Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"Nor
nobody amongst us, sir."
"Well,
then, he's in nobody's way, it he?—nobody wants to take his berth, I
suppose?"
The
men looked at each other somewhat blank; they didn't understand the meaning at
all—far from it; and the idea of any one's wanting to take the stranger's place
on the water casks was so outrageously ludicrous, that at any other time they
would have considered it a devilish good joke and have never ceased laughing at
it.
He
paused some minutes, and then one of them said,—
"It
isn't that we envy him his berth, captain, 'cause nobody else could live there
for a moment. Any one amongst us that had been there would have been washed
overboard a thousand times over."
"So
they would," said the captain.
"Well,
sir, he's more than us."
"Very
likely; but how can I help that?"
"We
think he's the main cause of all this racket in the heavens—the storm and
hurricane; and that, in short, if he remains much longer we shall all
sink."
"I
am sorry for it. I don't think we are in any danger, and had the strange being
any power to prevent it, he would assuredly do so, lest he got drowned."
"But
we think if he were thrown overboard all would be well."
"Indeed!"
"Yes,
captain, you may depend upon it he's the cause of all the mischief. Throw him
overboard and that's all we want."
"I
shall not throw him overboard, even if I could do such a thing; and I am by no
means sure of anything of the kind."
"We
do not ask it, sir."
"What
do you desire?"
"Leave
to throw him overboard—it is to save our own lives."
"I
can't let you do any such thing; he's in nobody's way."
"But
he's always a whistling. Only hark now, and in such a hurricane as this, it is
dreadful to think of it. What else can we do, sir?—he's not human."
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. "D—n 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."
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 vampyre. 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 no 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.
"D—n
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 vampyre.
"I
have remained here long enough now to satisfy myself that this vampyre 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 vampyre 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 vampyre 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 vampyre, 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 d——d imposter! Nobody with a dash of my family blood in his
veins would have acted so to save himself from a thousand deaths."