Dracula's Guest
“Darned if the squaw hain’t got on all her war paint! Jest give her a
shove off if she comes any of her tricks on me, for I’m so fixed
everlastingly by the boss, that durn my skin if I can keep my eyes from
her if she wants them! Easy there, Judge! don’t you slack that ar rope
or I’m euchered!”
At this moment Amelia completed her faint, and I had to clutch hold of
her round the waist or she would have fallen to the floor. Whilst
attending to her I saw the black cat crouching for a spring, and jumped
up to turn the creature out.
But at that instant, with a sort of hellish scream, she hurled herself,
not as we expected at Hutcheson, but straight at the face of the
custodian. Her claws seemed to be tearing wildly as one sees in the
Chinese drawings of the dragon rampant, and as I looked I saw one of
them light on the poor man’s eye, and actually tear through it and down
his cheek, leaving a wide band of red where the blood seemed to spurt
from every vein.
With a yell of sheer terror which came quicker than even his sense of
pain, the man leaped back, dropping as he did so the rope which held
back the iron door. I jumped for it, but was too late, for the cord ran
like lightning through the pulley-block, and the heavy mass fell
forward from its own weight.
As the door closed I caught a glimpse of our poor companion’s face. He
seemed frozen with terror. His eyes stared with a horrible anguish as
if dazed, and no sound came from his lips.
And then the spikes did their work. Happily the end was quick, for when
I wrenched open the door they had pierced so deep that they had locked
in the bones of the skull through which they had crushed, and actually
tore him—it—out of his iron prison till, bound as he was, he fell at
full length with a sickly thud upon the floor, the face turning upward
as he fell.
I rushed to my wife, lifted her up and carried her out, for I feared
for her very reason if she should wake from her faint to such a scene.
I laid her on the bench outside and ran back. Leaning against the
wooden column was the custodian moaning in pain whilst he held his
reddening handkerchief to his eyes. And sitting on the head of the poor
American was the cat, purring loudly as she licked the blood which
trickled through the gashed socket of his eyes.
I think no one will call me cruel because I seized one of the old
executioner’s swords and shore her in two as she sat.
The Secret of the Growing Gold
When Margaret Delandre went to live at Brent’s Rock the whole
neighbourhood awoke to the pleasure of an entirely new scandal.
Scandals in connection with either the Delandre family or the Brents of
Brent’s Rock, were not few; and if the secret history of the county had
been written in full both names would have been found well represented.
It is true that the status of each was so different that they might
have belonged to different continents—or to different worlds for the
matter of that—for hitherto their orbits had never crossed. The Brents
were accorded by the whole section of the country a unique social
dominance, and had ever held themselves as high above the yeoman class
to which Margaret Delandre belonged, as a blue-blooded Spanish hidalgo
out-tops his peasant tenantry.
The Delandres had an ancient record and were proud of it in their way
as the Brents were of theirs. But the family had never risen above
yeomanry; and although they had been once well-to-do in the good old
times of foreign wars and protection, their fortunes had withered under
the scorching of the free trade sun and the “piping times of peace.”
They had, as the elder members used to assert, “stuck to the land”,
with the result that they had taken root in it, body and soul. In fact,
they, having chosen the life of vegetables, had flourished as
vegetation does—blossomed and thrived in the good season and suffered
in the bad. Their holding, Dander’s Croft, seemed to have been worked
out, and to be typical of the family which had inhabited it. The latter
had declined generation after generation, sending out now and again
some abortive shoot of unsatisfied energy in the shape of a soldier or
sailor, who had worked his way to the minor grades of the services and
had there stopped, cut short either from unheeding gallantry in action
or from that destroying cause to men without breeding or youthful
care—the recognition of a position above them which they feel unfitted
to fill. So, little by little, the family dropped lower and lower, the
men brooding and dissatisfied, and drinking themselves into the grave,
the women drudging at home, or marrying beneath them—or worse. In
process of time all disappeared, leaving only two in the Croft, Wykham
Delandre and his sister Margaret. The man and woman seemed to have
inherited in masculine and feminine form respectively the evil tendency
of their race, sharing in common the principles, though manifesting
them in different ways, of sullen passion, voluptuousness and
recklessness.
The history of the Brents had been something similar, but showing the
causes of decadence in their aristocratic and not their plebeian forms.
They, too, had sent their shoots to the wars; but their positions had
been different and they had often attained honour—for without flaw they
were gallant, and brave deeds were done by them before the selfish
dissipation which marked them had sapped their vigour.
The present head of the family—if family it could now be called when
one remained of the direct line—was Geoffrey Brent. He was almost a
type of worn out race, manifesting in some ways its most brilliant
qualities, and in others its utter degradation. He might be fairly
compared with some of those antique Italian nobles whom the painters
have preserved to us with their courage, their unscrupulousness, their
refinement of lust and cruelty—the voluptuary actual with the fiend
potential. He was certainly handsome, with that dark, aquiline,
commanding beauty which women so generally recognise as dominant. With
men he was distant and cold; but such a bearing never deters womankind.
