's career might have ended, for it seemed to be fully the intention of the other to conclude what he said by firing the pistol in his face; but the wily aspect of the baron's countenance was, after all, but a fair index of the mind, and, just as the last words passed the lips of his irritated companion, he suddenly dropped in a crouching position to the ground, and, seizing his legs, threw him over his head in an instant. the pistol was discharged, at the same moment, and then, with a shout of rage and satisfaction, the baron sprang upon his foe, and, kneeling upon his breast, he held aloft in his hand a glittering dagger, the highly-polished blade of which caught the moonbeams, and reflected them into the dazzled eyes of the conquered man, whose fate now appeared to be certain. "fool!" said the baron, "you must needs, then, try conclusions with me, and, not content with the safety of insignificance, you must be absurd enough to think it possible you could extort from me whatever sums your fancy dictated, or with any effect threaten me, if i complied not with your desires." "have mercy upon me. i meant not to take your life; and, therefore, why should you take mine?" "you would have taken it, and, therefore, you shall die. know, too, as this is your last moment, that, vampyre as you are, and as i, of all men, best know you to be, i will take especial care that you shall be placed in some position after death where the revivifying moonbeams may not touch you, so that this shall truly be your end, and you shall rot away, leaving no trace behind of your existence, sufficient to contain the vital principle." "no--no! you cannot--will not. you will have mercy." "ask the famished tiger for mercy, when you intrude upon his den." as he spoke the baron ground his teeth together with rage, and, in an instant, buried the poniard in the throat of his victim. the blade went through to the yellow sand beneath, and the murderer still knelt upon the man's chest, while he who had thus received so fatal a blow tossed his arms about with agony, and tried in vain to shriek. the nature of the wound, however, prevented him from uttering anything but a low gurgling sound, for he was nearly choked with his own blood, and soon his eyes became fixed and of a glassy appearance; he stretched out his two arms, and dug his fingers deep into the sand. the baron drew forth the poniard, and a gush of blood immediately followed it, and then one deep groan testified to the fact, that the spirit, if there be a spirit, had left its mortal habitation, and winged its flight to other realms, if there be other realms for it to wing its flight to. "he is dead," said the baron, and, at the same moment, a roll of the advancing tide swept over the body, drenching the living, as well as the dead, with the brine of the ocean. the baron stooped and rinsed the dagger in the advancing tide from the clotted blood which had clung to it, and then, wiping it carefully, he returned it to its sheath, which was hidden within the folds of his dress; and, rising from his kneeling posture upon the body, he stood by its side, with folded arms, gazing upon it, for some minutes, in silence, heedless of the still advancing water, which was already considerably above his feet. then he spoke in his ordinary accents, and evidently caring nothing for the fact that he had done such a deed. "i must dispose of this carcase," he said, "which now seems so lifeless, for the moon is up, and if its beams fall upon it, i know, from former experience, what will happen; it will rise again, and walk the earth, seeking for vengeance upon me, and the thirst for that vengeance will become such a part of its very nature, that it will surely accomplish something, if not all that it desires." after a few moments' consideration, he stooped, and, with more strength than one would have thought it possible a man reduced almost, as he was, to a skeleton could have exerted, he lifted the body, and carried it rapidly up the beach towards the cliffs. he threw it down upon the stone steps that led to the small door of the excavation in the cliff, and it fell upon them with a sickening sound, as if some of the bones were surely broken by the fall. the object, then, of the baron seemed to be to get this door open, if he possibly could; but that was an object easier to be desired than carried into effect, for, although he exerted his utmost power, he did not succeed in moving it an inch, and he began evidently to think that it would be impossible to do so. but yet he did not give up the attempt at once, but looking about upon the beach, until he found a large heavy stone, he raised it in his arms, and, approaching the door, he flung it against it with such tremendous force, that it flew open instantly, disclosing within a dark and narrow passage. apparently rejoiced that he had accomplished this much, he stopped cautiously within the entrance, and then, taking from a concealed pocket that was in the velvet cloak which he wore a little box, he produced from it some wax-lights and some chemical matches, which, by the slightest effort, he succeeded in igniting, and then, with one of the lights in his hand to guide him on his way, he went on exploring the passage, and treading with extreme caution as he went, for fear of falling into any of the ice-wells which were reported to be in that place. after proceeding about twenty yards, and finding that there was no danger, he became less cautious; but, in consequence of such less caution, he very nearly sacrificed his life, for he came upon an ice-well which seemed a considerable depth, and into which he had nearly plunged headlong. he started back with some degree of horror; but that soon left him, and then, after a moment's thought, he sought for some little nook in the wall, in which he might place the candle, and soon finding one that answered the purpose well, he there left it, having all the appearance of a little shrine, while he proceeded again to the mouth of that singular and cavernous-looking place. he had, evidently, quite made up his mind what to do, for, without a moment's hesitation, he lifted the body again, and carried it within the entrance, walking boldly and firmly, now that he knew there was no danger between him and the light, which shed a gleam through the darkness of the place of a very faint and flickering character. he reached it rapidly, and when he got to the side of the well, he, without a moment's hesitation, flung it headlong down, and, listening attentively, he heard it fall with a slight plash, as if there was some water at the bottom of the pit. it was an annoyance, however, for him to find that the distance was not so deep as he had anticipated, and when he took the light from the niche where he had placed it, and looked earnestly down, he could see the livid, ghastly-looking face of the dead man, for the body had accidentally fallen upon its back, which was a circumstance he had not counted upon, and one which increased the chances greatly of its being seen, should any one be exploring, from curiosity, that not very inviting place. this was annoyance, but how could it be prevented, unless, indeed, he chose to descend, and make an alteration in the disposition of the corpse? but this was evidently what he did not choose to do; so, after muttering to himself a few words expressive of his intention to leave it where it was, he replaced the candle, after extinguishing it, in the box from whence he had taken it, and carefully walked out of the dismal place. the moonbeams were shining very brightly and beautifully upon the face of the cliffs, when he emerged from the subterranean passage, so that he could see the door, the steps, and every object quite distinctly; and, to his gratification, he found that he had not destroyed any fastening that was to the door, but that when it was slammed shut, it struck so hard and fast, that the strength of one man could not possibly move it, even the smallest fraction of an inch. "i shall be shown all this to-morrow," he said; "and if i take this house i must have an alteration made in this door, so that it may open with a lock, instead of by main violence, as at present; but if, in the morning, when i view anderbury house, i can avoid an entrance into this region, i will do so, and at my leisure, if i become the possessor of the estate, i can explore every nook and cranny of it." he then folded his cloak about him, after pulling the door as closely as he could. he walked slowly and thoughtfully back to the inn. it was quite evident that the idea of the murder he had committed did not annoy him in the least, and that in his speculations upon the subject he congratulated himself much upon having so far succeeded in getting rid of certainly a most troublesome acquaintance. "'tis well, indeed," he said, "that just at this juncture he should throw himself in my way, and enable me so easy to feel certain that i shall never more be troubled with him. truly, i ran some risk, and when my pistol missed fire, it seemed as if my evil star was in its ascendant, and that i was doomed myself to become the victim of him whom i have laid in so cold a grave. but i have been victorious, and i am willing to accept the circumstance as an omen of the past--that my fortunes are on the change. i think i shall be successful now, and with the ample means which i now possess, surely, in this country, where gold is loved so well, i shall be able to overcome all difficulties, and to unite myself to some one, who--but no matter, her fate is an after consideration." chapter xcv. the marriage in the bannerworth family arranged. [illustration] after the adventure of the doctor with regard to the picture about which such an air of mystery and interest has been thrown, the bannerworth family began to give up all hopes of ever finding a clue to those circumstances concerning which