by Oscar Wilde
“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 vampire.”
“Hush! hush!”
“I tell you, Marchdale,” cried Henry, in a wild, excited manner, “he is a vampire. 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 vampire. 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 vampire?”
“Yes; but reflect, Henry, for a moment upon the length to which you might carry out so dangerous an argument. It is said that vampires are made by vampires 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 vampire, 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 vampire 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 vampire 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.
CHAPTER XV.
THE OLD ADMIRAL AND HIS SERVANT.—THE COMMUNICATION FROM THE LANDLORD OF THE NELSON’S ARMS.
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 vampire, spread the news far and wide, so that in the adjoining villages and market-towns the vampire 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 vampire. Nursery maids began to think a vampire 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 vampire 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, it 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.”
“Damn 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, damn 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, a 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 damned 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 damned!”
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 damned 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 damned 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, s
ir?” 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.”