"Everything that can be done." "Ay--ay." *       *       *       *       *

The coach in which the family of the Bannerworths were carried away
continued its course without any let or hindrance, and they met no one
on their road during the whole drive. The fact was, nearly everybody was
at the conflagration at Sir Francis Varney's house. Flora knew not which way they were going, and, after a time, all trace
of the road was lost. Darkness set in, and they all sat in silence in
the coach. At length, after some time had been spent thus, Flora Bannerworth turned
to Jack Pringle, and said,--

"Are we near, or have we much further to go?" "Not very much, ma'am," said Jack. "All's right, however--ship in the
direct course, and no breakers ahead--no lookout necessary; however
there's a land-lubber aloft to keep a look out." As this was not very intelligible, and Jack seemed to have his own
reasons for silence, they asked him no further questions; but in about
three-quarters of an hour, during which time the coach had been driving
through the trees, they came to a standstill by a sudden pull of the
check-string from Jack, who said,--

"Hilloa!--take in sails, and drop anchor." "Is this the place?" "Yes, here we are," said Jack; "we're in port now, at all events;" and
he began to sing,--

    "The trials and the dangers of the voyage is past,"

when the coach door opened, and they all got out and looked about them
where they were. "Up the garden if you please, ma'am--as quick as you can; the night air
is very cold." Flora and her mother and brother took the hint, which was meant by Jack
to mean that they were not to be seen outside. They at once entered a
pretty garden, and then they came to a very neat and picturesque
cottage. They had no time to look up at it, as the door was immediately
opened by an elderly female, who was intended to wait upon them. Soon after, Jack Pringle and the coachman entered the passage with the
small amount of luggage which they had brought with them. This was
deposited in the passage, and then Jack went out again, and, after a few
minutes, there was the sound of wheels, which intimated that the coach
had driven off. Jack, however, returned in a few minutes afterwards, having secured the
wicket-gate at the end of the garden, and then entered the house,
shutting the door carefully after him. Flora and her mother looked over the apartments in which they were shown
with some surprise. It was, in everything, such as they could wish;
indeed, though it could not be termed handsomely or extravagantly
furnished, or that the things were new, yet, there was all that
convenience and comfort could require, and some little of the luxuries. "Well," said Flora, "this is very thoughtful of the admiral. The place
will really be charming, and the garden, too, delightful." "Mustn't be made use of just now," said Jack, "if you please, ma'am;
them's the orders at present." "Very well," said Flora, smiling. "I suppose, Mr. Pringle, we must obey
them." "Jack Pringle, if you please," said Jack. "My commands only temporary. I
ain't got a commission." CHAPTER LVII. THE LONELY WATCH, AND THE ADVENTURE IN THE DESERTED HOUSE. [Illustration]

It is now quite night, and so peculiar and solemn a stillness reigns in
and about Bannerworth Hall and its surrounding grounds, that one might
have supposed it a place of the dead, deserted completely after sunset
by all who would still hold kindred with the living. There was not a
breath of air stirring, and this circumstance added greatly to the
impression of profound repose which the whole scene exhibited. The wind during the day had been rather of a squally character, but
towards nightfall, as is often usual after a day of such a character, it
had completely lulled, and the serenity of the scene was unbroken even
by the faintest sigh from a wandering zephyr. The moon rose late at that period, and as is always the case at that
interval between sunset and the rising of that luminary which makes the
night so beautiful, the darkness was of the most profound character. It was one of those nights to produce melancholy reflections--a night on
which a man would be apt to review his past life, and to look into the
hidden recesses of his soul to see if conscience could make a coward of
him in the loneliness and stillness that breathed around. It was one of those nights in which wanderers in the solitude of nature
feel that the eye of Heaven is upon them, and on which there seems to be
a more visible connection between the world and its great Creator than
upon ordinary occasions. The solemn and melancholy appear places once instinct with life, when
deserted by those familiar forms and faces that have long inhabited
them. There is no desert, no uninhabited isle in the far ocean, no wild,
barren, pathless tract of unmitigated sterility, which could for one
moment compare in point of loneliness and desolation to a deserted city. Strip London, mighty and majestic as it is, of the busy swarm of
humanity that throng its streets, its suburbs, its temples, its public
edifices, and its private dwellings, and how awful would be the walk of
one solitary man throughout its noiseless thoroughfares. [Illustration]

If madness seized not upon him ere he had been long the sole survivor of
a race, it would need be cast in no common mould. And to descend from great things to smaller--from the huge leviathan
city to one mansion far removed from the noise and bustle of
conventional life, we may imagine the sort of desolation that reigned
through Bannerworth Hall, when, for the first time, after nearly a
hundred and fifty years of occupation, it was deserted by the
representatives of that family, so many members of which had lived and
died beneath its roof. The house, and everything within, without, and
around it, seemed actually to sympathize with its own desolation and
desertion. It seemed as if twenty years of continued occupation could not have
produced such an effect upon the ancient edifice as had those few hours
of neglect and desertion. And yet it was not as if it had been stripped of those time-worn and
ancient relics of ornament and furnishing that so long had appertained
to it. No, nothing but the absence of those forms which had been
accustomed quietly to move from room to room, and to be met here upon a
staircase, there upon a corridor, and even in some of the ancient
panelled apartments, which give it an air of dreary repose and
listlessness. The shutters, too, were all closed, and that circumstance contributed
largely to the production of that gloomy effect which otherwise could
not have ensued. In fact, what could be done without attracting very special observation
was done to prove to any casual observer that the house was untenanted. But such was not really the case. In that very room where the much
dreaded Varney the vampyre had made one of his dreaded appearances to
Flora Bannerworth and her mother, sat two men.