they would certainly have liked to have known the truth, but of which it was not likely they would ever hear anything more. dr. chillingworth now had no reserve, and when he had recovered sufficiently to feel that he could converse without an effort, he took an opportunity, while the whole of the family were present, to speak of what had been his hopes and his expectations. "you are all aware," he said, "now, of the story of marmaduke bannerworth, and what an excessively troublesome person he was, with all deference, to you, henry; first of all, as to spending all his money at the gaming-table, and leaving his family destitute; and then, when he did get a lump of money which might have done some good to those he left behind him--hiding it somewhere where it could not be found at all, and so leaving you all in great difficulty and distress, when you might have been independent." "that's true enough, doctor," said henry; "but you know the old proverb,--that ill-gotten wealth never thrives; so that i don't regret not finding this money, for i am sure we should have been none the happier with it, and perhaps not so happy." "oh, bother the old proverb; thirty or forty thousand pounds is no trifle to be talked lightly of, or the loss of which to be quietly put up with, on account of a musty proverb. it's a large sum, and i should like to have placed it in your hands." "but as you cannot, doctor, there can be no good possibly done by regretting it." "no, certainly; i don't mean that; utter regret is always a very foolish thing; but it's questionable whether something might not be done in the matter, after all, for you, as it appears, by all the evidence we can collect, that it must have been varney, after all, who jumped down upon me from the garden-wall in so sudden a manner: and, if the picture be valuable to him, it must be valuable to us." "but how are we to get it, and if we could, i do not see that it would be of much good to anybody, for, after all, it is but a painting." "there you go again," said the doctor, "depreciating what you know nothing about; now, listen to me, master henry, and i will tell you. that picture evidently had some sort of lining at the back, over the original canvas; and do you think i would have taken such pains to bring it away with me if that lining had not made me suspect that between it and the original picture the money, in bank notes, was deposited?" "had you any special reason for supposing such was the case?" "yes; most unquestionably i had; for when i got the picture fairly down, i found various inequalities in the surface of the back, which led me to believe that rolls of notes were deposited, and that the great mistake we had all along made was in looking behind the picture, instead of at the picture itself. i meant immediately to have cut it to pieces when i reached here with it; but now it has got into the hands of somebody else, who knows, i suspect, as much i do." "it is rather provoking." "rather provoking! is that the way to talk of the loss of heaven knows how many thousands of pounds! i am quite aggravated myself at the idea of the thing, and it puts me in a perfect fever to think of it, i can assure you." "but what can we do?" "oh! i propose an immediate crusade against varney, the vampyre, for who but he could have made such an attack upon me, and force me to deliver up such a valuable treasure?" "never heed it, doctor," said flora; "let it go; we have never had or enjoyed that money, so it cannot matter, and it is not to be considered as the loss of an actual possession, because we never did actually possess it." "yes," chimed in the admiral; "bother the money! what do we care about it; and, besides, charley holland is going to be very busy." "busy!" said the doctor, "how do you mean?" "why, isn't he going to be married directly to flora, here, and am not i going to settle the whole of my property upon him on condition that he takes the name of bell instead of holland? for, you see, his mother was my sister, and of course her name was bell. as for his father holland, it can't matter to him now what charley is called; and if he don't take the name of bell i shall be the last in the family, for i am not likely to marry, and have any little bells about me." "no," said the doctor; "i should say not; and that's the reason why you want to ring the changes upon charles holland's name. do you see the joke, admiral?" "i can't say i do--where is it? it's all very well to talk of jokes, but if i was like charles, going to be married, i shouldn't be in any joking humour, i can tell you, but quite the reverse; and as for you and your picture, if you want it, doctor, just run after varney yourself for it; or, stay--i have a better idea than that--get your wife to go and ask him for it, and if she makes half such a clamour about his ears that she did about ours, he will give it her in a minute, to get rid of her." "my wife!--you don't mean to say she has been here?" "yes, but she has though. and now, doctor, i can tell you i have seen a good deal of service in all parts of the world, and, of course, picked up a little experience; and, if i were you, some of these days, when mrs. chillingworth ain't very well, i'd give her a composing draught that would make her quiet enough." "ah! that's not my style of practice, admiral; but i am sorry to hear that mrs. chillingworth has annoyed you so much." "pho, pho, man!--pho, pho! do you think she could annoy me? why, i have encountered storms and squalls in all latitudes, and it isn't a woman's tongue now that can do anything of an annoying character, i can tell you; far from it--very far from it; so don't distress yourself upon that head. but come, doctor, we are going to have the wedding the day after to-morrow." "no, no," said flora; "the week after next, you mean," "is it the week after next? i'll be hanged if i didn't think it was the day after to-morrow; but of course you know best, as you have settled it all among you. i have nothing to do with it." "of course, i shall, with great pleasure," returned the doctor, "be present on the interesting occasion; but do you intend taking possession of bannerworth hall again?" "no, certainly not," said henry; "we propose going to the dearbrook estate, and there remaining for a time to see how we all like it. we may, perchance, enjoy it very much, for i have heard it spoken of as an attractive little property enough, and one that any one might fancy, after being resident a short time upon it." "well," said the admiral; "that is, i believe, settled among us, but i am sure we sha'n't like it, on account of the want of the sea. why, i tell you, i have not seen a ship myself for this eighteen months; there's a state of things, you see, that won't do to last, because one would get dry-mouldy: it's a shocking thing to see nothing but land, land, wherever you go." from the preceding conversation may be gathered what were the designs of the bannerworth family, and what progress had been made in carrying them out. from the moment they had discovered the title-deeds of the dearbrook property, they had ceased to care about the large sum of money which marmaduke bannerworth had been supposed to have hidden in some portion of bannerworth hall. they had already passed through quite enough of the busy turmoils of existence to be grateful for anything that promised ease and competence, and that serenity of mind which is the dearest possession which any one can compass. consequently was it, that, with one accord, they got rid of all yearning after the large sum which the doctor was so anxious to procure for them, and looked forward to a life of great happiness and contentment. on the whole, too, when they came to talk the matter over quietly among themselves, they were not sorry that varney had taken himself off in the way he had, for really it was a great release; and, as he had couched his farewell in words which signified it was a final one, they were inclined to think that he must have left england, and that it was not likely they should ever again encounter him, under any circumstances whatever. it was to be considered quite as a whim of the old admiral's, the changing of charles holland's name to bell; but, as charles himself said when the subject was broached to him,--"i am so well content to be called whatever those to whom i feel affection think proper, that i give up my name of holland without a pang, willingly adopting in its stead one that has always been hallowed in my remembrance with the best and kindest recollections." and thus this affair was settled, much to the satisfaction of flora, who was quite as well content to be called mrs. bell as to be called mrs. holland, since the object of her attachment remained the same. the wedding was really fixed for the week after that which followed the conversation we have recorded; but the admiral was not at all disposed to allow flora and his nephew charles to get through such an important period of their lives without some greater demonstration and show than could be made from the little cottage where they dwelt; and consequently he wished that they should leave that and proceed at once to a larger mansion, which he had his eye upon a few miles off, and which was to be had furnished for a time, at the pleasure of any one. "and we won't shut ourselves up," said the admiral; "but we will find out all the christian-like people in the neighbourhood, and invite them to the wedding, and we will have a jolly good breakfast together, and lots of music, and a famous lunch; and, after that, a dinner, and then a dance, and all that sort of thing; so that there shall be no want of fun." as may be well supposed, both charles and flora shrunk from so public an affair; but, as the old man had evidently set his heart upon it, they did not like to say they positively would not; so, after a vain attempt to dissuade him