Dracula's Guest

Joshua tried to sever the stalk with the blunt knife as country cookssever the necks of fowl--as schoolboys cut twine. With a little efforthe finished the task. The cluster of roses grew thick, so hedetermined to gather a great bunch.

He could not find a single sharp knife in the sideboard where thecutlery was kept, so he called Mary, and when she came, told her thestate of things. She looked so agitated and so miserable that he couldnot help knowing the truth, and, as if astounded and hurt, asked h

er:

'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 weptbitterly.

Joshua thought a moment and then said: 'I see how it is. We shallbetter 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 bluntinstruments by the force of a superstition, and was not surprised whenhe saw him come out through the French window, bearing in his hand alarge Ghourka knife, which usually lay on the centre table, and whichhis brother had sent him from Northern India. It was one of thosegreat hunting-knives which worked such havoc, at close quarters withthe enemies of the loyal Ghourkas during the mutiny, of great weightbut so evenly balanced in the hand as to seem light, and with an edgelike a razor. With one of these knives a Ghourka can cut a sheep intwo.

When Mary saw him come out of the room with the weapon in his hand shescreamed in an agony of fright, and the hysterics of last night werepromptly renewed.

Joshua ran toward her, and, seeing her falling, threw down the knifeand tried to catch her.

However, he was just a second too late, and the two men cried out inhorror simultaneously as they saw her fall upon the naked blade.

When Gerald rushed over he found that in falling her left hand hadstruck the blade, which lay partly upwards on the grass. Some of thesmall veins were cut through, and the blood gushed freely from thewound. As he was tying it up he pointed out to Joshua that the weddingring was severed by the steel.

They carried her fainting to the house. When, after a while, she cameout, 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 thingever 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 bitterwinter. Boldly and blackly the rock stood out against a background ofshaded blue, where the sky fading into mist met the far horizon. Thesea was of true Cornish hue--sapphire, save where it became deepemerald green in the fathomless depths under the cliffs, where theseal caves opened their grim jaws. On the slopes the grass was parchedand brown. The spikes of furze bushes were ashy grey, but the goldenyellow of their flowers streamed along the hillside, dipping out inlines as the rock cropped up, and lessening into patches and dots tillfinally it died away all together where the sea winds swept round thejutting cliffs and cut short the vegetation as though with anever-working aerial shears. The whole hillside, with its body of brownand flashes of yellow, was just like a colossal yellow-hammer.

The little harbour opened from the sea between towering cliffs, andbehind a lonely rock, pierced with many caves and blow-holes throughwhich the sea in storm time sent its thunderous voice, together with afountain of drifting spume. Hence, it wound westwards in a serpentinecourse, guarded at its entrance by two little curving piers to leftand right. These were roughly built of dark slates placed endways andheld together with great beams bound with iron bands. Thence, itflowed up the rocky bed of the stream whose winter torrents had of oldcut out its way amongst the hills. This stream was deep at first, withhere and there, where it widened, patches of broken rock exposed atlow water, full of holes where crabs and lobsters were to be found atthe ebb of the tide. From amongst the rocks rose sturdy posts, usedfor warping in the little coasting vessels which frequented the port.Higher up, the stream still flowed deeply, for the tide ran farinland, but always calmly for all the force of the wildest storm wasbroken below. Some quarter mile inland the stream was deep at highwater, but at low tide there were at each side patches of the samebroken rock as lower down, through the chinks of which the sweet waterof the natural stream trickled and murmured after the tide had ebbedaway. Here, too, rose mooring posts for the fishermen's boats. Ateither side of the river was a row of cottages down almost on thelevel of high tide. They were pretty cottages, strongly and snuglybuilt, with trim narrow gardens in front, full of old-fashionedplants, flowering currants, coloured primroses, wallflower, andstonecrop. Over the fronts of many of them climbed clematis andwisteria. The window sides and door posts of all were as white assnow, and the little pathway to each was paved with light colouredstones. At some of the doors were tiny porches, whilst at others wererustic seats cut from tree trunks or from old barrels; in nearly everycase the window ledges were filled with boxes or pots of flowers orfoliage plants.

Two men lived in cottages exactly opposite each other across thestream. Two men, both young, both good-looking, both prosperous, andwho had been companions and rivals from their boyhood. Abel Behennawas dark with the gypsy darkness which the Phoenician mining wanderersleft in their track; Eric Sanson--which the local antiquarian said wasa corruption of Sagamanson--was fair, with the ruddy hue which markedthe path of the wild Norseman. These two seemed to have singled outeach other from the very beginning to work and strive together, tofight for each other and to stand back to back in all endeavours. Theyhad now put the coping-stone on their Temple of Unity by falling inlove with the same girl. Sarah Trefusis was certainly the prettiestgirl in Pencastle, and there was many a young man who would gladlyhave tried his fortune with her, but that there were two to contendagainst, and each of these the strongest and most resolute man in theport--except the other. The average young man thought that this wasvery hard, and on account of it bore no good will to either of thethree principals: whilst the average young woman who had, lest worseshould befall, to put up with the grumbling of her sweetheart, and thesense of being only second best which it implied, did not either, besure, regard Sarah with friendly eye. Thus it came, in the course of ayear or so, for rustic courtship is a slow process, that the two menand woman found themselves thrown much together. They were allsatisfied, so it did not matter, and Sarah, who was vain and somethingfrivolous, took care to have her revenge on both men and women in aquiet way. When a young woman in her 'walking out' can only boast onenot-quite-satisfied young man, it is no particular pleasure to her tosee her escort cast sheep's eyes at a better-looking girl supported bytwo devoted swains.

At length there came a time which Sarah dreaded, and which she hadtried to keep distant--the time when she had to make her choicebetween the two men. She liked them both, and, indeed, either of themmight have satisfied the ideas of even a more exacting girl. But hermind 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 upher mind she became instantly assailed with doubts as to the wisdom ofher choice. Always the man whom she had presumably lost became endowedafresh with a newer and more bountiful crop of advantages than hadever arisen from the possibility of his acceptance. She promised eachman 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 singlyand confidentially, but each was given to a man who was not likely toforget. Early in the morning she found both men hovering round herdoor. Neither had taken the other into his confidence, and each wassimply seeking an early opportunity of getting his answer, andadvancing his suit if necessary. Damon, as a rule, does not takePythias with him when making a proposal; and in the heart of each manhis own affairs had a claim far above any requirements of friendship.So, throughout the day, they kept seeing each other out. The positionwas doubtless somewhat embarrassing to Sarah, and though thesatisfaction of her vanity that she should be thus adored was verypleasing, yet there were moments when she was annoyed with both menfor being so persistent. Her only consolation at such moments was thatshe saw, through the elaborate smiles of the other girls when inpassing they noticed her door thus doubly guarded, the jealousy whichfilled their hearts. Sarah's mother was a person of commonplace andsordid ideas, and, seeing all along the state of affairs, her oneintention, persistently expressed to her daughter in the plainestwords, was to so arrange matters that Sarah should get all that waspossible out of both men. With this purpose she had cunningly keptherself as far as possible in the background in the matter of herdaughter's wooings, and watched in silence. At first Sarah had beenindignant with her for her sordid views; but, as usual, her weaknature gave way before persistence, and she had now got to the stageof acceptance. She was not surprised when her mother whispered to herin the little yard behind the house:--

'Go up the hillside for a while; I want to talk to these two. They'reboth red-hot for ye, and now's the time to get things fixed!' Sarahbegan a feeble remonstrance, but her mother cut her short.

'I tell ye, girl, that my mind is made up! Both these men want ye, andonly one can have ye, but before ye choose it'll be so arranged thatye'll have all that both have got! Don't argy, child! Go up thehillside, and when ye come back I'll have it fixed--I see a way quiteeasy!' So Sarah went up the hillside through the narrow paths betweenthe golden furze, and Mrs. Trefusis joined the two men in theliving-room of the little house.

She opened the attack with the desperate courage which is in allmothers when they think for their children, howsoever mean thethoughts may be.

'Ye two men, ye're both in love with my Sarah!'

Their bashful silence gave consent to the barefaced proposition. Shewent on.

'Neither of ye has much!' Again they tacitly acquiesced in the softimpeachment.

'I don't know that either of ye could keep a wife!' Though neithersaid a word their looks and bearing expressed distinct dissent. Mrs.Trefusis went on: