The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™ (181 page)

“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 damned 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?”

“Avast, there—avast, there—none of that, Master Charlie; Jack couldn’t do anything of the sort; and I means to say this, that if Jack was here now, I’d stick up for him, and say he was a good seaman.

“Tip us your fin, then,” said Jack, darting into the room; “do you think I’d leave you, you damned old fool? What would become of you, I wonder, if I wasn’t to take you in to dry nurse? Why, you blessed old babby, what do you mean by it?”

“Jack, you villain!”

“Ah! go on and call me a villain as much as you like. Don’t you remember when the bullets were scuttling our nobs?”

“I do, I do, Jack; tip us your fin, old fellow. You’ve saved my life more than once.”

“It’s a lie.”

“It ain’t. You did, I say.”

“You bedamned!”

And thus was the most serious misunderstanding that these two worthies ever had together made up. The real fact is, that the admiral could as little do without Jack, as he could have done without food; and as for Pringle, he no more thought of leaving the old commodore, than of—what shall we say? forswearing him. Jack himself could not have taken a stronger oath.

But the old admiral had suffered so much from the idea that Jack had actually left him, that although he abused him as usual often enough, he never again talked of taking him off the ship’s books; and, to the credit of Jack be it spoken, he took no advantage of the circumstance, and only got drunk just as usual, and called his master an old fool whenever it suited him.

CHAPTER LXXXV.

THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN GETS INTO DANGER.—HE IS FIRED AT, AND SHOWS SOME OF HIS QUALITY.

Considerably delighted was the Hungarian, not only at the news he had received from the boy, but as well for the cheapness of it. Probably he did not conceive it possible that the secret of the retreat of such a man as Varney could have been attained so easily.

He waited with great impatience for the evening, and stirred not from the inn for several hours; neither did he take any refreshment, notwithstanding he had made so liberal an arrangement with the landlord to be supplied.

All this was a matter of great excitement and speculation in the inn, so much so, indeed, that the landlord sent for some of the oldest customers of his house, regular topers, who sat there every evening, indulging in strong drinks, and pipes and tobacco, to ask their serious advice as to what he should do, as if it were necessary he should do anything at all.

But, somehow or another, these wiseacres who assembled at the landlord’s bidding, and sat down, with something strong before them, in the bar parlour, never once seemed to think that a man might, if he choosed, come to an inn, and agree to pay four guineas a week for board and lodging, and yet take nothing at all.

No; they could not understand it, and therefore they would not have it. It was quite monstrous that anybody should attempt to do anything so completely out of the ordinary course of proceeding. It was not to be borne; and as in this country it happens, free and enlightened as we are, that no man can commit a greater social offence than doing something that his neighbours never thought of doing themselves, the Hungarian nobleman was voted a most dangerous character, and, in fact, not to be put up with.

“I shouldn’t have thought so much of it” said the landlord; “but only look at the aggravation of the thing. After I have asked him four guineas a week, and expected to be beaten down to two, to be then told that he would not have cared if it had been eight. It is enough to aggravate a saint.”

“Well, I agree with you there,” said another; “that’s just what it is, and I only wonder that a man of your sagacity has not quite understood it before.”

“Understood what?”

“Why, that he is a vampire. He has heard of Sir Francis Varney, that’s the fact, and he’s come to see him. Birds of a feather, you know, flock together, and now we shall have two vampires in the town instead of one.”

The party looked rather blank at this suggestion, which, indeed, seemed rather uncomfortable probably. The landlord had just opened his mouth to make some remark, when he was stopped by the violent ringing of what he now called the vampire’s bell, since it proceeded from the room where the Hungarian nobleman was.

“Have you an almanack in the house?” was the question of the mysterious guest.

“An almanack, sir? well, I really don’t know. Let me see, an almanack.”

“But, perhaps, you can tell me. I was to know the moon’s age.”

“The devil!” thought the landlord; “he’s a vampire, and no mistake. Why, sir, as to the moon’s age, it was a full moon last night, very bright and beautiful, only you could not see it for the clouds.”

“A full moon last night,” said the mysterious guest, thoughtfully; “it may shine, then, brightly, tonight, and if so, all will be well. I thank you—leave the room.”

“Do you mean to say, sir, you don’t want anything to eat now?”

“What I want I’ll order.”

“But you have ordered nothing.”

“Then presume that I want nothing.”

The discomfited landlord was obliged to leave the room, for there was no such a thing as making any answer to this, and so, still further confirmed in his opinion that the stranger was a vampire that came to see Sir Francis Varney from a sympathetic feeling towards him, he again reached the bar-parlour.

“You may depend,” he said, “as sure as eggs is eggs, that he is a vampire. Hilloa! he’s going off—after him—after him; he thinks we suspect him. There he goes—down the High-street.”

