THE STAR HOTEL, AND THE STRANGER’S ARRIVAL.—A REMARKABLE
COUNTENANCE.—THE ILLNESS AND DEATH OF THE STRANGER.—A STRANGE REQUEST
COMPLIED WITH.
Some days previous to the scene related in the previous chapter, the
London coach drove up opposite to the Star Hotel, and, as usual, out
came a couple of waiters to see what there was from the metropolis, in
the shape of a passenger, who might become an inmate of the hotel, and
a customer, of course.
“Now, then, Billy,” said the guard, a stout, good-humoured fellow, to
a very stiff and punctilious waiter, dressed in black, with a white
neckerchief.
“My good friend, my name is William, if you must be familiar, though I
am sure I don’t number you among my acquaintances.”
“Very good, Billy. I declare you are one of the politest waiters that
is to be found between Portsmouth and London; ay, and more than that,
you are _the_ politest. Didn’t you say you were edicated among a lot of
gals—young ladies, I mean?”
“I never held any discourse, relative to my early days, with you, my
friend; I am not, just this moment, aware of it.”
“Ah! I see you are too polite to pass an east wind without taking your
hat off to it; how do they when they have none?”
“Have you anybody for us?” said William, mildly.
“Yes, my pink, I have.”
“Who is he, and where is he? I must not waste my master’s time; it is
an impropriety I am especially anxious to avoid.”
“You needn’t be in a hurry, nevertheless, especially as I see he is
fumbling about for small change; but what will you say if I introduce a
customer to you, a good six foot high, and perhaps a little to spare;
and the colour of a well scraped horse-radish? Eh? what do you say to
that, my primrose?”
William did not know what to say, but, after a moment’s hesitation, he
said,
“We don’t charge our customers by the room they take, or by their
personal appearance. A gentleman is a gentleman, Mr. Guard, all the
same, whether he have a red face or a white one.”
“Well, that’s good, Billy; but the chief thing is, after all, of what
colour is his money, and how he parts with it; eh?”
The guard winked and William’s impassive features were lit up with a
spark of intelligence and vivacity, which, however, was only transient,
and he relapsed into his old state of extreme and unimpeachable
gentility.
“Hold your tongue, Billy; here he comes.”
At that moment the gentleman pulled down the window, and said to the
guard,
“Open the door, if you please; I shall get out here.”
“Yes, sir,” said the guard, who immediately obeyed the injunction; and
a tall, but awfully pale individual descended the steps, wrapped up in
a huge cloak, so that but little of his person was seen, or features
either; what little there was visible was not prepossessing by any
means by the colour.
“This is the Star?” said the stranger, inquiringly.
“Yes,” said the guard.
“I’ll stop here. Are you the waiter?” said he, addressing William.
“I am, sir,” said William. “Will you walk this way, sir?”
“Yes; show me into a private apartment—let me have a good fire, for I
am exceedingly cold.”
William immediately took him into a room where there was a fire,
saying,—
“If you please to remain here, sir, we will make you a fire and warm
the room; and, as you are cold, perhaps you will prefer this to going
into a room without a fire there already lighted for your reception.”
“Certainly, I much prefer it.”
“Would you like to take any refreshment, sir?” inquired William.
“Not now,” replied the stranger, in mild accents.
William left the room, muttering to himself,—
“Well, he deserves to be a prince; he is as mild and gentlemanly as a
prince. I vow I never heard any one speak in such a tone, and with so
much amiable condescension. What a pity he is so white—at least, that
he is so, I only infer from the nose, and part of the forehead and
cheeks around the eyes—these being the only parts that I have noticed;
he is, indeed, not much unlike, in colour, to the guard’s vulgar
simile—a well scraped horse-radish. I never saw white so opaque and
dead before.”
While those thoughts passed through the mind of William, he saw that
the apartment was placed in readiness for the stranger’s reception,
and placed himself in communication with the proprietor, and obtained
his orders; he then returned to the stranger, and conducted him to his
proper apartment, and then awaited his commands.
The stranger gave him some orders, which were at once executed, and
then he said,—
“I shall sleep here, of course.”
“Yes, sir,” said William.
“I am very particular about my beds—I must have my bed well and
thoroughly aired.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” said William; “we always——”
“Never mind, never mind all that,” said the stranger, blandly. “Never
mind all that; I know what you would say. All your beds are always
aired. Well, be it so—I have no desire to dispute it—but I once slept
in a damp bed—I fell ill, and have never entirely recovered from it.”
“Oh, that makes him look so horrible pale,” thought William.
“So you perceive, my friend, that I have cause to be particular,
and, therefore, you will excuse me when I inquire minutely into the
character of the beds.”
“Oh, certainly, sir—certainly, sir.”
“Then you will see that my bed is aired, will you not?”
“Yes, sir, I will take care that it is especially aired; and, if you
approve of my doing so, sir, I will have a fire lit in your bed-room.”
“If you please. If you will do all this, you will greatly oblige me.
Are there any females in the family?”
“Yes, sir; the servants,” said William, fearing some impropriety was
meant.
“Oh, the servants; and no others?”
“None,” said William, quite suddenly.
“Oh, yes, that is right—none but the servants. Then my requests will
not put you to any serious inconvenience?”
“Not in the least, sir,” said William, pleased to find that the females
had only been inquired about for fear of annoying them.
The stranger sat up in his room, and appeared to be very ill, and ate
and drank but little, though he ordered whatever was requisite for
a liberal individual; and, though taken away untouched, yet it was
clearly understood he would have to pay for it.
The bed was used and approved of, and the tall remarkable looking
stranger expressed himself satisfied to the proprietor of the hotel,
who came to inquire if he should desire anything more or different from
what was already done.
This was at once answered in the negative, and the proprietor retreated
by no means prepossessed in the stranger’s personal appearance, which
was remarkable to a degree—that was noticed by every one in the hotel.
“Winchester is an old town—a city—sir,” said the proprietor, by way of
entering into a conversation with his guest.
“Yes, very old,” said his guest.
“And the cathedral, sir, has been built in part ever since the Saxon
times, and then increased by the Normans.”
“Ay, it is very beautiful; one could wish to lie there, it is so calm
and beautiful,” said the stranger, with a shudder, which he endeavoured
to suppress; and then he added, “The grave-yard is quiet and retired.”
“Yes, sir. You have been in Winchester before?”
“I have,” replied the stranger.
Finding any further attempt at conversation likely to appear
intrusive, the landlord quitted the apartment with a bow, which was
condescendingly returned by the guest, who folded his hands one
over the other, and turned towards the fire, upon which he gazed
thoughtfully for some time in silence.
The strange and ghastly-looking countenance of the stranger had created
quite a sensation among the individuals at the hotel, all of them
declaring they never heard of, or saw anything equal to it in all their
lives. But what was it? How did it happen so? They had seen dead men,
but they had never seen any so ghastly and so fearfully pale.
“He doesn’t seem long for this world,” said one of them.
“If you had said he didn’t belong to this world,” said another, “I
should almost have been inclined to believe you.”
“He does look like a corpse,” added an old woman.
“Yes, and what a tooth he has projecting out in front. Upon my word I
never saw his like.”
“And I,” said another, “never beheld such eyes. Why, he is scarcely
human. Such eyes as those I scarcely wish to look at again.”
“He always appears to me to be in some dreadful agony,” said the cook;
“he really looks as if he had a perpetual pain in his stomach, and had
eaten something that had disagreed with him.”
There was some truth in this last assertion, for the stranger always
did appear as if suffering from some internal pain—mental or physical,
or both—and it was soon seen that he was rapidly losing strength, and
could scarcely walk abroad.
The cause of all this none could tell; possibly, it was only a sudden
illness, or perhaps it was a long affliction, to which he was used to,
and hence the terrible expression upon his countenance, which appeared
as if it had never been otherwise, so deep and so settled was the
expression of pain.
• • • • •
The stranger appeared anxious to get out, but was unable to do so;
he could just walk across the room several times in the day, but was
unable to get down stairs; and whenever he attempted to do so, he sunk
down, his limbs losing the power of sustaining his weight.
“I can go no further,” he muttered to himself, and he endeavoured to
walk down stairs; “I am lost.”
As he spoke, a truly horrible expression came across his countenance,
that made William, who came to his aid, step back terrified.
“You—you are ill, sir,” he said, in somewhat uncertain accents.
“I am ill,” he replied, “very ill.”
“Will you allow me to help you up, sir, to your room?”
“If you please,” said the stranger, who was endeavouring to rise by the
aid of the banisters; and by these, and with William’s assistance, he
got up; and then, with some difficulty, he reached up stairs—his own
bed-room.
“I will send master immediately, sir.”
“You need not be in any hurry,” said the stranger. “I do not desire his
presence.”
However, William left the stranger to seek his master; and when he
found him, he said,—
“Oh, sir, the strange-looking gentleman in No. 5, is very ill.”
“Is he, William? What is the matter with him?”
“I am sure I don’t know, sir; he sank down on the stairs just now, and
could only get up to his room again by my help.”
“Something serious I think, then. I thought he appeared ill when first
I saw him, from the expression of his countenance.”
“Yes, sir; ’tis very strange.”
“Very,” said the landlord, thoughtfully. “I’ll go and see him; but, in
the mean time, you had better send for Doctor Linton, who knows me, and
will come at once.”
“Yes, sir,” said William.
The landlord immediately sought the stranger’s apartment, which he
entered without any ceremony, and advanced to the bed in which the
stranger lay; and, upon his first glance at the occupant, the landlord
stepped back in affright, so truly terrible did the countenance of the
stranger appear.
“Ah,” said the stranger, as he turned his glassy eyes upon him.
“I—I—I have come to see you,” stammered the landlord. “I have come to
see you; my servant informed me you were ill, sir.”
“I am very ill.”
“I feared so, and I have sent for Doctor Linton, who will be here
immediately.”
“It is of no consequence; I believe, I am too far gone to recover.”
Another horrible spasm passed across his countenance.
“What does your illness arise from?”
“Decay of the system. I want renovating,” said the stranger.
The landlord paused; he didn’t understand this at all, for the stranger
did not bear the appearance of decay about him. He was tall, and
seemingly of the middle age, he thought, and nothing about him to
savour of decay, save, indeed, the terrible and remarkable paleness
which his flesh appeared to bear; and his system generally, in other
respects, bore nothing of the appearance of general decay.
“Shall I send for any one, sir? Have you any friends I could write to
for you?”
“None, sir, thank you,” replied the stranger, who, however, bated
nothing of his politeness, even in his present position.
“Have you any desire to see any one in particular?”
“No one, I thank you.”
At that moment Doctor Linton was announced, and the proprietor having
introduced him, left the apartment, leaving the doctor and his
patient together; the former at once perceived, and wondered at his
extraordinary paleness. After a few preliminary questions, he appeared
quite puzzled, and said to him,—
“May I inquire what is the cause of this extraordinary complexion?”
“Certainly,” said the stranger; “it was caused by damp beds.”
“Damp beds,” muttered the doctor, amazed, and hardly comprehending what
was said, or the nature of the reply; he was at a loss, but did not say
so, what was the connexion between cause and effect.
“Yes, damp beds,” said the stranger.
“Have you ever suffered in this way before?” inquired the surgeon.
“Yes, more than once.”
“And you have recovered?” said the doctor, abstractedly.
“I am here,” said the stranger, mildly.
“Truly, you are,” said the surgeon. “I had almost forgotten that, your
case is so singular. Your pulse is very low and irregular.”
“It is,” coolly replied the stranger; but immediately a kind of spasm
shot across him, as he had before exhibited to the landlord.
“Do you feel much pain?—does that often happen?”
“No, only occasionally. I don’t think you are at all likely to benefit
me, sir,” said the stranger, with much courtesy in his manner. “I do
not mean any disrespect to you; but my complaint is a fatal one in our
family.”
“Are you all afflicted in this manner?”
“Yes, all before me died,” replied the stranger; “and when it does come
on, we have no means of avoiding the end that approaches; there is no
medical aid that can be rendered, ever did us any good.”
“You are quite an exception to nature, sir,” said the medical man,
“quite an exception. Your case cannot be beyond the assistance of
medicine—if not to cure, to ameliorate—though its nature may not be
ascertained; but if we could do so, we could tell you what we might be
able to do.”
“That has been attempted before,” said the stranger, mildly; “and hence
it is I am loth to give you needless trouble.”
“Well, I will call upon you, and see you again; but you ought to take
some medicine. I am persuaded that it is some great and extraordinary
derangement of the system—a complete sinking of the whole system.”
“Most undoubtedly it is a sinking in the whole system—a sinking which
has never yet been stopped by human aid. But you can pursue what course
you may deem proper.”
“Will you take medicines if I send any?”
“Yes,” replied the patient; “I will take them when you choose to send
them.”
“I will endeavour to send you something that shall infuse something
like vitality into the system, that will indeed help you to rally.”
“That will, indeed, be doing something more than was ever yet done by
any one who attended any individual of our family. I feel I am very
weak, and am sinking fast, and do not expect that I shall again have
the honour of seeing you.”
As he again spoke, the same spasm seized upon him; his frame was
convulsed for more than an minute, and his pallid features appeared to
give forth expressions which it was impossible to describe.
The doctor paused, and gazed with something like fear and awe upon
him. He had never before seen such a case so destitute of facts, nor
yet such a man; it was quite beyond his experience; there was nothing
like it in all his previous experience; there was no apparent cause
for all that he saw. It might be some severe chronic disorder which
did not manifest itself outwardly. If this were the case, it was most
extraordinary.
But more extraordinary than all was, apart from the medical question,
the strange and terrible appearance of the stranger; his paleness—the
terrible expression of his features—the strange, and even revolting
cast of his eyes, that completely baffled all his attempts to
understand them, or to remember anything he had ever heard of, or seen.
The stranger languidly turned in his bed, and then closed his eyes,
leaving his medical attendant to his reflections.
“Well,” muttered Doctor Linton, as he looked at his incomprehensible
patient. “I never met with so fearful a human puzzle before. I never
saw such an expression of countenance in all my life; nor did ever I
meet with such a case. Had he been one of the fabled monsters of old,
the creation of the German mind, he could not have been more unlike a
human being, to wear a human form.”
As he spoke, he quitted the room, and made his way to the proprietor of
the hotel, who was as anxiously waiting to see him, as he was to meet
him.
“Well, doctor, what do you think of the patient?”
“Why, I don’t know what to think. I never saw such a man before in all
my life—I cannot make him out.”
“Nor I. I can’t understand what he means or what he is.”
“Nor anybody else. But he is quite a gentleman; and yet there is
something very frightful to be seen in him. I don’t know why it is, I
don’t care about going oftener to him than I am obliged.”
“I don’t doubt it. There was something in the feel of his hand more
like a corpse than anything I ever felt before.”
“Indeed—it is a queer affair.”
“Do you know him?”
“No, I do not,” replied the proprietor. “He has not been here more than
two days; and when he entered he had that deadly paleness which he has
now.”
“Did he indeed. It is, I dare say, natural to him, though it must
create an unpleasant sensation, go where he would.”
“He must feel it to be so, no doubt; but, at the same time, he could
not avoid it. Have you come to any conclusion respecting his complaint?”
“I have not indeed; I will send him some medicine; though, to tell you
the truth, I can hardly tell what is the matter with him. His disorder
seems to consist of a rapid sinking of the whole system, accompanied by
a few minor symptoms, and a spasm, which must be very painful; for it
produces an extraordinary effect upon his visage, and his eyes glisten
like a piece of tin.”
“That’s it, doctor. Do you know, I have been thinking for something to
which I could liken those eyes to, but could not do it. When do you see
him again?”
“To-morrow, some time; in the mean time I must bid you good day, for my
presence is wanted in the Dundrum family.”
“Oh, have you any of them for a patient?”
“Yes, two. Good day—good day.”
“Good day, doctor,” said the proprietor of the hotel, as he bowed the
doctor out, and then, returning to his own apartment, he wondered, in
his own mind, at all that had been said by that learned individual,
when William entered his room with a hastiness of manner quite unusual
to him.
“What is the matter, William?”
“Oh, sir—I beg your pardon—but the strange gentleman——”
“Eh!—Well!—What?”
“Why, he’s dying, and wants to see you, sir.”
“To see me, William—and dying!”
“Yes, sir—it’s very sudden—but good Lord, how dreadful he looks. He
clasped his hands and shook—it made the bed shake and the windows
rattle, just as if an earthquake were taking place.”
“Goodness me!” muttered the proprietor, who immediately quitted the
apartment, and followed William to that of the stranger, who lay in
the same attitude as that described by William; but he was evidently
endeavouring to repress all nervous emotion, and by the time he
was spoken to, he succeeded in this endeavour completely, and lay
apparently calm and collected for the landlord’s appearance.
“I believe you sent for me,” said that worthy, in a subdued tone.
“Yes; I wish to speak a word to you before I die.”
“Die!” said the landlord, with a start. “No, no, you cannot mean
that—you will get better—you are deceived.”
“No, no; do not endeavour to persuade me from believing what I know is
the truth. I shall die, and that, too, before many hours.”
“If the case is so urgent, let me send to Mr. Linton; he cannot have
gone far, and he will return.”
“Nay, do not do that; his aid is utterly useless—utterly.”
“He is a clever man; but still, if your own feelings tell you that you
can’t live, allow me to send for a clergyman.”
“My friend,” said the stranger, “I have settled all that in my own
mind. My affairs are all made up, my account is cast, and I shall learn
the balance where I am going to. I wish, while I have breath, to beg a
favour of you.”
“Anything on earth that I can do, I will,” said the landlord.
“Nay, I do not desire—all—that—I—I only want you to—to—to—promise me
you’ll—attend to my funeral.”
“All shall be done as you desire.”
“My breath—I feel it going. I have money enough about me; you will find
in my pocket-book and purse, a certain sum.”
“Yes, sir—yes.”
“And with that you will have the goodness to liquidate my debt to
yourself, my funeral expenses, and place the residue of that sum about
my person.”
“When you are dead!” exclaimed the landlord.
“Yes; will you promise me—will you swear to see it done?”
“Yes, I will—I do swear.”
“See you keep the oath; my breath is going fast—my strength is leaving
me—and—and——”
“I will do all.” said the landlord again. “Will you have any friend
attend your funeral obsequies? It’s melancholy, but I am obliged to
speak of it to you, because I cannot otherwise know your wishes.”
“Do not mind that,” said the stranger, turning towards the landlord;
“but when I am dead, dress me in my clothes, just as if I were about to
walk; let me have all my property and my money—such of it as remains
after paying all charges—the remainder cause to be placed about
my person—in fact, all that belongs to me; and place—me—and place
me—me—me——”
“Where—where would you be buried?” said the landlord.
“Place me,” gasped the dying man; “place me in the—the——”
A gurgling noise, succeeded by a sharp rattle in the throat, was all
the sound that escaped him, while his glazed eyes were fixed, with a
truly horrifying expression, upon the features of the landlord, whose
presence of mind appeared to forsake him, and he exclaimed, falling on
his knees in affright,—
“Lord, have mercy upon us, what a dreadful affair!”
“Horrible, sir,” said William.
“Oh! are you here, William?” inquired the landlord.
“Yes, sir,” replied that individual.
“Oh, I’m glad of that; did you see him die?”
“I did, sir. How dreadful!”
“Very; but I am glad you were here, because he has made some singular
requests about burying him, and in a certain manner, with all his
clothes on and his jewels and money about him. Now I should be
considered foolish if I did anything of the kind; but I have promised,
and as he has no friends, I will do what I have promised.”
“It is very good of you, sir; though I think he has been very silly in
making such a request; yet you cannot be so considered for performing
the wish of a dying man; it is the duty of any one so promising to
perform it.”
“Quite right, William, quite right; but did you understand what he
meant by his last words? I mean, where he wished to be buried.”
“I don’t know positively, sir, but I think he meant the cathedral—I
thought so, at least. I am not sure he said so, but I believe he meant
to do so.”
“Well, I think so myself; and in the cathedral he shall be buried; but
it is a terrible-looking corpse. I’m sure I could not sleep in the same
room with him. Poor fellow! What he’ll come to at last there is no
telling.”
“Yes, sir; he does look dreadful.”
“You needn’t tell anybody we have a dead customer in the hotel,
William.”
“No, sir.”
“Because people might be curious, and wish to see him, and if they were
to do so, I am sure they would leave the house.”
“So they would, sir. He’s a dreadful-looking corpse. I never heard
of such a one. What can be the cause of it?—and to be buried in his
clothes, too!”
“Ay, and his money and his jewels; that is very strange!”
“Very strange, sir, indeed; and the fewer persons who know of it the
better, else the body will not lie very long in its grave. There will
be those who would not mind turning resurrection-men for the value of
what he had about him.”
“So there would be, William; and now I think of it, the authorities of
the cathedral shall know nothing about it; for who can tell what fancy
they may take concerning it being an unchristian burial?”
“And yet, sir, he paid all his debts like a Christian.”
“Yes; and left a remembrance for the waiter.”
“There could not be a more Christian act than that, for who could be
more Christian-like than to remember the waiter?” and William at once
admitted the truth of the assertion, and they both left the room, and
instructions were given to William to obtain the proper aid respecting
the funeral, and an order was given to the undertaker to come and
measure the corpse for its last garment.
All these things were duly attended to, and kept secret, so that a
very few persons were aware of the fact that so strange an occurrence
had taken place in the good city of Winchester, much less were they
acquainted with the precise locality of the very house in which the
occurrence took place.
When the morning arrived on which the funeral was to take place, some
persons were surprised to behold a couple of mutes standing side by
side at the door of the Star hotel, and there had been no previous
signs of mourning.
The hearse and one mourning coach, however, was all that attended, into
which one solitary mourner entered. There were several others made up
for the occasion, to give the cavalcade an uniform appearance.
The body was carried down by eight men. It was very heavy, and the men
bent beneath the load they bore, and when it was placed in the hearse,
the one mourner got in, and they proceeded towards the cathedral, which
was quite close at hand.
A few—very few minutes served to bring them to the goal, and before the
entrance of the cathedral they stopped, and out came the undertakers,
who contrived, with much exertion, to carry the body into the church;
and then, after some preliminary ceremonies, it was conducted into the
vaults, where it was deposited, and the burial service was said over
it most duly and solemnly, and then left, it was presumed, safe and
secure, to abide its final doom at the day of judgment.
But many thoughts prove but the shadow of our wishes, and this seemed
but as a mocking shadow; as our readers are aware by this time of what
actually took place in the dead of the night.
“In what name was the deceased registered—the burial, I mean?” inquired
the clergyman, whose memory, like some of his other faculties, was
obscured by age.
“His name was Francis Varney,” replied the chief-mourner, who was no
other than the proprietor of the Star hotel.