THE LONELY WATCH, AND THE ADVENTURE IN THE DESERTED HOUSE.
It is now quite night, and so peculiar and solemn a stillness reigns in
and about Bannerworth Hall and its surrounding grounds, that one might
have supposed it a place of the dead, deserted completely after sunset
by all who would still hold kindred with the living. There was not a
breath of air stirring, and this circumstance added greatly to the
impression of profound repose which the whole scene exhibited.
The wind during the day had been rather of a squally character, but
towards nightfall, as is often usual after a day of such a character,
it had completely lulled, and the serenity of the scene was unbroken
even by the faintest sigh from a wandering zephyr.
The moon rose late at that period, and as is always the case at that
interval between sunset and the rising of that luminary which makes the
night so beautiful, the darkness was of the most profound character.
It was one of those nights to produce melancholy reflections—a night on
which a man would be apt to review his past life, and to look into the
hidden recesses of his soul to see if conscience could make a coward of
him in the loneliness and stillness that breathed around.
It was one of those nights in which wanderers in the solitude of nature
feel that the eye of Heaven is upon them, and on which there seems to
be a more visible connection between the world and its great Creator
than upon ordinary occasions.
The solemn and melancholy appear places once instinct with life, when
deserted by those familiar forms and faces that have long inhabited
them. There is no desert, no uninhabited isle in the far ocean, no
wild, barren, pathless tract of unmitigated sterility, which could for
one moment compare in point of loneliness and desolation to a deserted
city.
Strip London, mighty and majestic as it is, of the busy swarm of
humanity that throng its streets, its suburbs, its temples, its public
edifices, and its private dwellings, and how awful would be the walk of
one solitary man throughout its noiseless thoroughfares.
If madness seized not upon him ere he had been long the sole survivor
of a race, it would need be cast in no common mould.
And to descend from great things to smaller—from the huge leviathan
city to one mansion far removed from the noise and bustle of
conventional life, we may imagine the sort of desolation that reigned
through Bannerworth Hall, when, for the first time, after nearly
a hundred and fifty years of occupation, it was deserted by the
representatives of that family, so many members of which had lived and
died beneath its roof. The house, and everything within, without, and
around it, seemed actually to sympathize with its own desolation and
desertion.
It seemed as if twenty years of continued occupation could not have
produced such an effect upon the ancient edifice as had those few hours
of neglect and desertion.
And yet it was not as if it had been stripped of those time-worn and
ancient relics of ornament and furnishing that so long had appertained
to it. No, nothing but the absence of those forms which had been
accustomed quietly to move from room to room, and to be met here
upon a staircase, there upon a corridor, and even in some of the
ancient panelled apartments, which give it an air of dreary repose and
listlessness.
The shutters, too, were all closed, and that circumstance contributed
largely to the production of that gloomy effect which otherwise could
not have ensued.
In fact, what could be done without attracting very special observation
was done to prove to any casual observer that the house was untenanted.
But such was not really the case. In that very room where the much
dreaded Varney the vampyre had made one of his dreaded appearances to
Flora Bannerworth and her mother, sat two men.
It was from that apartment that Flora had discharged the pistol, which
had been left to her by her brother, and the shot from which it was
believed by the whole family had most certainly taken effect upon the
person of the vampyre.
It was a room peculiarly accessible from the gardens, for it had
long French windows opening to the very ground, and but a stone step
intervened between the flooring of the apartment and a broad gravel
walk which wound round that entire portion of the house.
It was in this room, then, that two men sat in silence, and nearly in
darkness.
Before them, and on a table, were several articles of refreshment, as
well of defence and offence, according as their intentions might be.
There were a bottle and three glasses, and lying near the elbow of one
of the men was a large pair of pistols, such as might have adorned the
belt of some desperate character, who wished to instil an opinion of
his prowess into his foes by the magnitude of his weapons.
Close at hand, by the same party, lay some more modern fire-arms, as
well as a long dirk, with a silver mounted handle.
The light they had consisted of a large lantern, so constructed with a
slide, that it could be completely obscured at a moment’s notice; but
now as it was placed, the rays that were allowed to come from it were
directed as much from the window of the apartment, as possible, and
fell upon the faces of the two men, revealing them to be Admiral Bell
and Dr. Chillingworth.
It might have been the effect of the particular light in which he sat,
but the doctor looked extremely pale, and did not appear at all at his
ease.
The admiral, on the contrary, appeared in as placable a state of mind
as possible and had his arms folded across his breast, and his head
shrunk down between his shoulders, as if he had made up his mind to
something that was to last a long time, and, therefore he was making
the best of it.
“I do hope,” said Mr. Chillingworth, after a long pause, “that our
efforts will be crowned with success—you know, my dear sir, that I have
always been of your opinion, that there was a great deal more in this
matter than met the eye.”
“To be sure,” said the admiral, “and as to our efforts being crowned
with success, why, I’ll give you a toast, doctor, ‘may the morning’s
reflection provide for the evening’s amusement.’”