The inscrutable laws of sex have so arranged that even a timid woman is
not afraid of a fierce and haughty man. And so it was that there was
hardly a woman of any kind or degree, who lived within view of Brent’s
Rock, who did not cherish some form of secret admiration for the
handsome wastrel. The category was a wide one, for Brent’s Rock rose up
steeply from the midst of a level region and for a circuit of a hundred
miles it lay on the horizon, with its high old towers and steep roofs
cutting the level edge of wood and hamlet, and far-scattered mansions.
So long as Geoffrey Brent confined his dissipations to London and Paris
and Vienna—anywhere out of sight and sound of his home—opinion was
silent. It is easy to listen to far off echoes unmoved, and we can
treat them with disbelief, or scorn, or disdain, or whatever attitude
of coldness may suit our purpose. But when the scandal came close home
it was another matter; and the feelings of independence and integrity
which is in people of every community which is not utterly spoiled,
asserted itself and demanded that condemnation should be expressed.
Still there was a certain reticence in all, and no more notice was
taken of the existing facts than was absolutely necessary. Margaret
Delandre bore herself so fearlessly and so openly—she accepted her
position as the justified companion of Geoffrey Brent so naturally that
people came to believe that she was secretly married to him, and
therefore thought it wiser to hold their tongues lest time should
justify her and also make her an active enemy.
The one person who, by his interference, could have settled all doubts
was debarred by circumstances from interfering in the matter. Wykham
Delandre had quarrelled with his sister—or perhaps it was that she had
quarrelled with him—and they were on terms not merely of armed
neutrality but of bitter hatred. The quarrel had been antecedent to
Margaret going to Brent’s Rock. She and Wykham had almost come to
blows. There had certainly been threats on one side and on the other;
and in the end Wykham, overcome with passion, had ordered his sister to
leave his house. She had risen straightway, and, without waiting to
pack up even her own personal belongings, had walked out of the house.
On the threshold she had paused for a moment to hurl a bitter threat at
Wykham that he would rue in shame and despair to the last hour of his
life his act of that day. Some weeks had since passed; and it was
understood in the neighbourhood that Margaret had gone to London, when
she suddenly appeared driving out with Geoffrey Brent, and the entire
neighbourhood knew before nightfall that she had taken up her abode at
the Rock. It was no subject of surprise that Brent had come back
unexpectedly, for such was his usual custom. Even his own servants
never knew when to expect him, for there was a private door, of which
he alone had the key, by which he sometimes entered without anyone in
the house being aware of his coming. This was his usual method of
appearing after a long absence.
Wykham Delandre was furious at the news. He vowed vengeance—and to keep
his mind level with his passion drank deeper than ever. He tried
several times to see his sister, but she contemptuously refused to meet
him. He tried to have an interview with Brent and was refused by him
also. Then he tried to stop him in the road, but without avail, for
Geoffrey was not a man to be stopped against his will. Several actual
encounters took place between the two men, and many more were
threatened and avoided. At last Wykham Delandre settled down to a
morose, vengeful acceptance of the situation.
Neither Margaret nor Geoffrey was of a pacific temperament, and it was
not long before there began to be quarrels between them. One thing
would lead to another, and wine flowed freely at Brent’s Rock. Now and
again the quarrels would assume a bitter aspect, and threats would be
exchanged in uncompromising language that fairly awed the listening
servants. But such quarrels generally ended where domestic altercations
do, in reconciliation, and in a mutual respect for the fighting
qualities proportionate to their manifestation. Fighting for its own
sake is found by a certain class of persons, all the world over, to be
a matter of absorbing interest, and there is no reason to believe that
domestic conditions minimise its potency. Geoffrey and Margaret made
occasional absences from Brent’s Rock, and on each of these occasions
Wykham Delandre also absented himself; but as he generally heard of the
absence too late to be of any service, he returned home each time in a
more bitter and discontented frame of mind than before.
At last there came a time when the absence from Brent’s Rock became
longer than before. Only a few days earlier there had been a quarrel,
exceeding in bitterness anything which had gone before; but this, too,
had been made up, and a trip on the Continent had been mentioned before
the servants. After a few days Wykham Delandre also went away, and it
was some weeks before he returned. It was noticed that he was full of
some new importance—satisfaction, exaltation—they hardly knew how to
call it. He went straightway to Brent’s Rock, and demanded to see
Geoffrey Brent, and on being told that he had not yet returned, said,
with a grim decision which the servants noted:
“I shall come again. My news is solid—it can wait!” and turned away.
Week after week went by, and month after month; and then there came a
rumour, certified later on, that an accident had occurred in the
Zermatt valley. Whilst crossing a dangerous pass the carriage
containing an English lady and the driver had fallen over a precipice,