Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

“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 bands 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 or 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.

  “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. — — ”

  “Chillingworth.”

  “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, —

  “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.”