Dracula's Guest
state of things. She looked so agitated and so miserable that he could
not help knowing the truth, and, as if astounded and hurt, asked her:
“Do you mean to say that _you_ have done it?”
She broke in, “Oh, Joshua, I was so afraid.”
He paused, and a set, white look came over his face. “Mary!” said he,
“is this all the trust you have in me? I would not have believed it.”
“Oh, Joshua! Joshua!” she cried entreatingly, “forgive me,” and wept
bitterly.
Joshua thought a moment and then said: “I see how it is. We shall
better end this or we shall all go mad.”
He ran into the drawing-room.
“Where are you going?” almost screamed Mary.
Gerald saw what he meant—that he would not be tied to blunt instruments
by the force of a superstition, and was not surprised when he saw him
come out through the French window, bearing in his hand a large Ghourka
knife, which usually lay on the centre table, and which his brother had
sent him from Northern India. It was one of those great hunting-knives
which worked such havoc, at close quarters with the enemies of the
loyal Ghourkas during the mutiny, of great weight but so evenly
balanced in the hand as to seem light, and with an edge like a razor.
With one of these knives a Ghourka can cut a sheep in two.
When Mary saw him come out of the room with the weapon in his hand she
screamed in an agony of fright, and the hysterics of last night were
promptly renewed.
Joshua ran toward her, and, seeing her falling, threw down the knife
and tried to catch her.
However, he was just a second too late, and the two men cried out in
horror simultaneously as they saw her fall upon the naked blade.
When Gerald rushed over he found that in falling her left hand had
struck the blade, which lay partly upwards on the grass. Some of the
small veins were cut through, and the blood gushed freely from the
wound. As he was tying it up he pointed out to Joshua that the wedding
ring was severed by the steel.
They carried her fainting to the house. When, after a while, she came
out, with her arm in a sling, she was peaceful in her mind and happy.
She said to her husband:
“The gipsy was wonderfully near the truth; too near for the real thing
ever to occur now, dear.”
Joshua bent over and kissed the wounded hand.
The Coming of Abel Behenna
The little Cornish port of Pencastle was bright in the early April,
when the sun had seemingly come to stay after a long and bitter winter.
Boldly and blackly the rock stood out against a background of shaded
blue, where the sky fading into mist met the far horizon. The sea was
of true Cornish hue—sapphire, save where it became deep emerald green
in the fathomless depths under the cliffs, where the seal caves opened
their grim jaws. On the slopes the grass was parched and brown. The
spikes of furze bushes were ashy grey, but the golden yellow of their
flowers streamed along the hillside, dipping out in lines as the rock
cropped up, and lessening into patches and dots till finally it died
away all together where the sea winds swept round the jutting cliffs
and cut short the vegetation as though with an ever-working aerial
shears. The whole hillside, with its body of brown and flashes of
yellow, was just like a colossal yellow-hammer.
The little harbour opened from the sea between towering cliffs, and
behind a lonely rock, pierced with many caves and blow-holes through
which the sea in storm time sent its thunderous voice, together with a
fountain of drifting spume. Hence, it wound westwards in a serpentine
course, guarded at its entrance by two little curving piers to left and
right. These were roughly built of dark slates placed endways and held
together with great beams bound with iron bands. Thence, it flowed up
the rocky bed of the stream whose winter torrents had of old cut out
its way amongst the hills. This stream was deep at first, with here and
there, where it widened, patches of broken rock exposed at low water,
full of holes where crabs and lobsters were to be found at the ebb of
the tide. From amongst the rocks rose sturdy posts, used for warping in
the little coasting vessels which frequented the port. Higher up, the
stream still flowed deeply, for the tide ran far inland, but always
calmly for all the force of the wildest storm was broken below. Some
quarter mile inland the stream was deep at high water, but at low tide
there were at each side patches of the same broken rock as lower down,
through the chinks of which the sweet water of the natural stream
trickled and murmured after the tide had ebbed away. Here, too, rose
mooring posts for the fishermen’s boats. At either side of the river
was a row of cottages down almost on the level of high tide. They were
pretty cottages, strongly and snugly built, with trim narrow gardens in
front, full of old-fashioned plants, flowering currants, coloured
primroses, wallflower, and stonecrop. Over the fronts of many of them
climbed clematis and wisteria. The window sides and door posts of all
were as white as snow, and the little pathway to each was paved with
light coloured stones. At some of the doors were tiny porches, whilst
at others were rustic seats cut from tree trunks or from old barrels;
in nearly every case the window ledges were filled with boxes or pots
of flowers or foliage plants.
Two men lived in cottages exactly opposite each other across the
stream. Two men, both young, both good-looking, both prosperous, and
who had been companions and rivals from their boyhood. Abel Behenna was
dark with the gypsy darkness which the Phœnician mining wanderers left
in their track; Eric Sanson—which the local antiquarian said was a
corruption of Sagamanson—was fair, with the ruddy hue which marked the
path of the wild Norseman. These two seemed to have singled out each
other from the very beginning to work and strive together, to fight for
each other and to stand back to back in all endeavours. They had now
put the coping-stone on their Temple of Unity by falling in love with
the same girl. Sarah Trefusis was certainly the prettiest girl in
Pencastle, and there was many a young man who would gladly have tried
his fortune with her, but that there were two to contend against, and
each of these the strongest and most resolute man in the port—except
the other. The average young man thought that this was very hard, and
on account of it bore no good will to either of the three principals:
whilst the average young woman who had, lest worse should befall, to
put up with the grumbling of her sweetheart, and the sense of being
only second best which it implied, did not either, be sure, regard
Sarah with friendly eye. Thus it came, in the course of a year or so,
for rustic courtship is a slow process, that the two men and woman
found themselves thrown much together. They were all satisfied, so it
did not matter, and Sarah, who was vain and something frivolous, took
care to have her revenge on both men and women in a quiet way. When a
young woman in her “walking out” can only boast one not-quite-satisfied
young man, it is no particular pleasure to her to see her escort cast
sheep’s eyes at a better-looking girl supported by two devoted swains.
At length there came a time which Sarah dreaded, and which she had
tried to keep distant—the time when she had to make her choice between
the two men. She liked them both, and, indeed, either of them might
have satisfied the ideas of even a more exacting girl. But her mind was
so constituted that she thought more of what she might lose, than of
what she might gain; and whenever she thought she had made up her mind
she became instantly assailed with doubts as to the wisdom of her
choice. Always the man whom she had presumably lost became endowed
afresh with a newer and more bountiful crop of advantages than had ever
arisen from the possibility of his acceptance. She promised each man
that on her birthday she would give him his answer, and that day, the
11th of April, had now arrived. The promises had been given singly and
confidentially, but each was given to a man who was not likely to
forget. Early in the morning she found both men hovering round her
door. Neither had taken the other into his confidence, and each was
simply seeking an early opportunity of getting his answer, and
advancing his suit if necessary. Damon, as a rule, does not take
Pythias with him when making a proposal; and in the heart of each man
his own affairs had a claim far above any requirements of friendship.
So, throughout the day, they kept seeing each other out. The position
was doubtless somewhat embarrassing to Sarah, and though the
satisfaction of her vanity that she should be thus adored was very
pleasing, yet there were moments when she was annoyed with both men for
being so persistent. Her only consolation at such moments was that she
saw, through the elaborate smiles of the other girls when in passing
they noticed her door thus doubly guarded, the jealousy which filled
their hearts. Sarah’s mother was a person of commonplace and sordid
ideas, and, seeing all along the state of affairs, her one intention,
persistently expressed to her daughter in the plainest words, was to so
arrange matters that Sarah should get all that was possible out of both
men. With this purpose she had cunningly kept herself as far as
possible in the background in the matter of her daughter’s wooings, and
watched in silence. At first Sarah had been indignant with her for her
sordid views; but, as usual, her weak nature gave way before
persistence, and she had now got to the stage of acceptance. She was
not surprised when her mother whispered to her in the little yard
behind the house:—
“Go up the hillside for a while; I want to talk to these two. They’re
both red-hot for ye, and now’s the time to get things fixed!” Sarah
began a feeble remonstrance, but her mother cut her short.
“I tell ye, girl, that my mind is made up! Both these men want ye, and
only one can have ye, but before ye choose it’ll be so arranged that
ye’ll have all that both have got! Don’t argy, child! Go up the
hillside, and when ye come back I’ll have it fixed—I see a way quite
easy!” So Sarah went up the hillside through the narrow paths between
the golden furze, and Mrs. Trefusis joined the two men in the
living-room of the little house.
She opened the attack with the desperate courage which is in all
mothers when they think for their children, howsoever mean the thoughts
may be.
“Ye two men, ye’re both in love with my Sarah!”
Their bashful silence gave consent to the barefaced proposition. She
went on.
“Neither of ye has much!” Again they tacitly acquiesced in the soft
impeachment.
“I don’t know that either of ye could keep a wife!” Though neither said
a word their looks and bearing expressed distinct dissent. Mrs.
Trefusis went on:
“But if ye’d put what ye both have together ye’d make a comfortable
home for one of ye—and Sarah!” She eyed the men keenly, with her
cunning eyes half shut, as she spoke; then satisfied from her scrutiny
that the idea was accepted she went on quickly, as if to prevent
argument:
“The girl likes ye both, and mayhap it’s hard for her to choose. Why
don’t ye toss up for her? First put your money together—ye’ve each got
a bit put by, I know. Let the lucky man take the lot and trade with it
a bit, and then come home and marry her. Neither of ye’s afraid, I
suppose! And neither of ye’ll say that he won’t do that much for the
girl that ye both say ye love!”
Abel broke the silence:
“It don’t seem the square thing to toss for the girl! She wouldn’t like
it herself, and it doesn’t seem—seem respectful like to her—” Eric
interrupted. He was conscious that his chance was not so good as Abel’s
in case Sarah should wish to choose between them: