Complete Works of Bram Stoker (568 page)

“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.

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.”