by Oscar Wilde
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. “Damn 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.
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.
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 vampire. 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 n
o 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.
“Damn 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 vampire.
“I have remained here long enough now to satisfy myself that this vampire 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 vampire 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 vampire 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 vampire, 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 damned 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.”