Complete Works of Bram Stoker (571 page)

The narrator concluded, and one of the guests said,  — 

“And do you really believe it?”  —  ”No, no  —  to be sure not.”

“You don’t?”  —  ”Why should I? My friend was, out of all hand, one of the greatest liars I ever came near; and why, therefore, should I believe him? I don’t, on my conscience, believe one word of it.”

It was now half-past twelve, and, as Tom Eccles came not back, and the landlord did not feel disposed to draw any more liquor, they left the inn, and retired to their separate houses in a great state of anxiety to know the fate of their respective wagers.

CHAPTER LXIV.

THE VAMPIRE IN THE MOONLIGHT.  —  THE FALSE FRIEND.

Part of the distance being accomplished towards the old ruins, Tom Eccles began to feel that what he had undertaken was not altogether such child’s-play as he had at first imagined it to be. Somehow or another, with a singular and uncomfortable sort of distinctness, there came across his mind every story that he had remembered of the wild and the wonderful. All the long-since forgotten tales of superstition that in early childhood he had learned, came now back upon him, suggesting to his mind a thousand uncomfortable fancies of the strangest description.

It was not likely that when once a man, under such circumstances, got into such a frame of mind, he would readily get out of it again, while he continued surrounded by such scenes as had first called them into existence.

No doubt, had he turned about, and faced the inn again instead of the old ruins he would soon have shaken off these “thick coming fancies;” but such a result was no to be expected, so long as he kept on towards the dismal place he had pledged himself to reach.

As he traversed meadow after meadow he began to ask himself some questions which he found that he could not answer exactly in a consolatory manner, under the present state of things.

Among these question was the very pertinent one of,  —  ”It’s no argument against vampyres, because I don’t see the use of ‘em  —  is it?” This he was compelled to answer as he had put it; and when, in addition, he began to recollect that, without the shadow of a doubt, Sir Francis Varney the supposed vampyre, had been chased across the fields to that very ruin whither he was bound, and had then and there disappeared, he certainly found himself in decidedly uncomfortable and most unpromising situation.

“No,” he said, “no. Hang it, I won’t go back now, to be made the laughing-stock of the whole town, which I should be. Come what may of it, I will go on as I have commenced; so I shall put on as stout a heart as I can.”

Then, having come to this resolve, he strove might and main to banish from his mind those disagreeable reminiscences that had been oppressing him, to turn his attention to subjects of a different complexion.

During the progress of making this endeavour, which was rather futile, he came within sight of the ruins. Then he slackened his pace a little, telling himself, with a pardonable self-deceit, that it was common, ordinary caution only, which induced him to do so, and nothing at all in the shape of fear.

“Time enough,” he remarked, “to be afraid, when I see anything to be afraid of, which I don’t see as yet. So, as all’s right, I may as well put a good face upon the matter.”

He tried to whistle a tune, but it turned out only a melancholy failure; so he gave that up in despair, and walked on until he got within a hundred yards, or thereabouts, of the old ruins.

He thus proceeded, and bending his ear close to the ground, he listened attentively for several minutes. Somehow, he fancied that a strange, murmuring sound came to his ears; but he was not quite sure that it proceeded from the ruins, because it was just that sort of sound that might come from a long way off, being mellowed by distance, although, perhaps, loud enough at its source.

“Well, well,” he whispered to himself, “it don’t matter much, after all. Go I must, and hide the handkerchiefs somewhere, or else be laughed at, besides losing my wages. The former I don’t like, and the latter I cannot afford.”

Thus clinching the matter by such knock-down arguments, he walked on until he was almost within the very shadow of the ruins, and, probably, it was at this juncture that his footsteps may have been heard by Marchdale and Sir Francis Varney.

Then he paused again; but all was profoundly still, and he began to think that the strange sort of murmuring noise which he had heard must have come from far off and not at all from any person or persons within the ruins.

“Let me see,” he said to himself; “I have five handkerchiefs to hide among the old ruins somewhere, and the sooner I do so the better, because then I will get away; for, as regards staying here to watch, Heaven knows how long, for Sir Francis Varney, I don’t intend to do it, upon second thoughts and second thoughts, they say, are generally best.”

With the most careful footsteps now, as if he were treading upon some fragile substance, which he feared to injure, he advanced until he was fairly within the precincts of the ancient place, which now bore so ill a reputation.

He then made to himself much the same remark that Sir Francis Varney had made to Marchdale, with respect to the brightening up of the sky, in consequence of its being near the time for the moon to rise from the horizon, and he saw more clearly around him, although he could not find any good place to hide the handkerchiefs in.

“I must and will,” he said, “hide them securely; for it would, indeed, be remarkably unpleasant, after coming here and winning my wages, to have the proofs that I had done so taken away by some chance visitor to the place.”

He at length saw a tolerably large stone, which stood, in a slant position, up against one of the walls. Its size attracted him. He thought, if his strength was sufficient to move it, that it would be a good thing to do so, and to place the handkerchiefs beneath it; for, at all events, it was so heavy that it could not be kicked aside, and no one, without some sort of motive to do so, beyond the mere love of labour, would set about moving it from its position.

“I may go further and fare worse,” he said to himself; “so here shall all the handkerchiefs lie, to afford a proof that I have been here.”

He packed them into a small compass, and then stooped to roll aside the heavy stone, when, at the moment, before he could apply his strength to that purpose, he heard some one, in his immediate neighbourhood, say,  —  ”Hist!”

This was so sudden, and so utterly unexpected, that he not only ceased his exertions to move the stone, but he nearly fell down in his surprise.

“Hist  —  hist!” said the voice again.

“What  —  what,” gasped Tom Eccles  —  ”what are you?”  —  ”Hush  —  hush  —  hush!”

The perspiration broke out upon his brow, and he leaned against the wall for support, as he managed to say, faintly,  — 

“Well, hush  —  what then?”  —  ”Hist!”

“Well, I hear you. Where are you?”

“Here at hand. Who are you?”

“Tom Eccles. Who are you?”  —  ”A friend. Have you seen anything?”

“No; I wish I could. I should like to see you if I could.”  —  ”I’m coming.”

There was a slow and cautious footstep, and Marchdale advanced to where Tom Eccles was standing.

“Come, now,” said the latter, when he saw the dusky-looking form stalking towards him; “till I know you better, I’ll be obliged to you to keep off. I am well armed. Keep your distance, be you friend or foe.”

“Armed!” exclaimed Marchdale, and he at once paused.  —  ”Yes, I am.”

“But I am a friend. I have no sort of objection frankly to telly you my errand. I am a friend of the Bannerworth family, and have kept watch here now for two nights, in the hopes of meeting with Varney, the vampyre.”

“The deuce you have: and pray what may your name be?”  —  ”Marchdale.”

“If you be Mr. Marchdale, I know you by sight: for I have seen you with Mr. Henry Bannerworth several times. Come out from among the shadows, and let us have a look at you; but, till you do, don’t come within arm’s length of me. I am not naturally suspicious; but we cannot be too careful.”

“Oh! certainly  —  certainly. The silver edge of the moon is now just peeping up from the east, and you will be able to see me well, if you step from the shadow of the wall by which you now are.”

This was a reasonable enough proposition, and Tom Eccles at once acceded to it, by stepping out boldly into the partial moonlight, which now began to fall upon the open meadows, tinting the grass with a silvery refulgence, and rendering even minute objects visible. The moment he saw Marchdale he knew him, and, advancing frankly to him, he said,  — 

“I know you, sir, well.”

“And what brings you here?”  —  ”A wager for one thing, and a wish to see the vampyre for another.”

“Indeed!”  —  ”Yes; I must own I have such a wish, along with a still stronger one, to capture him, if possible; and, as there are now two of us, why may we not do it?”

“As for capturing him,” said Marchdale, “I should prefer shooting him.”  —  ”You would?”

“I would, indeed. I have seen him once shot down, and he is now, I have no doubt, as well as ever. What were you doing with that huge stone I saw you bending over?”  —  ”I have some handkerchiefs to hide here, as a proof that I have to-night really been to this place.”

“Oh, I will show you a better spot, where there is a crevice in which you can place them with perfect safety. Will you walk with me into the ruins?”  —  ”Willingly.”

“It’s odd enough,” remarked Marchdale, after he had shown Tom Eccles where to hide the handkerchiefs, “that you and I should both be here upon so similar an errand.”  —  ”I’m very glad of it. It robs the place of its gloom, and makes it ten times more endurable than it otherwise would be. What do you propose to do if you see the vampyre?”

“I shall try a pistol bullet on him. You say you are armed?”  —  ”Yes.”

“With pistols?”  —  ”One. Here it is.”

“A huge weapon; loaded well, of course?”  —  ”Oh, yes, I can depend upon it; but I did not intend to use it, unless assailed.”

“‘Tis well. What is that?”  —  ”What  —  what?”

“Don’t you see anything there? Come farther back. Look  —  look. At the corner of that wall there I am certain there is the flutter of a human garment.”  —  ”There is  —  there is.”

“Hush! Keep close. It must be the vampyre.”  —  ”Give me my pistol. What are you doing with it?”

“Only ramming down the charge more firmly for you. Take it. If that be Varney the vampyre, I shall challenge him to surrender the moment he appears; and if he does not, I will fire upon him, and do you do so likewise.”  —  ”Well, I  —  I don’t know.”

“You have scruples?”  —  ”I certainly have.”

“Well, well  —  don’t you fire, then, but leave it to me. There; look  —  look. Now have you any doubt? There he goes; in his cloak. It is  —  it is  —    —  ”  —  ”Varney, by Heavens!” cried Tom Eccles.

“Surrender!” shouted Marchdale.

At the instant Sir Francis Varney sprang forward, and made off at a rapid pace across the meadows.

“Fire after him  —  fire!” cried Marchdale, “or he will escape. My pistol has missed fire. He will be off.”

On the impulse of the moment, and thus urged by the voice and the gesture of his companion, Tom Eccles took aim as well as he could, and fired after the retreating form of Sir Francis Varney. His conscience smote him as he heard the report and saw the flash of the large pistol amid the half sort of darkness that was still around.

The effect of the shot was then to him painfully apparent. He saw Varney stop instantly; then make a vain attempt to stagger forward a little, and finally fall heavily to the earth, with all the appearance of one killed upon the spot.

“You have hit him,” said Marchdale  —  ”you have hit him. Bravo!”  —  ”I have  —  hit him.”

“Yes, a capital shot, by Jove!”  —  ”I am very sorry.”

“Sorry! sorry for ridding the world of such a being! What was in your pistol?”  —  ”A couple of slugs.”

“Well, they have made a lodgment in him, that’s quite clear. Let’s go up and finish him at once.”  —  ”He seems finished.”

“I beg your pardon there. When the moonbeams fall upon him he’ll get up and walk away as if nothing was the matter.”  —  ”Will he?” cried Tom, with animation  —  ”will he?”

“Certainly he will.”  —  ”Thank God for that. Now, hark you, Mr. Marchdale: I should not have fired if you had not at the moment urged me to do so. Now, I shall stay and see if the effect which you talk of will ensue; and although it may convince me that he is a vampyre, and that there are such things, he may go off, scot free, for me.”

“Go off?”  —  ”Yes; I don’t want to have even a vampyre’s blood upon my hands.”

“You are exceedingly delicate.”  —  ”Perhaps I am; it’s my way, though. I have shot him  —  not you, mind; so, in a manner of speaking, he belongs to me. Now, mark, me: I won’t have him touched any more to-night, unless you think there’s a chance of making a prisoner of him without violence.”

“There he lies; you can go and make a prisoner of him at once, dead as he is; and if you take him out of the moonlight  —  ”

“I understand; he won’t recover.”  —  ”Certainly not.”

“But, as I want him to recover, that don’t suit me.”  —  ”Well, I cannot but honour your scruples, although I do not actually share in them; but I promise you that, since such is your wish, I will take no steps against the vampyre; but let us come up to him and see if he be really dead, or only badly wounded.”

Tom Eccles hang back a little from this proposal; but, upon being urged again by Marchdale, and told that he need not go closer than he chose, he consented, and the two of them approached the prostrate form of Sir Francis Varney, which lay upon its face in the faint moonlight, which each moment was gathering strength and power.

“He lies upon his face,” said Marchdale. “Will you go and turn him over?”  —  ”Who  —  I? God forbid I should touch him.”

“Well  —  well, I will. Come on.”

They halted within a couple of yards of the body. Tom Eccles would not go a step farther; so Marchdale advanced alone, and pretended to be, with great repugnance, examining for the wound.