Complete Works of Bram Stoker (596 page)

“The idea,” he added, “of a fellow coming here, paying four guineas a week for board and lodging, telling me he would not have minded eight, and then not wanting any breakfast; it’s enough to aggravate half a dozen saints; but what an odd fish he looks.”

At this moment the ostler came in, and, standing at the bar, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, as he said,  — 

“I suppose you’ll stand a quart for that, master?”

“A quart for what, you vagabond? A quart because I’ve done myself up in heaps; a quart because I’m fit to pull myself into fiddlestrings?”

“No,” said the ostler; “because I’ve just put up the gentleman’s horse.”

“What gentleman’s horse?”

“Why, the big-looking fellow with the white face, now in the parlour.”

“What, did he come on a horse, Sam? What sort of a looking creature is it? you may judge of a man from the sort of horse-company he keeps.”

“Well, then, sir, I hardly know. It’s coal black, and looks as knowing as possible; it’s tried twice to get a kick at me, but I was down upon him, and put the bucket in his way. Howsomdever, I don’t think it’s a bad animal, as a animal, mind you, sir, though a little bit wicious or so.”

“Well,” said the publican, as he drew the ostler half a pint instead of a quart, “you’re always drinking; take that.”

“Blow me,” said the ostler, “half a pint, master!”

“Plague take you, I can’t stand parleying with you, there’s the parlour bell; perhaps, after all, he will have some breakfast.”

While the landlord was away the ostler helped himself to a quart of the strongest ale, which, by a singular faculty that he had acquired, he poured down his throat without any effort at swallowing, holding his head back, and the jug at a little distance from his mouth.

Having accomplished this feat, he reversed the jug, giving it a knowing tap with his knuckles as though he would have signified to all the world that it was empty, and that he had accomplished what he desired.

In the meantime, the landlord had made his way to his strange guest, who said to him, when he came into the room,

“Is there not one Sir Francis Varney residing in this town?”

“The devil!” thought the landlord; “this is another of them, I’ll bet a guinea. Sir Francis Varney, sir, did you say? Why, sir, there was a Sir Francis Varney, but folks seem to think as how he’s no better than he should be  —  a sort of vampyre, sir, if you know what that is.”

“I have, certainly, heard of such things; but can you not tell me Varney’s address? I wish to see him.”

“Well, then, sir, I cannot tell it to you, for there’s really been such a commotion and such a riot about him that he’s taken himself off, I think, altogether, and we can hear nothing of him. Lord bless you, sir, they burnt down his house, and hunted him about so, that I don’t think that he’ll ever show his face here again.”

“And cannot you tell me where he was seen last?”

“That I cannot, sir; but, if anybody knows anything about him, it’s Mr. Henry Bannerworth, or perhaps Dr. Chillingworth, for they have had more to do with him than anybody else.”

“Indeed; and can you tell me the address of the former individual?”

“That I can’t, sir, for the Bannerworths have left the Hall. As for the doctor, sir, you’ll see his house in the High-street, with a large brass plate on the door, so that you cannot mistake it. It’s No. 9, on the other side of the way.”

“I thank you for so much information,” said the stranger, and rising, he walked to the door. Before, however, he left, he turned, and added,  —  ”You can say, if you should by chance meet Mr. Bannerworth, that a Hungarian nobleman wishes to speak to him concerning Sir Francis Varney, the vampyre?”

“A what, sir?”

“A nobleman from Hungary,” was the reply.

“The deuce!” said the landlord, as he looked after him. “He don’t seem at all hungry here, not thirsty neither. What does he mean by a nobleman from Hungary? The idea of a man talking about hungry, and not taking any breakfast. He’s queering me. I’ll be hanged if I’ll stand it. Here I clearly lose four guineas a week, and then get made game of besides. A nobleman, indeed! I think I see him. Why, he isn’t quite so big as old Slaney, the butcher. It’s a do. I’ll have at him when he comes back.”

Meanwhile, the unconscious object of this soliloquy passed down the High-street, until he came to Dr. Chillingworth’s, at whose door he knocked.

Now Mrs. Chillingworth had been waiting the whole night for the return of the doctor, who had not yet made his appearance, and, consequently, that lady’s temper had become acidulated to an uncommon extent and when she heard a knock at the door, something possessed her that it could be no other than her spouse, and she prepared to give him that warm reception which she considered he had a right, as a married man, to expect after such conduct.

She hurriedly filled a tolerably sized hand-basin with not the cleanest water in the world, and then, opening the door hurriedly with one hand, she slouced the contents into the face of the intruder, exclaiming,  — 

“Now you’ve caught it!”

“D  —  n!” said the Hungarian nobleman, and then Mrs. Chillingworth uttered a scream, for she feared she had made a mistake.

“Oh, sir! I’m very sorry: but I thought it was my husband.”

“But if you did,” said the stranger, “there was no occasion to drown him with a basin of soap-suds. It is your husband I want, madam, if he be Dr. Chillingworth.”

“Then, indeed, you must go on wanting him, sir, for he’s not been to his own home for a day and a night. He takes up all his time in hunting after that beastly vampyre.”

“Ah! Sir Francis Varney, you mean.”

“I do; and I’d Varney him if I caught hold of him.”

“Can you give me the least idea of where he can be found?”

“Of course I can.”

“Indeed! where?” said the stranger, eagerly.

“In some churchyard, to be sure, gobbling up the dead bodies.”

With this Mrs. Chillingworth shut the door with a bang that nearly flattened the Hungarian’s nose with his face, and he was fain to walk away, quite convinced that there was no information to be had in that quarter.

He returned to the inn, and having told the landlord that he would give a handsome reward to any one who would discover to him the retreat of Sir Francis Varney, he shut himself up in an apartment alone, and was busy for a time in writing letters.

Although the sum which the stranger offered was an indefinite one, the landlord mentioned the matter across the bar to several persons; but all of them shook their heads, believing it to be a very perilous adventure indeed to have anything to do with so troublesome a subject as Sir Francis Varney. As the day advanced, however, a young lad presented himself, and asked to see the gentleman who had been inquiring for Varney.

The landlord severely questioned and cross-questioned him, with the hope of discovering if he had any information: but the boy was quite obdurate, and would speak to no one but the person who had offered the reward, so that mine host was compelled to introduce him to the Hungarian nobleman, who, as yet, had neither eaten nor drunk in the house.

The boy wore upon his countenance the very expression of juvenile cunning, and when the stranger asked him if he really was in possession of any information concerning the retreat of Sir Francis Varney, he said,  — 

“I can tell you where he is, but what are you going to give?”

“What sum do you require?” said the stranger.

“A whole half-crown.”

“It is your’s; and, if your information prove correct, come to-morrow, and I’ll add another to it, always provided, likewise, you keep the secret from any one else.”

“Trust me for that,” said the boy. “I live with my grandmother; she’s precious old, and has got a cottage. We sell milk and cakes, sticky stuff, and pennywinkles.”

“A goodly collection. Go on.”

“Well, sir, this morning, there comes a man in with a bottle, and he buys a bottle full of milk and a loaf. I saw him, and I knew it was Varney, the vampyre.”

“You followed him?”

“Of course I did, sir; and he’s staying at the house that’s to let down the lane, round the corner, by Mr. Biggs’s, and past Lee’s garden, leaving old Slaney’s stacks on your right hand, and so cutting on till you come to Grants’s meadow, when you’ll see old Madhunter a brick-field staring of you in the face; and, arter that  —  ”

“Peace  —  peace!  —  you shall yourself conduct me. Come to this place at sunset; be secret, and, probably, ten times the reward you have already received may be yours,” said the stranger.

“What, ten half-crowns?”

“Yes, I will keep my word with you.”

“What a go! I know what I’ll do. I’ll set up as a show man, and what a glorious treat it will be, to peep through one of the holes all day myself, and get somebody to pull the strings up and down, and when I’m tired of that, I can blaze away upon the trumpet like one o’clock. I think I see me. Here you sees the Duke of Marlborough a whopping of everybody, and here you see the Frenchmen flying about like parched peas in a sifter.”

CHAPTER LXXXIV.

THE EXCITED POPULACE.  —  VARNEY HUNTED.  —  THE PLACE OF REFUGE.