from removing at all from the cottage until they removed for good, they gave up the point to him, and he had it all his own way. he took the house, for one month, which had so taken his fancy, and certainly a pretty enough place it was, although they found out afterwards, that why it was he was so charmed with it consisted in the fact that it bore the name of a vessel which he had once commanded; but this they did not know until a long time afterwards, when it slipped out by mere accident. they stipulated with the admiral that there should not be more than twenty guests at the breakfast which was to succeed the marriage ceremony; and to that he acceded; but henry whispered to charles holland,-"i know this public wedding to be distasteful to you, and most particularly do i know it is distasteful to flora; so, if you do not mind playing a trick upon the old man, i can very easily put you in the way of cheating him entirely." "indeed; i should like to hear, and, what is more, i should like to practise, if you think it will not so entirely offend him as to make him implacable." "not at all, not at all; he will laugh himself, when he comes to know it, as much as any of us; the present difficulty will be to procure flora's connivance; but that we must do the best way we can by persuasion." what this scheme was will ultimately appear; but, certain it is, that the old admiral had no suspicion of what was going on, and proceeded to make all his arrangements accordingly. from his first arrival in the market town--in the neighbourhood of which was bannerworth hall--it will be recollected that he had taken a great fancy to the lawyer, in whose name a forged letter had been sent him, informing him of the fact that his nephew, charles holland, intended marrying into a family of vampyres. it was this letter, as the reader is aware, which brought the old admiral and jack pringle into the neighbourhood of the hall; and, although it was a manoeuvre to get rid of charles holland, which failed most signally, there can be no doubt but that such a letter was the production of sir francis varney, and that he wrote it for the express purpose of getting rid of charles from the hall, who had begun materially to interfere with his plans and projects there. after some conversation with himself, the admiral thought that this lawyer would be just the man to recommend the proper sort of people to be invited to the wedding of charles and flora; so he wrote to him, inviting himself to dinner, and received back a very gracious reply from the lawyer, who declared that the honour of entertaining a gentleman whom he so much respected as admiral bell, was greater than he had a right to expect by a great deal, and that he should feel most grateful for his company, and await his coming with the greatest impatience. "a devilish civil fellow, that attorney," said the admiral, as he put the letter in his pocket, "and almost enough to put one in conceit of lawyers." "yes," said jack pringle, who had overheard the admiral read the letter. "yes, we will honour him; and i only hope he will have plenty of grog; because, you see, if he don't--d--n it! what's that? can't you keep things to yourself?" this latter exclamation arose from the fact that the admiral was so indignant at jack for listening to what he had been saying, as to throw a leaden inkstand, that happened to be upon the table, at his head. "you mutinous swab!" he said, "cannot a gentleman ask me to dinner, or cannot i ask myself, without you putting your spoke in the windlass, you vagabond?" "oh! well," said jack, "if you are out of temper about it, i had better send my mark to the lawyer, and tell him that we won't come, as it has made some family differences." "family, you thief!" said the admiral. "what do you mean? what family do you think would own you? d--n me, if i don't think you came over in some strange ship. but, i tell you what it is, if you interfere in this matter, i'll be hanged if i don't blow your brains out." "and you'll be hanged if you do," said jack, as he walked out of the room; "so it's all one either way, old fizgig." "what!" roared the admiral, as he sprang up and ran after jack. "have i lived all these years to be called names in my own ship--i mean my own house? what does the infernal rascal mean by it?" the admiral, no doubt, would have pursued jack very closely, had not flora intercepted him, and, by gentle violence, got him back to the room. no one else could have ventured to have stopped him, but the affection he had for her was so great that she could really accomplish almost anything with him; and, by listening quietly to his complaints of jack pringle--which, however, involved a disclosure of the fact which he had intended to keep to himself, that he had sought the lawyer's advice--she succeeded in soothing him completely, so that he forgot his anger in a very short time. but the old man's anger, although easily aroused, never lasted very long; and, upon the whole, it was really astonishing what he put up with from jack pringle, in the way of taunts and sneers, of all sorts and descriptions, and now and then not a little real abuse. and, probably, he thought likewise that jack pringle did not mean what he said, on the same principle that he (the admiral), when he called jack a mutinous swab and a marine, certainly did not mean that jack was those things, but merely used them as expletives to express a great amount of indignation at the moment, because, as may be well supposed, nothing in the world could be worse, in admiral bell's estimation, that to be a mutinous swab or a marine. it was rather a wonder, though, that, in his anger some day, he did not do jack some mischief; for, as we have had occasion to notice in one or two cases, the admiral was not extremely particular as to what sorts of missiles he used when he considered it necessary to throw something at jack's head. it would not have been a surprising thing if jack had really made some communication to the lawyer; but he did stop short at that amount of pleasantry, and, as he himself expressed it, for once in a way he let the old man please himself. the admiral soon forgot this little dispute, and then pleased himself with the idea that he should pass a pleasant day with the attorney. "ah! well," he said; "who would have thought that ever i should have gone and taken dinner with a lawyer--and not only done that, but invited myself too! it shows us all that there may be some good in all sorts of men, lawyers included; and i am sure, after this, i ought to begin to think what i never thought before, and that is, that a marine may actually be a useful person. it shows that, as one gets older, one gets wiser." [illustration] it was an immense piece of liberality for a man brought up, as admiral bell had been, in decidedly one of the most prejudiced branches of the public service, to make any such admissions as these. a very great thing it was, and showed a liberality of mind such as, even at the present time, is not readily found. it is astonishing, as well as amusing, to find how the mind assimilates itself to the circumstances in which it is placed, and how society, being cut up into small sections, imagines different things merely as a consequence of their peculiar application. we shall find that even people, living at different ends of a city, will look with a sort of pity and contempt upon each other; and it is much to be regretted that public writers are found who use what little ability they may possess in pandering to their feelings. it was as contemptible and silly as it was reprehensible for a late celebrated novelist to pretend that he believed there was at place called bloomsbury-square, but he really did not know; because that was merely done for the purpose of raising a silly laugh among persons who were neither respectable on account of their abilities or their conduct. but to return from this digression. the admiral, attired in his best suit, which always consisted of a blue coat, the exact colour of the navy uniform, an immense pale primrose coloured waistcoat, and white kerseymere continuations, went to the lawyer's as had been arranged. if anything at all could flatter the old man's vanity successfully, it certainly would be the manner in which he was received at the lawyer's house, where everything was done that could give him satisfaction. a very handsome repast was laid before him, and, when the cloth was removed, the admiral broached the subject upon which he wished to ask the advice of his professional friend. after telling him of the wedding that was to come off, he said,-"now, i have bargained to invite twenty people; and, of course, as that is exclusive of any of the family, and as i don't know any people about this neighbourhood except yourself, i want you and your family to come to start with, and then i want you to find me out some more decent people to make up the party." "i feel highly flattered," said the attorney, "that, in such a case as this, you should have come to me, and my only great fear is, that i should not be able to give you satisfaction." "oh! you needn't be afraid of that; there is no fear on that head; so i shall leave it all to you to invite the folks that you think proper." "i will endeavour, certainly, admiral, to do my best. of course, living in the town, as i have for many years, i know some very nice people as well as some very queer ones." "oh! we don't want any of the queer ones; but let those who are invited be frank, hearty, good-tempered people, such as one will be glad to meet over and over again without any ceremony--none of your simpering people, who are afraid to laugh for fear of opening their mouths too wide, but who are so mighty genteel that they are afraid to enjoy anything for fear it should be vulgar." "i understand you, admiral, perfectly, and shall endeavour to obey your instructions