by Bram Stoker
“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 he 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 go
es, 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, ugl
y 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.”