There seemed, now a complete lull in the proceedings as connected with Varney, the vampyre. We have reason to believe that the executioner who had been as solicitous as Varney to obtain undisputed possession of Bannerworth Hall, has fallen a victim to the indiscriminating rage of the mob. Varney himself is a fugitive, and bound by the most solemn ties to Charles Holland, not only to communicate to him such particulars of the past, as will bring satisfaction to his mind, but to abstain from any act which, for the future, shall exercise a disastrous influence upon the happiness of Flora.

The doctor and the admiral, with Henry, had betaken themselves from the Hall as we had recorded, and, in due time, reached the cottage where Flora and her mother had found a temporary refuge.

Mrs. Bannerworth was up; but Flora was sleeping, and, although the tidings they had to tell were of a curious and mixed nature, they would not have her disturbed to listen to them.

And, likewise, they were rather pleased than otherwise, since they knew not exactly what had become of Charles Holland, to think that they would probably be spared the necessity of saying they could not account for his absence.

That he had gone upon some expedition, probably dangerous, and so one which he did not wish to communicate the particulars of to his friends, lest they should make a strong attempt to dissuade him from it, they were induced to believe.

But yet they had that confidence in his courage and active intellectual resources, to believe that he would come through it unscathed, and, probably, shortly show himself at the cottage.

In this hope they were not disappointed, for in about two hours Charles made his appearance; but, until he began to be questioned concerning his absence by the admiral, he scarcely considered the kind of dilemma he had put himself into by the promise of secrecy he had given to Varney, and was a little puzzled to think now much he might tell, and how much he was bound in honour to conceal.

“Avast there!” cried the admiral; “what’s become of your tongue, Charles? You’ve been on some cruize, I’ll be bound. Haul over the ship’s books, and tell us what’s happened.”

“I have been upon an adventure,” said Charles, “which I hope will be productive of beneficial results to us all; but, the fact is, I have made a promise, perhaps incautiously, that I will not communicate what I know.”

“Whew!” said the admiral, “that’s awkward; but, however, if a man said under sealed instructions, there’s an end of it. I remember when I was off Candia once  —  -”

“Ha!” interposed Jack, “that was the time you tumbled over the blessed binnacle, all in consequence of taking too much Madeira. I remember it, too  —  it’s an out and out good story, that ‘ere. You took a rope’s end, you know, and laid into the bowsprit; and, says you, ‘Get up, you lubber,’ says you, all the while a thinking, I supposes, as it was long Jack Ingram, the carpenter’s mate, laying asleep. What a lark!”

“This scoundrel will be the death of me,” said the admiral; “there isn’t one word of truth in what he says. I never got drunk in all my life, as everybody knows. Jack, affairs are getting serious between you and I  —  we must part, and for good. It’s a good many times that I’ve told you you’ve forgot the difference between the quarter-deck and the caboose. Now, I’m serious  —  you’re off the ship’s books, and there’s an end of you.”

“Very good,” said Jack; “I’m willing I’ll leave you. Do you think I want to keep you any longer? Good bye, old bloak  —  I’ll leave you to repent, and when old grim death comes yard-arm and yard-arm with you, and you can’t shake off his boarding-tackle, you’ll say, ‘Where’s Jack Pringle?’ says you; and then what’s his mane  —  oh ah! echo you call it  —  echo’ll say, it’s d  —    —  d if it knows.”

Jack turned upon his heel, and, before the admiral could make any reply he left the place.

“What’s the rascal up to now?” said the admiral. “I really didn’t think he’d have taken me at my word.”

“Oh, then, after all, you didn’t mean it, uncle?” said Charles.

“What’s that to you, you lubber, whether I mean it, or not, you shore-going squab? Of course I expect everybody to desert an old hulk, rats and all  —  and now Jack Pringle’s gone; the vagabond, couldn’t he stay, and get drunk as long as he liked! Didn’t he say what he pleased, and do what he pleased, the mutinous thief? Didn’t he say I run away from a Frenchman off Cape Ushant, and didn’t I put up with that?”

“But, my dear uncle, you sent him away yourself.”

“I didn’t, and you know I didn’t; but I see how it is, you’ve disgusted Jack among you. A better seaman never trod the deck of a man-of-war.”

“But his drunkenness, uncle?”

“It’s a lie. I don’t believe he ever got drunk. I believe you all invented it, and Jack’s so good-natured, he tumbled about just to keep you in countenance.”

“But his insolence, uncle; his gross insolence towards you  —  his inventions, his exaggerations of the truth?”