to the very letter; but, if i should unfortunately invite anybody you don't like, you must excuse me for making such a mistake." "oh, of course--of course. never mind that; and, if any disagreeable fellow comes, we will smother him in some way." "it would serve him right, for no one ought to make himself disagreeable, after being honoured with an invitation from you; but i will be most especially careful, and i hope that such a circumstance will not occur." "never mind. if it should, i'll tell you what i'll do; i'll set jack pringle upon him, and if he don't worry his life out it will be a strange thing to me." "oh," said the lawyer, "i am glad you have mentioned him, for it gives me an opportunity of saying that i have done all in my power to make him comfortable." "all in your power to make him comfortable! what do you mean?" "i mean that i have placed such a dinner before him as will please him; i told him to ask for just whatever he likes." the admiral looked at the lawyer with amazement, for a few moments, in silence, and then he said, "d--n it! why, you don't mean to tell me, that that rascal is here." "oh, yes; he came about ten minutes i before you arrived, and said you were coming, and he has been down stairs feasting all the while since." "stop a bit. do you happen to have any loaded fire arms in the house?" "we have got an old bunderbuss; but what for, admiral?" "to shoot that scoundrel, pringle. i'll blow his brains out, as sure as fate. the impudence of his coming here, directly against my orders, too." "my dear sir, calm yourself, and think nothing of it; it's of no consequence whatever." "no consequence; where is that blunderbuss of yours? do you mean to tell me that mutiny is of no consequence? give me the blunderbuss." "but, my clear sir, we only keep it _in terrorem_, and have no bullets." "never mind that, we can cram in a handful of nails, or brass buttons, or hammer up a few halfpence--anything of that sort will do to settle his business with." "how do you get on, old tarbarrel?" said jack, putting his head in at the door. "are you making yourself comfortable? i'll be hanged if i don't think you have a drop too much already, you look so precious red about the gills. i have been getting on famous, and i thought i'd just hop up for a minute to make your mind easy about me, and tell you so." it was quite evident that jack had done justice to the good cheer of the lawyer, for he was rather unsteady, and had to hold by the door-post to support himself, while there was such a look of contentment upon his countenance as contrasted with the indignation that was manifest upon the admiral's face that, as the saying is, it would have made a cat laugh to see them. "be off with ye, jack," said the lawyer; "be off with ye. go down stairs again and enjoy yourself. don't you see that the admiral is angry with you." "oh, he be bothered," said jack; "i'll soon settle him if he comes any of his nonsense; and mind, mr. lawyer, whatever you do, don't you give him too much to drink." the lawyer ran to the door, and pushed jack out, for he rightly enough suspected that the quietness of the admiral was only that calm which precedes a storm of more than usual amount and magnitude, so he was anxious to part them at once. he then set about appeasing, as well as he could, the admiral's anger, by attributing the perseverance of jack, in following him wherever he went, to his great affection for him, which, combined with his ignorance, might make him often troublesome when he had really no intention of being so. this was certainly the best way of appeasing the old man; and, indeed, the only way in which it could be done successfully, and the proof that it was so, consisted in the fact, that the admiral did consent, at the suggestion of the attorney, to forgive jack once more for the offence he had committed. chapter xcvi. the baron takes anderbury house, and decides upon giving a grand entertainment. [illustration] it was not considered anything extraordinary that, although the baron stolmuyer of saltzburgh went out with the mysterious stranger who had arrived at the anderbury arms to see him, he should return without him for certainly he was not bound to bring him back, by any means whatever. moreover, he entered the inn so quietly, and with such an appearance of perfect composure, that no one could have suspected for a moment that he had been guilty really of the terrific crime which had been laid to his charge--a crime which few men could have committed in so entirely unmoved and passionless a manner as he had done it. but he seemed to consider the taking of a human life as a thing not of the remotest consequence, and not to be considered at all as a matter which was to put any one out of the way, but as a thing to be done when necessity required, with all the ease in the world, without arousing or awaking any of those feelings of remorse which one would suppose ought to find a place in the heart of a man who had been guilty of such monstrous behaviour. he walked up to his own apartment again, and retired to rest with the same feeling, apparently, of calmness, and the same ability to taste of the sweets of repose as had before characterized him. the stranger's horse, which was a valuable and beautiful animal, remained in the stable of the inn, and as, of course, that was considered a guarantee for his return, the landlord, when he himself retired to rest, left one of his establishment sitting up to let in the man who now lay so motionless and so frightful in appearance in one of the ice-wells of the mysterious passage leading from the base of the cliff, to the grounds of anderbury house. but the night wore on, and the man who had been left to let the stranger in, after making many efforts to keep himself awake, dropped into sound repose, which he might just as well have done in the first instance, inasmuch as, although he knew it not, he was engaged in the vain task of waiting for the dead. the morning was fresh and beautiful, and, at a far earlier hour than a person of his quality was expected to make his appearance, the baron descended from his chamber; for, somehow or other, by common consent, it seems to be agreed that great personages must be late in rising, and equally late in going to bed. but the baron was evidently not so disposed to turn night into day, and the landlord congratulated himself not a little upon the fact that he was ready for his illustrious guest when he descended so unexpectedly from his chamber as he did. an ample breakfast was disposed of; that is to say, it was placed upon the table, and charged to the baron, who selected from it what he pleased; and when the meal was over the landlord ventured to enter the apartment, and said to him, with all due humility,-"if you please, sir, mr. leek, who has the letting of anderbury-on-the-mount, that is, anderbury house, as it is usually called, is here, sir, and would be happy to take your orders as to when you would be pleased to look at those premises?" "i shall be ready to go in half a hour," said the baron; "and, as the distance is not great, i will walk from here to the mansion." this message was duly communicated to mr. leek, who thereupon determined upon waiting until the baron should announce his readiness to depart upon the expedition; and he was as good as his word, for, in about half-an-hour afterwards, he descended to the hall, and then mr. leek was summoned, who came out of the bar with such a grand rush, that he fell over a mat that was before him, and saluted the baron by digging his head into his stomach, and then falling sprawling at his feet, and laying hold of his ankle. this little incident was duly apologised for, and explained; after which mr. leek walked on through the town, towards anderbury-on-the-mount, followed by the illustrious personage whom he sincerely hoped he should be able to induce to take it. it was a curious thing to see how they traversed the streets together; for while the baron walked right on, and with a solemn and measured step, mr. leek managed to get along a few paces in front of him, sideways, so that he could keep up a sort of conversation upon the merits of anderbury house, and the neighbourhood in general, without much effort; to which remarks the baron made such suitable and dignified replies as a baron would be supposed to make. "you will find, sir," said mr. leek, "that everything about anderbury is extremely select, and amazingly correct; and i am sure a more delightful place to live in could not be found." "ah!" said the baron; "very likely." "it's lively, too," continued mr. leek; "very lively; and there are two chapels of ease, besides the church." "that's a drawback," said the baron. "a drawback, sir! well, i am sorry i mentioned it; but perhaps you are a roman catholic, sir, and, in that case, the chapels of ease have no interest for you." "not the slightest; but do not, sir, run away with any assumption concerning my religious opinions, for i am not a roman catholic." "no, sir, no, sir; nor more am i; and, as far as i think, and my opinion goes, i say, why shouldn't a gentleman with a large fortune be what he likes, or nothing, if he likes that better? but here we are, sir, close to one of the entrances of anderbury house. there are three principal entrances, you understand, sir, on three sides of the estate, and the fourth side faces the sea, where there is that mysterious passage that leads down from the grounds to the beach, which, perhaps, you have heard of, sir." "the landlord of the inn mentioned it." "we consider it a great curiosity, sir, i can assure you, in these parts--a very great curiosity; and it's an immense advantage to the house, because, you see, sir, in extremely hot weather, all sorts of provisions can be taken down there, and kept at such a very low temperature as to be quite delightful." "that is an advantage." mr. leek