“Ha! ha!” said Chillingworth, faintly; “I’d rather not drink any more,
and you seem, admiral, to have transposed the toast in some way. I
believe it runs, ‘may the evening’s amusement bear the morning’s
reflection.’”
“Transpose the devil!” said the admiral; “what do I care how it runs?
I gave you my toast, and as to that you mention, it’s another one
altogether, and a sneaking, shore-going one too; but why don’t you
drink?”
“Why, my dear sir, medically speaking, I am strongly of opinion that,
when the human stomach is made to contain a large quantity of alcohol,
it produces bad effects upon the system. Now, I’ve certainly taken one
glass of this infernally strong Hollands, and it is now lying in my
stomach like the red-hot heater of a tea-urn.”
“Is it? put it out with another, then.”
“Ay, I’m afraid that would not answer, but do you really think,
admiral, that we shall effect anything by waiting here, and keeping
watch and ward, not under the most comfortable circumstances, this
first night of the Hall being empty.”
“Well, I don’t know that we shall,” said the admiral; “but when you
really want to steal a march upon the enemy, there is nothing like
beginning betimes. We are both of opinion that Varney’s great object
throughout has been, by some means or another, to get possession of the
house.”
“Yes; true, true.”
“We know that he has been unceasing in his endeavours to get the
Bannerworth family out of it; that he has offered them their own price
to become its tenant, and that the whole gist of his quiet and placid
interview with Flora in the garden, was to supply her with a new set of
reasons for urging her mother and brother to leave Bannerworth Hall,
because the old ones were certainly not found sufficient.”
“True, true, most true,” said Mr. Chillingworth, emphatically. “You
know, sir, that from the first time you broached that view of the
subject to me, how entirely I coincided with you.”
“Of course you did, for you are a honest fellow, and a right-thinking
fellow, though you are a doctor, and I don’t know that I like doctors
much better than I like lawyers—they’re only humbugs in a different
sort of way. But I wish to be liberal; there is such a thing as an
honest lawyer, and, d——e, you’re an honest doctor!”
“Of course I’m much obliged, admiral, for your good opinion. I only
wish it had struck me to bring something of a solid nature in the shape
of food, to sustain the waste of the animal economy during the hours we
shall have to wait here.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about that,” said the admiral. “Do you think
I’m a donkey, and would set out on a cruise without victualling my
ship? I should think not. Jack Pringle will be here soon, and he has my
orders to bring in something to eat.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “that’s very provident of you, admiral, and I
feel personally obliged; but tell me, how do you intend to conduct the
watch?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, I mean, if we sit here with the window fastened so as to prevent
our light from being seen, and the door closed, how are we by any
possibility to know if the house is attacked or not?”
“Hark’ee, my friend,” said the admiral; “I’ve left a weak point for the
enemy.”
“A what, admiral?”
“A weak point. I’ve taken good care to secure everything but one of
the windows on the ground floor, and that I’ve left open, or so nearly
open, that it will look like the most natural place in the world to get
in at. Now, just inside that window, I’ve placed a lot of the family
crockery. I’ll warrant, if anybody so much as puts his foot in, you’ll
hear the smash;—and, d—e, there it is!”
There was a loud crash at this moment, followed by a succession of
similar sounds, but of a lesser degree; and both the admiral and Mr.
Chillingworth sprung to their feet.
“Come on,” cried the former; “here’ll be a precious row—take the
lantern.”
Mr. Chillingworth did so, but he did not seem possessed of a great deal
of presence of mind; for, before they got out of the room, he twice
accidentally put on the dark slide, and produced a total darkness.
“D——n!” said the admiral; “don’t make it wink and wink in that way;
hold it up, and run after me as hard as you can.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said Mr. Chillingworth.
It was one of the windows of a long room, containing five, fronting
the garden, which the admiral had left purposely unguarded; and it was
not far from the apartment in which they had been sitting, so that,
probably, not half a minute’s time elapsed between the moment of the
first alarm, and their reaching the spot from whence it was presumed to
arise.
The admiral had armed himself with one of the huge pistols, and he
dashed forward, with all the vehemence of his character, towards the
window, where he knew he had placed the family crockery, and where he
fully expected to meet the reward of his exertion by discovering some
one lying amid its fragments.
In this, however, he was disappointed; for, although there was
evidently a great smash amongst the plates and dishes, the window
remained closed, and there was no indication whatever of the presence
of any one.
“Well, that’s odd,” said the admiral; “I balanced them up amazingly
careful, and two of ’em edgeways—d——e, a fly would have knocked them
down.”
“Mew,” said, a great cat, emerging from under a chair.
“Curse you, there you are,” said the admiral. “Put out the light, put
out the light; here we’re illuminating the whole house for nothing.”
With, a click went the darkening slide over the lantern, and all was
obscurity.
At that instant a shrill, clear whistle came from the garden.