The landlord ran out, and so did those who were with him, one of whom carried his brandy and water in his hand, which, being too hot for him to swallow all at once, he still could not think of leaving behind.

It was now gelling rapidly dark, and the mysterious stranger was actually proceeding towards the lane to keep his appointment with the boy who had promised to conduct him to the hiding-place of Sir Francis Varney.

He had not proceeded far, however, before he began to suspect that he was followed, as it was evident on the instant that he altered his course; for, instead of walking down the lane, where the boy was waiting for him, he went right on, and seemed desirous of making his way into the open country between the town and Bannerworth Hall.

His pursuers—for they assumed that character—when they saw this became anxious to intercept him; and thinking that the greater force they had the better, they called out aloud as they passed a smithy, where a man was shoeing a horse—

“Jack Burdon, here is another vampire!”

“The deuce there is!” said the person who was addressed. “I’ll soon settle him. Here’s my wife gets no sleep of a night as it is, all owing to that Varney, who has been plaguing us so long. I won’t put up with another.”

So saying, he snatched from a hook on which it hung, an old fowling-piece, and joined the pursuit, which now required to be conducted with some celerity, for the stranger had struck into the open country, and was getting on at good speed.

The last remnants of the twilight were fading away, and although the moon had actually risen, its rays were obscured by a number of light, fleecy clouds, which, although they did not promise to be of long continuance, as yet certainly impeded the light.

“Where is he going?” said the blacksmith. “He seems to be making his way towards the mill-stream.”

“No,” said another; “don’t you see he is striking higher up towards the old ford, where the stepping-stones are!”

“He is—he is,” cried the blacksmith. “Run on—run on; don’t you see he is crossing it now? Tell me, all of you, are you quite sure he is a vampire, and no mistake? He ain’t the exciseman, landlord, now, is he?”

“The exciseman, the devil! Do you think I want to shoot the exciseman?”

“Very good—then here goes,” exclaimed the Smith.

He stooped, and just as the brisk night air blew aside the clouds from before the face of the moon, and as the stranger was crossing the slippery stones, he fired at him.

* * * *

How silently and sweetly the moon’s rays fall upon the water, upon the meadows, and upon the woods. The scenery appeared the work of enchantment, some fairy land, waiting the appearance of its inhabitants. No sound met the ear; the very wind was hushed; nothing was there to distract the sense of sight, save the power of reflection.

This, indeed, would aid the effect of such a scene. A cloudless sky, the stars all radiant with beauty, while the moon, rising higher and higher in the heavens, increasing in the strength and refulgence of her light, and dimming the very stars, which seemed to grow gradually invisible as the majesty of the queen of night became more and more manifest.

The dark woods and the open meadows contrasted more and more strongly; like light and shade, the earth and sky were not more distinct and apart; and the ripling stream, that rushed along with all the impetuosity of uneven ground.

The banks are clothed with verdure; the tall sedges, here and there, lined the sides; beds of bulrushes raised their heads high above all else, and threw out their round clumps of blossoms like tufts, and looked strange in the light of the moon.

Here and there, too, the willows bent gracefully over the stream, and their long leaves were wafted and borne up and down by the gentler force of the stream.

Below, the stream widened, and ran foaming over a hard, stony bottom, and near the middle is a heap of stones—of large stones, that form the bed of the river, from which the water has washed away all earthy particles, and left them by themselves.

These stones in winter could not be seen, they were all under water, and the stream washed over in a turbulent and tumultuous manner. But now, when the water was clear and low, they are many of them positively out of the water, the stream running around and through their interstices; the water-weeds here and there lying at the top of the stream, and blossoming beautifully.

The daisy-like blossoms danced and waved gently on the moving flood, at the same time they shone in the moonlight, like fairy faces rising from the depths of the river, to receive the principle of life from the moon’s rays.

‘Tis sweet to wander in the moonlight at such an hour, and it is sweet to look upon such a scene with an unruffled mind, and to give way to the feelings that are engendered by a walk by the river side.

See, the moon is rising higher and higher, the shadows grow shorter and shorter; the river, which in places was altogether hidden by the tall willow trees, now gradually becomes less and less hidden, and the water becomes more and more lit up.

The moonbeams play gracefully on the rippling surface, here and there appearing like liquid silver, that each instant changed its position and surface exposed to the light.

Such a moment—such a scene, were by far too well calculated to cause the most solemn and serious emotions of the mind, and he must have been but at best insensible, who could wander over meadow and through grove, and yet remain untouched by the scene of poetry and romance in which he breathed and moved.

At such a time, and in such a place, the world is alive with all the finer essences of mysterious life. ‘Tis at such an hour that the spirits quit their secret abodes, and visit the earth, and whirl round the enchanted trees.