Varney the Vampyre 163The Fisherman’s Cottage.—the Fireside, and the Traveller’s Bed
18
Literature · Horror
Varney the Vampyre 163
The Fisherman’s Cottage.—the Fireside, and the Traveller’s Bed
RymerEnglish
The fisherman’s hut was large and roomy. There was no choice furniture, though there was enough of the homely conveniences that were to be found in such habitations—much more so than is usual. There was a large fire-place, upon which some faggots had been newly laid, and which now blazed away most cheerfully.
“Our home is humble, sir,” said the fisherman; “but such as it is, you are welcome to it, and may it serve you instead of a better.”
“I am much beholden to you,” replied the stranger; “much beholden to you, and cannot thank you enough. This change is most valuable. I do not know in what state I should have been, had you not come forward and offered the shelter of your house to me. I am very cold, indeed, and the warmth of your fire is grateful to me.”
“I am glad of it, sir. You are the only one, I fear, as far as I know, that is saved. Was there many on board?”
“About twenty, I think.”
“Poor fellows! they have met with a watery grave.”
“Yes, they have, I fear. They have had a fearful struggle, for many were lashed to spars, hoping they might be washed, or floated, ashore. I hope I am not disturbing, though I fear I am, your wife and daughter—that is your daughter, I presume, if I may judge from her likeness to yourself.”
“Yes, sir, that is my daughter; she’s a good girl, sir, though I say so, that am her father; and if a secret must be told, in another month she will exchange a father’s for a husband’s control and care, which will I hope, be a happy change.”
“They have long loved each other,” said the mother, “and, to my mind, it is cruel to keep them apart. Times will never be better, and I don’t see but they may begin the world as well as others, with little more than a will to work.”
“You are right,” said the stranger; “you are right; it was never intended that mankind should wait till circumstances were propitious, or it would have made the desire dependent upon circumstances, too.”
“You have hit the right nail, sir—you have spoken the truth; but still we must recommend caution.”
“Very right. I wish them joy and prosperity,” said the stranger.
There was now a bustle in the cottage. Some of those who had accompanied the stranger into the hut, now departed, while the remainder left a few moments after, in company, leaving the fisherman and his family with their guest.
“Well,” said one, “of all the odd looking fish that ever I saw come out of the sea, I think he beats all; not but what I make every allowance, but I cannot make any in such a case, because he has not been drowned.”
“He was quite insensible, and had been so for a long time. Don’t you remember what he said about his becoming insensible immediately after the ship struck.”
“Yes; I heard it all, but hang me if I can understand it. He is as if he had been bled to death, and then came to life.”
“He ain’t got much of a colour.”
“No; but more than that, the dreadful deathly, or ashy paleness is fearful; and then his peculiar features, his long hair, flattened to his head by the water, and the teeth in his head, which appear as if they had been set with the express intention of enabling him to catch otters.”
“That would be no easy task, either; but I must say, as you say, that there have been better looking men than he, at all events.”
In the fisherman’s hut the stranger was willingly attended to by the fisherman and his family, without any invidious attention; and when he had changed his habiliments, he seated himself again by the fire, when some warm drinks and other refreshment were given him.
“I did not think to find any one alive when I went down to the beach,” said the fisherman. “I thought all were lost.”
“And I doubt not but they are all lost, save myself,” said the stranger, blandly; “and though I do not appear much hurt by the occurrence, yet I feel as if the whole mass of my blood was changed, and that I should never again be what I was; that, in fact, I shall always carry about me the appearance, and certainly the feeling, of a man torn from the arms of death, and made to live.”
“It does affect some people strangely,” said the fisherman. “I know what shipwreck is myself, and, therefore, can easily guess what it is to those who are unused to the sea. I was the only one saved out of a whole crew.”
“Indeed! then your case is identical with mine.”
“In that respect it is,” replied the fisherman; “but I was used to the dangers of the sea; and, though that makes no difference when you find yourself in the boiling waters, yet a man who has the fear of wreck constantly before his eyes, can see the danger—take more precaution, and is not so likely to lose that presence of mind which at such times is so valuable.”
“So it is; though I took it very quietly, and stood still until I was thrown down by the first shock of the vessel.”
“She struck more than once?”
“She did; four or five times; she was thrown upon the rocks in shallow water, I believe, as I understand these matters.”
“Yes, it was so,” said the fisherman—“it was so.”
“Well, it was only when the waves left us that we came down with a dreadful crashing shock, which caused the vessel to shiver as if she had been but a leaf. Well, every time a wave swept towards us, it lifted the vessel off the rock, and carried her a few yards further, sometimes scraping and scratching her keel as she went along; at other times, she was lifted clear of the rocks, and then suddenly thrown upon them with great force, and then every timber separated.”
“Just what might be expected.”
“And just as it occurred,” said the stranger.
“And, of course, the crew were carried into the sea, and drowned.”
“Yes; but what became of them—I mean where they were carried to—I cannot tell; but I suppose among the tall rocks that I saw before the wreck. But why was I not carried there and left?”
“It is something that neither you nor I can tell,” said the fisherman.
“Perhaps so; but I am safe, and only so to tell the disaster to others, not for a warning; for it can be none, but I am saved.”
“You are. Perhaps you would like to lie down for an hour or two before daylight comes, and then we will take a walk down to the shore in the morning, and see if there is anything washed ashore.”
“I am tired, and think that it would be of some service, if I can sleep; though I dare say I shall be dreaming of what I have seen and felt, and hardly dare to sleep, so great is the disturbance in my mind.”
“Sit up, and welcome, by the fire,” said the fisherman; “you can do so; it may be as well, perhaps, too—you may be able to sleep that way.”
“No, no, I’ll lie down on the boards—I am not particular upon such an occasion; and, as it has turned out, I shall be too much in need of rest to sit up. The warmth of the fire, too, draws me off, I can find, and I dare say you feel it too.”
“It has that effect, as much as I am used to it,” replied the fisherman; “but do what you please; I shall turn in till daylight, unless you want anything more.”
“Nothing, thank you, my good friend, but a place to lie down on, and then I am quite content for the remainder of the night.”
“There is a settle up in yon corner where you can sleep; it is rough and homely, but we have nothing otherwise here.”
“No apology; I am too thankful for what I have escaped from, and for what I have received, to look hard at the mercies afforded me.”
The stranger said no more, but took the fisherman’s advice and walked to the settle, and then lay down with his face towards the fire.
“Good night,” said the fisherman; “pleasant slumbers.”
“The same to you, my friend; I hope I have not dispossessed any of your family of their means of rest. I have, perhaps, deprived them of their bed.”
“No, no; sleep in peace; we are all provided for. I sleep here,” he said, as he was about to open the door; “and my daughter sleeps there,” he added, pointing to a small door. “So, you see, we have our appointed places, and that on which you now sleep is retained for the use of any strange traveller or friend that may need it.”
“Then good night,” said the stranger, which was returned again by the fisherman, who entered his own room, leaving his guest lying on his bed, and looking around him by the light of the fire, which burned yet for some time.