rang the bell that hung over one of the entrances, and his summons for admission was speedily answered by the old couple who had charge of the premises, and then, with a view of impressing them with a notion of the importance of the personage whom he had brought to look at the place, he said, aloud,-"the baron stoltmayor, of saltsomething, has come to look at the premises." this announcement was received with all due deference and respect, and the task of showing the baron the premises at once fairly commenced. "here you have," said mr. leek, assuming an oratorical attitude--"here you have the umbrageous trees stooping down to dip their leaves in the purling waters; here you have the sweet foliage lending a delicious perfume to the balmy air; here you have the murmuring waterfalls playing music of the spheres to the listening birds, who sit responsive upon the dancing boughs; here you have all the fragrance of the briny ocean, mingling with the scent of a bank of violets, and wrapping the senses in elysium; here you may never tire of an existence that presents never-ending charms, and that, in the full enjoyment of which, you may live far beyond the allotted span of man." "enough--enough," said the baron. "here you have the choicest exotics taking kindly to a soil gifted by nature with the most extraordinary powers of production; and all that can pamper the appetite or yield delight to the senses, is scattered around by nature with a liberal hand. it is quite impossible that royalty should come near the favoured spot without visiting it as a thing of course; and i forgot to mention that a revenue is derived from some cottages, which, although small, is yet sufficient to pay the tithe on the whole estate." "there, there--that will do." "here you have purling rills and cascades, and fish-ponds so redundant with the finny tribe, that you have but to wish for sport, and it is yours; here you have in the mansion, chambers that vie with the accommodation of a palace--ample dormitories and halls of ancient grandeur; here you have--" "stop," said the baron, "stop; i cannot be pestered in this way with your description. i have no patience to listen to such mere words--show me the house at once, and let me judge for myself." "certainly, sir; oh! certainly; only i thought it right to give you a slight description of the place as it really was: and now, sir, that we have reached the house, i may remark that here we have--" "silence!" said the baron; "if you begin with here we have, i know not when you will leave off. all i require of you is to show me the place, and to answer any question which i may put to you concerning it. i will draw my own conclusions, and nothing you can say, one way or another, will affect my imagination." "certainly, sir, certainly; i shall only be too happy to answer any questions that may be put to me by a person of your lordship's great intelligence; and all i can remark is, that when you reach the drawing-room floor, any person may truly say, here you have--i really beg your pardon, sir--i had not the slightest intention of saying here you have, i assure you; but the words came out quite unawares, i assure you." "peace--peace!" cried again the baron; "you disturb me by this incessant clatter." thus admonished, mr. leek was now quiet, and allowed the baron in his own way to make what investigation he pleased concerning anderbury house. the investigation was not one that could be gone over in ten minutes; for the house was extremely extensive, and the estate altogether presented so many features of beauty and interest, that it was impossible not to linger over it for a considerable period of time. the grounds were most extensive, and planted with such a regard to order and regularity, everything being in its proper place, that it was a pleasure to see an estate so well kept. and although the baron was not a man who said much, it was quite evident, by what little he did utter, that he was very well pleased with anderbury-on-the-mount. "and now," said mr. leek, "i will do myself the pleasure, sir, of showing your grace the subterranean passage." at this moment a loud ring at one of the entrance gates was heard, and upon the man who had charge of the house answering the summons for admission, he found that it was a gentleman, who gave a card on which was the name of sir john westlake, and who desired to see the premises. "sir john westlake," said mr. leek; "oh! i recollect he did call at my office, and say that he thought of taking anderbury-on-the-mount. a gentleman of great and taste is sir john, but i must tell him, baron, that you have the preference if you choose to embrace it." at this moment the stranger advanced, and when he saw the baron, he bowed courteously, upon which mr. leek said,-"i regret, sir john, that if you should take a fancy to the place, i am compelled first of all to give this gentleman the refusal of it." "certainly," said sir john westlake; "do not let me interfere with any one. i have nearly made up my mind, and came to look over the property again; but of course, if this gentleman is beforehand with me, i must be content. i wish particularly to go down to the subterranean passage to the beach, if it is not too much trouble." "trouble! certainly not, sir. here, davis, get some links, and we can go at once; and as this gentleman likewise has seen everything but that strange excavation, he will probably descend with us." "certainly," said the baron; "i shall have great pleasure;" and he said it with so free and unembarrassed an air, that no one could have believed for a moment in the possibility that such a subject of fearful interest to him was there to be found. the entrance from the grounds into this deep cavernous place was in a small but neat building, that looked like a summer-house; and now, torches being procured, and one lit, a door was opened, which conducted at once into the commencement of the excavation; and mr. leek heading the way, the distinguished party, as that gentleman loved afterwards to call it in his accounts of the transaction, proceeded into the very bowels of the earth, as it were, and quickly lost all traces of the daylight. the place did not descend by steps, but by a gentle slope, which it required some caution to traverse, because, being cut in the chalk, which in some places was worn very smooth, it was extremely slippery; but this was a difficulty that a little practice soon overcame, and as they went on the place became more interesting every minute. even the baron allowed mr. leek to make a speech upon the occasion, and that gentleman said,-"you will perceive that this excavation must have been made, at a great expense, out of the solid cliff, and in making it some of the most curious specimens of petrifaction and fossil remains were found. you see that the roof is vaulted, and that it is only now and then a lump of chalk has fallen in, or a great piece of flint; and now we come to one of the ice-wells." they came to a deep excavation, down which they looked, and when the man held the torch beneath its surface, they could dimly see the bottom of it, where there was a number of large pieces of flint stone, and, apparently, likewise, the remains of broken bottles. "there used to be a windlass at the top of this," said mr. leek, "and the things were let down in a basket. they do say that ice will keep for two years in one of these places." "and are there more of these excavations?" said the baron. "oh, dear, yes, sir; there are five or six of them for different purposes; for when the family that used to live in anderbury house had grand entertainments, which they sometimes had in the summer season, they always had a lot of men down here, cooling wines, and passing them up from hand to hand to the house." from the gradual slope of this passage down to the cliffs, and the zigzag character of it, it may be well supposed that it was of considerable extent. indeed, mr. leek asserted that it was half a mile in actual measured length. the baron was not at all anxious to run any risk of a discovery of the dead body which he had cast into that ice-well which was nearest to the opening on to the beach, so, as he went on, he negatived the different proposals that were made to look down into the excavations, and succeeded in putting a stop to that species of inquiry in the majority of instances, but he could not wholly do so. perhaps it would have been better for his purpose if he had encouraged a look into every one of the ice-wells; for, in that case, their similarity of appearance might have tired out sir john westlake before they got to the last one; but as it was, when they reached the one down which the body had been precipitated, he had the mortification to hear mr. leek say,-"and now, sir john, and you, my lord baron, as we have looked at the first of these ice wells and at none of the others, suppose we look at the last." the baron was afraid to say anything; because, if the body were discovered, and identified as that of the visitor at the inn, and who had been seen last with him, any reluctance on his part to have that ice-well examined, might easily afterwards be construed into a very powerful piece of circumstantial evidence against him. he therefore merely bowed his assent, thinking that the examination would be but a superficial one, and that, in consequence, he should escape easily from any disagreeable consequences. but this the fates ordained otherwise; and there seemed no hope of that ice-well in particular escaping such an investigation as was sure to induce some uncomfortable results. "davis," said mr. leek, "these places are not deep, you see, and i was thinking that if you went down one of them, it would be as well; for then you would be able to tell the gentlemen what the bottom was fairly composed of, you understand." "oh, i don't mind, sir," said davis. "i have been down one of them before to-day, i can tell you, sir." "i do not see the necessity," said sir john westlake, "exactly, of such a thing; but still if you please, and this gentleman wishes--" "i have no wish upon the occasion," said the baron; "and, like yourself, cannot see the necessity." "oh, there is no trouble," said mr. leek; "and it's better, now you are here, that you see and understand all about it. how can you get down, davis?" "why, sir, it ain't above fourteen feet altogether; so i sha'n't have any difficulty, for i can hang by my hands about half the distance, and drop the remainder." as he spoke he took off his coat, and then stuck the link he carried into a cleft of the rock, that was beside the brink of the excavation. the baron now saw that there would be no such thing as avoiding a discovery of the fact of the dead body being in that place, and his only hope was, that in its descent it might have become so injured as to defy identification. but this was a faint hope, because he recollected that he had himself seen the face, which was turned upwards, and the period after death was by far too short for him to have any hope that decomposition could have taken place even to the most limited extent. the light, which was stuck in a niche, shed but a few inefficient rays down into the pit, and, as the baron stood, with folded arms, looking calmly on, he expected each moment a scene of surprise and terror would ensue. nor was he wrong; for scarcely had the man plunged down into that deep place, than he uttered a cry of alarm and terror, and shouted,-"murder! murder! lift me out. there is a dead man down here, and i have jumped upon him." "a dead man!" cried mr. leek and sir john westlake in a breath. "how very strange!" said the baron. "lend me a hand," cried davis; "lend me a hand out; i cannot stand this, you know. lend me a hand out, i say, at once." this was easier to speak of than to do, and mr. davis began to discover that it was easier by far to get into a deep pit, than to get out of one, notwithstanding that his assertion of having been down into those places was perfectly true; but then he had met with nothing alarming, and had been able perfectly at his leisure to scramble out the best way he could. now, however, his frantic efforts to release himself from a much more uncomfortable situation than he had imagined it possible for him to get into, were of so frantic a nature, that he only half buried himself in pieces of chalk, which he kept pulling down with vehemence from the sides of the pit, and succeeded in accomplishing nothing towards his rescue. "oh! the fellow is only joking," said the baron, "and amusing himself at our expense." but the manner in which the man cried for help, and the marked terror which was in every tone, was quite sufficient to prove that he was not acting; for if he were, a more accomplished mimic could not have been found on the stage than he was. "this is serious," said sir john westlake, "and cannot be allowed. have you any ropes here by which we can assist him from the pit? don't be alarmed, my man, for if there be a dead body in the pit, it can't harm you. take your time quietly and easily, and you will assuredly get out." "aye," said the baron, "the more haste, the worst speed, is an english proverb, and in this case it will be fully exemplified. this man would easily leave the pit, if he would have the patience, with care and quietness, to clamber up its sides." it would appear that davis felt the truth of these exhortations, for although he trembled excessively, he did begin to make some progress in his ascent, and get so high, that mr. leek was enabled to get hold of his hand, and give him a little assistance, so that, in another minute or so, he was rescued from his situation, which was not one of peril, although it was certainly one of fright. he trembled so excessively, and stuttered and stammered, that for some minutes no one could understand very well what he said; but at length, upon making himself intelligible, he exclaimed,-"there has been a murder! there has been a murder committed, and the body thrown into the ice pit. i felt that i jumped down upon something soft, and when i put down my hand to feel what it was, it came across a dead man's face, and then, of course, i called out." "you certainly did call out." "yes, and so would anybody, i think, under such circumstances. i suppose i shall be hung now, because i had charge of the house?" "that did not strike me until this moment," said the baron; "but if there be a dead body in that pit, it certainly places this man in a very awkward position." "what the deuce do you mean?" said davis; "i don't know no more about it than the child unborn. there is a dead man in the ice-well, and that is all i know about it; but whether he has been there a long time, or a short time, i don't know any more than the moon, so it's no use bothering me about it." "my good man," said the baron, "it would be very wrong indeed to impute to you any amount of criminality in this business, since you may be entirely innocent; and i, for one, believe that you are so, for i cannot think that any guilty man would venture into the place where he had put the body of his victim, in the way that you ventured into that pit. i say i cannot believe it possible, and therefore i think you innocent, and will take care to see that no injustice is done you; but at the same time i cannot help adding, that i think, of course, you will find yourself suspected in some way." "i am very much obliged to you, sir," said davis; "but as i happen to be quite innocent, i am very easy about it, and don't care one straw what people say. i have not been in this excavation for heaven knows how long." "but what's to be done?" said mr. leek. "i suppose it's our duty to do something, under such circumstances." "unquestionably," said the baron; "and the first thing to be done, is to inform the police of what has happened, so that the body may be got up; and as i have now seen enough of the estate to satisfy me as regards its capabilities, i decide at once upon taking it, if i can agree upon the conditions of the tenancy, and i will purchase it, if the price be such as i think suitable." "well," said mr. leek, "if anything could reconcile me to the extraordinary circumstance that has just occurred, it certainly is, baron, the having so desirable a tenant for anderbury-on-the-mount as yourself. but we need not traverse all this passage again, for it is much nearer now to get out upon the sea-coast at once, as we are so close to the other opening upon the beach. it seems to me that we ought to proceed at once to the town, and give information to the authorities of the discovery which we have made." "it is absolutely necessary," said the baron, "so to do; so come along at once. i shall proceed to my inn, and as, of course, i have seen nothing more than yourselves, and consequently could only repeat your evidence, i do not see that my presence is called for. nevertheless, of course, if the justices think it absolutely necessary that i should appear, i can have no possible objection to so do." this was as straightforward as anything that could be desired, and, moreover, it was rather artfully put together, for it seemed to imply that he, mr. leek, would be slighted, if his evidence was not considered sufficient. "of course," said mr. leek; "i don't see at all why, as you, sir, have only the same thing to say as myself, i should not be sufficient." "don't call upon me on any account," said sir john westlake. "oh! no, no," cried mr. leek; "there is no occasion. i won't, you may depend, if it can be helped." sir john, in rather a nervous and excited manner, bade them good day, before they got quite into the town, and hurried off; while the baron, with a dignified bow, when he reached the door of his hotel, said to mr. leek,-"of course i do not like the trouble of judicial investigations more than anybody else, and therefore, unless it is imperatively necessary that i should appear, i shall take it as a favour to be released from such a trouble." "my lord baron," said mr. leek, "you may depend that i shall mention that to the magistrates and the coroner, and all those sort of people;" and then mr. leek walked away, but he muttered to himself, as he did so, "they will have him, as sure as fate, just because he is a baron; and his name will look well in the 'county chronicle.'" mr. leek then repaired immediately to the house of one of the principal magistrates, and related what had occurred, to the great surprise of that gentleman, who suggested immediately the propriety of making the fact known to the coroner of the district, as it was more his business, than a magistrate's, in the first instance, since nobody was accused of the offence. this suggestion was immediately followed, and that functionary directed that the body should be removed from where it was to the nearest public-house, and immediately issued his precept for an inquiry into the case. by this time the matter had begun to get bruited about in the town, and of course it went from mouth to mouth with many exaggerations; and although it by no means did follow that a murder had been committed because a dead body had been found, yet, such was the universal impression; and the matter began to be talked about as the murder in the subterranean passage leading to anderbury house, with all the gusto which the full particulars of some deed of blood was calculated to inspire. and how it spread about was thus:-the fact was, that mr. leek was so anxious to let anderbury-on-the-mount to the rich baron stolmuyer, of saltzburgh, that he got a friend of his to come and personate sir john westlake, while he, the baron, was looking at the premises, in order to drive him at once to a conclusion upon the matter; so that what made sir john so very anxious that he should not be called forward in the matter, consisted in the simple fact that he was nothing else than plain mr. brown, who kept a hatter's shop in the town; but he could not keep his own counsel, and, instead of holding his tongue, as he ought to have done, about the matter, he told it to every one he met, so that in a short time it was generally known that something serious and startling had occurred in the subterranean passage to anderbury house, and a great mob of persons thronged the beach in anxious expectation of getting more information on the matter. the men, likewise, who had been ordered by the coroner to remove the body, soon reached the spot, and they gave an increased impetus to the proceedings, by opening the door of the subterranean passage, and then looking earnestly along the beach as if in expectation of something or somebody of importance. when eagerly questioned by the mob, for the throng of persons now assembled quite amounted to a mob, to know what they waited for, one of them said,-"a coffin was to have been brought down to take the body in." this announcement at once removed anything doubtful that might be in the minds of any of them upon the subject, and at once proclaimed the fact not only that there was a dead body, but that if they looked out they would see it forthwith. the throng thickened, and by the time two men were observed approaching with a coffin on their shoulders, there was scarcely anybody left in the town, except a few rare persons, indeed, who were not so curious as their neighbours. it was not an agreeable job, even to those men who were not the most particular in the world, to be removing so loathsome a spectacle as that which they were pretty sure to encounter in the ice-well; but they did not shrink from it, and, by setting about it as a duty, they got through it tolerably well. they took with them several large torches, and then, one having descended into the pit, fastened a rope under the arms of the dead man, and so he was hauled out, and placed in the shell that was ready to receive him. they were all surprised at the fresh and almost healthful appearance of the countenance, and it was quite evident to everybody that if any one had known him in life, they could not have the least possible difficulty in recognising him now that he was no more. and the only appearance of injury which he exhibited was in that dreadful wound which had certainly proved his death, and which was observable in his throat the moment they looked upon him. [illustration] the crush to obtain a sight of the body was tremendous at the moment it was brought out, and a vast concourse of persons followed it in procession to the town, where the greatest excitement prevailed. it was easily discovered that no known person was missing, and some who had caught a sight of the body, went so far as to assert that it must have been in the ice-well for years, and that the extreme cold had preserved it in all its original freshness. the news, of course, came round, although not through the baron, for he did not condescend to say one word about it at the inn, and it was the landlord who first started the suggestion of--"what suppose it is the gentleman who left his horse here?" this idea had no sooner got possession of his brain, than it each moment seemed to him to assume a more reasonable and tangible form, and without saying any more to any one else about it, he at once started off to where the body lay awaiting an inquest, to see if his suspicions were correct. when he arrived at the public-house and asked to see the body, he was at once permitted to do so; for the landlord knew him, and was as curious as he could be upon the subject by any possibility. one glance, of course, was sufficient, and the landlord at once said,-"yes, i have seen him before, though i don't know his name. he came to my house last night, and left his horse there; and, although i only saw him for a moment as he passed through the hall, i am certain i am not mistaken. i dare say all my waiters will recognise him, as well as the baron stolmuyer of saltzburgh, who is staying with me, and who no doubt knows very well who he is, for he went out with him late and came home alone, and i ordered one of my men to wait up all night in order to let in this very person who is now lying dead before us." "the deuce you did! but you don't suppose the baron murdered him, do you?" "it's a mystery to me altogether--quite a profound mystery. it's very unlikely, certainly; and what's the most extraordinary part of the whole affair is, how the deuce could he come into one of the ice-wells belonging to anderbury house. that's what puzzles me altogether." "well, it will all come out, i hope, at the inquest, which is to be held at four o'clock to day. there must have been foul play somewhere, but the mystery is where, and that heaven only knows, perhaps." "i shall attend," said the landlord, "of course, to identify him; and i suppose, unless anybody claims the horse, i may as well keep possession of it." "don't you flatter yourself that you will get the horse out of the transaction. don't you know quite well that the government takes possession of everything as don't belong to nobody?" "yes; but i have got him, and possession, you know, is nine points of the law." "it may be so; but their tenth point will get the better of you for all that. you take my word for it, the horse will be claimed of you; but i don't mind, as an old acquaintance, putting you up to a dodge." "in what way?" "why, i'll tell you what happened with a friend of mine; but don't think it was me for if it was i would tell you at once, so don't think it. he kept a country public-house; and, one day, an elderly gentleman came in, and appeared to be unwell. he just uttered a word or two, and then dropped down dead. he happened to have in his fob a gold repeater, that was worth, at least a hundred guineas, and my friend, before anybody came, took it out, and popped in, in its stead, an old watch that he had, which was not worth a couple of pounds." "it was running a risk." "it was; but it turned out very well, because the old gentleman happened to be a very eccentric person, and was living alone, so that his friends really did not know what he had, or what he had not, but took it for granted that any watch produced belonged to him. so, if i were you in this case, when the gentleman's horse is claimed. i'd get the d--dest old screw i could, and let them have that." "you would?" "indeed would i, and glory in it, too, as the very best thing that could be done. now, a horse is of use to you?" "i believe ye, it is." "exactly; but what's the use of it to government? and, what's more, if it went to the government, there might be some excuse; but the government will know no more about it, and make not so much as i shall. some jack-in-office will lay hold of it as a thing of course and a perquisite, when you might just as well, and a great deal better, too, keep it yourself, for it would do you some good, as you say, and none to them." "i'll do it; it is a good and a happy thought. there is no reason on earth why i shouldn't do it, and i will. i have made up my mind to it now." "well, i am glad you have. what do you think now the dead man's horse is worth?" "oh! fifty or sixty guineas value." "then very good. then, when the affair is all settled, i will trouble you for twenty pounds. "you?" "yes, to be sure. who else do you suppose is going to interfere with you? one is enough, ain't it, at a time; and i think, after giving you such advice as i have, that i am entitled, at all events, to something." "i tell you what," said the landlord of the hotel, "taking all things into consideration, i have altered my mind rather, and won't do it." "very good. you need not; only mind, if you do, i am down upon you like a shot." the excitement contingent upon the inquest was very great; indeed, the large room in the public-house, where it was held, was crowded to suffocation with persons who were anxious to be present at the proceedings. when the landlord reached home, of course he told his guest, the baron, of the discovery he had made, that the murdered man was the strange visitor of the previous night; for now, from the frightful wound he had received in his throat, the belief that he was murdered became too rational a one to admit of any doubts, and was that which was universally adopted in preference to any other suggestion upon the occasion; although, no doubt, people would be found who would not scruple to aver that he had cut his own throat, after making his way into the well belonging to anderbury house. the landlord had his own misgivings concerning his guest, the baron, now that something had occurred of such an awful and mysterious a nature to one who was evidently known to him. it did not seem to be a pleasant thing to have such an intimate friend of a man who had been murdered in one's house, especially when it came to be considered that he was the last person seen in his company, and that, consequently, he was peculiarly called upon to give an explanation of how, and under what circumstances, he had parted with him. the baron was sitting smoking in the most unconcerned manner in the world, when the landlord came to bring him this intelligence, and, when he had heard him to an end, the remark he made was,-"really, you very much surprise me; but, perhaps, as you are better acquainted with the town than i am, you can tell me who he was?" "why, sir, that is what we hoped you would be able to tell us." "how should i tell you? he introduced himself to me as a mr. mitchell, a surveyor, and he said that, hearing i talked of purchasing or renting anderbury-on-the-mount, he came to tell me that the principal side wall, that you could see from the beach, was off the perpendicular." "indeed, sir!" "yes; and as this was a very interesting circumstance to me, considering that i really did contemplate such a purchase or renting, and do so still, as it was a moonlight night, and he said he could show me in a minute what he meant if i would accompany him, i did so; but when we got there, and on the road, i heard quite enough of him to convince me that he was a little out of his senses, and, consequently, i paid no more attention to what he said, but walked home and left him on the beach." "it's a most extraordinary circumstance, sir; there is no such person, i assure you, as mitchell, a surveyor, in the town; so i can't make it out in the least." "but, i tell you, i consider the man out of his senses, and perhaps that may account for the whole affair." "oh, yes, sir, that would, certainly; but still, it's a very odd thing, because we don't know of such a person at all, and it does seem so extraordinary that he should have made his appearance, all of a sudden, in this sort of way. i suppose, sir, that you will attend the inquest, now, that's to be held upon him?" "oh, yes; i have no objection whatever to that; indeed, i feel myself bound to do so, because i suppose mine is the latest evidence that can be at all produced concerning him." "unquestionably, sir; our coroner is a very clever man, and you will be glad to know him--very glad to know him, sir, and he will be glad to know you, so i am sure it will be a mutual gratification. it's at four o'clock the inquest is to be, and i dare say, sir, if you are there by half-past, it will be time enough." "no doubt of that; but i will be punctual." we have already said the room in which the inquest was to be held was crowded almost to suffocation, and not only was that the case, but the lower part of the house was crammed with people likewise; and there can be very little doubt but the baron would have shrunk from such an investigation from a number of curious eyes, if he could have done so; while the landlord of the house would have had no objection, as far as his profit was concerned in the sale of a great quantity of beer and spirits, to have had such an occurrence every day in the week, if possible. the body lay still in the shell where it had been originally placed. after it had been viewed by the jury, and almost every one had remarked upon the extraordinary fresh appearance it wore, they proceeded at once to the inquiry, and the first witness who appeared was mr. leek, who deposed to have been in company with some gentlemen viewing anderbury house, and to have found the body in one of the ice-wells of that establishment. this evidence was corroborated by that of davis, who had so unexpectedly jumped into the well, without being aware that it contained already so disagreeable a visitor as it did in the person of the murdered man, regarding the cause of whose death the present inquiry was instituted. then the landlord identified the body as that of a gentleman who had come to his house on horseback, and who had afterwards walked out with baron stolmuyer of saltzburgh, who was one of his guests. "is that gentleman in attendance?" said the coroner. "yes, sir, he is; i told him about it, and he has kindly come forward to give all the evidence in his power concerning it." there was a general expression of interest and curiosity when the baron stepped forward, attired in his magnificent coat, trimmed with fur, and tendered his evidence to the coroner, which, of course, was precisely the same as the statement he had made to the landlord of the house; for, as he had made up such a well connected story, he was not likely to prevaricate or to depart from it in the smallest particular. he was listened to with breathless attention, and, when he had concluded, the coroner, with a preparatory hem! said to him, "and you have reason to suppose, sir, that this person was out of his senses?" "it seemed to me so; he talked wildly and incoherently, and in such a manner as to fully induce such a belief." "you left him on the beach?" "i did. i found when i got there that it was only a very small portion, indeed, of anderbury house that was visible; and, although the moon shone brightly, i must confess i did not see, myself, any signs of deviation from the perpendicular; and, such being the case, i left the spot at once, because i could have no further motive in staying; and, moreover, it was not pleasant to be out at night with a man whom i thought was deranged. i regretted, after making this discovery, that i had come from home on such a fool's errand; but as, when one is going to invest a considerable sum of money in any enterprise, one is naturally anxious to know all about it, i went, little suspecting that the man was insane." "did you see him after that?" "certainly not, until to-day, when i recognised in the body that has been exhibited to me the same individual." "gentlemen," said the coroner to the jury, "it appears to me that this is a most mysterious affair; the deceased person has a wound in his throat, which, i have no doubt, you will hear from a medical witness has been the cause of death; and the most singular part of the affair is, how, if he inflicted it upon himself, he has managed to dispose of the weapon with which he did the deed." "the last person seen in his company," said one of the jury, "was the baron, and i think he is bound to give some better explanation of the affair." "i am yet to discover," said the baron, "that the last person who acknowledges to having been in the company of a man afterwards murdered, must, of necessity, be the murderer?" "yes; but how do you account, sir, for there being no weapon found by which the man could have done the deed himself?" "i don't account for it at all--how do you?" "this is irregular," said the coroner; "call the next witness." this was a medical man, who briefly stated that he had seen the deceased, and that the wound in his throat was amply sufficient to account for his death; that it was inflicted with a sharp instrument having an edge on each side. this, then, seemed to conclude the case, and the coroner remarked,-"gentlemen of the jury,--i think this is one of those peculiar cases in which an open verdict is necessary, or else an adjournment without date, so that the matter can be resumed at any time, if fresh evidence can be procured concerning it. there is no one accused of the offence, although it appears to me impossible that the unhappy man could have committed the act himself. we have no reason to throw the least shade of suspicion or doubt upon the evidence of the baron stolmuyer of saltzburgh; for as far as we know anything of the matter, the murdered man may have been in the company of a dozen people after the baron left him." a desultory conversation ensued, which ended in an adjournment of the inquest, without any future day being mentioned for its re-assembling, and so the baron stolmuyer entirely escaped from what might have been a very serious affair to him. it did not, however, appear to shake him in his resolution of taking anderbury-on-the-mount, although mr. leek very much feared it would; but he announced to that gentleman his intention fully of doing so, and told him to get the necessary papers drawn up forthwith. "i hope," he said, "within a few weeks' time to be fairly installed in that mansion, and then i will trouble you, mr. leek, to give me a list of the names of all the best families in the neighbourhood; for i intend giving an entertainment on a grand scale in the mansion and grounds." "sir," said mr. leek, "i shall, with the greatest pleasure, attend upon you in every possible way in this affair. this is a very excellent neighbourhood, and you will have no difficulty, i assure you, sir, in getting together an extremely capital and creditable assemblage of persons. there could not be a better plan devised for at once introducing all the people who are worth knowing, to you." "i thank you," said the baron; "i think the place will suit me well; and, as the baroness stolmuyer of saltzburgh is dead, i have some idea of marrying again; and therefore it becomes necessary and desirable that i should be well acquainted with the surrounding families of distinction in this neighbourhood." this was a hint not at all likely to be thrown away upon mr. leek, who was the grand gossip-monger of the place, and he treasured it up in order to see if he could not make something of it which would be advantageous to himself. he knew quite enough of the select and fashionable families in that neighbourhood, to be fully aware that neither the baron's age nor his ugliness would be any bar to his forming a matrimonial alliance. "there is not one of them," he said to himself, "who would not marry the very devil himself and be called the countess lucifer, or any name of the kind, always provided there was plenty of money: and that the baron has without doubt, so it is equally without doubt he may pick and choose where he pleases." this was quite correct of mr. leek, and showed his great knowledge of human nature; and we entertain with him a candid opinion, that if the baron stolmuyer of saltzburgh had been ten times as ugly as he was, and heaven knows that was needless, he might pick and choose a wife almost when he pleased. this is a general rule; and as, of course, to all general rules there are exceptions, this one cannot be supposed to be free from them. under all circumstances, and in all classes of society, there are single-minded beings who consult the pure dictates of their own hearts, and who, disdaining those things which make up the amount of the ambition of meaner spirits, stand aloof as bright and memorable examples to the rest of human nature. such a being was flora bannerworth. she would never have been found to sacrifice herself to the fancied advantages of wealth and station, but would have given her heart and hand to the true object of her affection, although a sovereign prince had made the endeavour to wean her from it. 