Complete Works of Bram Stoker (595 page)

“I can well believe, Varney, from your manner of speech, and from the words you use, that you have some secret to relate beyond this simple fact of the murder of this gamester by Marmaduke Bannerworth.”

“You are right  —  such is the fact; the death of that man could not have moved me as you now see me moved. There is a secret connected with his fate which I may well hesitate to utter  —  a secret even to whisper to the winds of heaven  —  I  —  although I did not do the deed, no, no  —  I  —  I did not strike the blow  —  not I  —  not I!”

“Varney, it is astonishing to me the pains you take to assure yourself of your innocence of this deed; no one accuses you, but still, were it not that I am impressed with a strong conviction that you’re speaking to me nothing but the truth, the very fact of your extreme anxiety to acquit yourself, would engender suspicion.”

“I can understand that feeling, Charles Holland; I can fully understand it. I do not blame you for it  —  it is a most natural one; but when you know all, you will feel with me how necessary it must have been to my peace to seize upon every trivial circumstance that can help me to a belief in my own innocence.”

“It may be so; as yet, you well know, I speak in ignorance. But what could there have been in the character of that gambler, that has made you so sympathetic concerning his decease?”

“Nothing  —  nothing whatever in his character. He was a bad man; not one of those free, open spirits which are seduced into crime by thoughtlessness  —  not one of those whom we pity, perchance, more than we condemn; but a man without a redeeming trait in his disposition  —  a man so heaped up with vices and iniquities, that society gained much by his decease, and not an individual could say that he had lost a friend.”

“And yet the mere thought of the circumstances connected with his death seems almost to drive you to the verge of despair.”

“You are right; the mere thought has that effect.”

“You have aroused all my curiosity to know the causes of such a feeling.”

Varney paced the apartment in silence for many minutes. He seemed to be enduring a great mental struggle, and at length, when he turned to Charles Holland and spoke, there were upon his countenance traces of deep emotion.

“I have said, young man, that I will take you into my confidence. I have said that I will clear up many seeming mysteries, and that I will enable you to understand what was obscure in the narrative of Dr. Chillingworth, and of that man who filled the office of public executioner, and who has haunted me so long.”

“It is true, then, as the doctor states, that you were executed in London?”

“I was.”

“And resuscitated by the galvanic process, put into operation by Dr. Chillingworth?”

“As he supposed; but there are truths connected with natural philosophy which he dreamed not of. I bear a charmed life, and it was but accident which produced a similar effect upon the latent springs of my existence in the house to which the executioner conducted me, to what would have been produced had I been sufficed, in the free and open air, to wait until the cool moonbeams fell upon me.”

“Varney, Varney,” said Charles Holland, “you will not succeed in convincing me of your supernatural powers. I hold such feelings and sensations at arm’s length. I will not  —  I cannot assume you to be what you affect.”

“I ask for no man’s belief. I know that which I know, and, gathering experience from the coincidences of different phenomena, I am compelled to arrive at certain conclusions. Believe what you please, doubt what you please; but I say again that I am not as other men.”

“I am in no condition to depute your proposition; I wish not to dispute it; but you are wandering, Varney, from the point. I wait anxiously for a continuation of your narrative.”

“I know that I am wandering from it  —  I know well that I am wandering from it, and that the reason I do so is that I dread that continuation.”

“That dread will nor be the less for its postponement.”

“You are right; but tell me, Charles Holland, although you are young you have been about in the great world sufficiently to form correct opinions, and to understand that which is related to you, drawing proper deductions from certain facts, and arriving possibly at more correct conclusions than some of maturer years with less wisdom.”

“I will freely answer, Varney, any question you may put to me.”

“I know it; tell me then what measure of guilt you attach to me in the transaction I have noticed to you.”

“It seems then to me that, not contemplating the man’s murder, you cannot be accused of the act, although a set of fortuitous circumstances made you appear an accomplice to its commission.”

“You think I may be acquitted?”

“You can acquit yourself, knowing that you did not contemplate the murder.”

“I did not contemplate it. I know not what desperate deed I should have stopped short at then, in the height of my distress, but I neither contemplated taking that man’s life, nor did I strike the blow which sent him from existence.”

“There is even some excuse as regards the higher crime for Marmaduke Bannerworth.”

“Think you so?”

“Yes; he thought that you were killed, and impulsively he might have struck the blow that made him a murderer.”

“Be it so. I am willing, extremely willing that anything should occur that should remove the odium of guilt from any man, Be it so, I say, with all my heart; but now, Charles Holland, I feel that we must meet again ere I can tell you all; but in the meantime let Flora Bannerworth rest in peace  —  she need dread nothing from me. Avarice and revenge, the two passions which found a home in my heart, are now stifled for ever.”

“Revenge! did you say revenge?”

“I did; whence the marvel, am I not sufficiently human for that?”

“But you coupled it with the name of Flora Bannerworth.”

“I did, and that is part of my mystery.”

“A mystery, indeed, to imagine that such a being as Flora could awaken any such feeling in your heart  —  a most abundant mystery.”

“It is so. I do not affect to deny it: but yet it is true, although so greatly mysterious, but tell her that although at one time I looked upon her as one whom I cared not if I injured, her beauty and distress changed the current of my thoughts, and won upon me greatly, From the moment I found I had the power to become the bane of her existence, I ceased to wish to be so, and never again shall she experience a pang of alarm from Varney, the vampyre.”

“Your message shall be faithfully delivered, and doubt not that it will be received with grateful feelings. Nevertheless I should have much wished to have been in a position to inform her of more particulars.”

“Come to me here at midnight to-morrow, and you shall know all. I will have no reservation with you, no concealments; you shall know whom I have had to battle against, and how it is that a world of evil passions took possession of my heart and made me what I am.”

“Are you firm in this determination, Varney  —  will you indeed tell me no more to-night?”

“No more, I have said it. Leave me now. I have need of more repose, for of late sleep has seldom closed my eyelids.”

Charles Holland was convinced, from the positive manner in which he spoke, that nothing more in the shape of information, at that time, was to be expected from Varney; and being fearful that if he urged this strange being too far, at a time when he did not wish it, he might refuse all further communication, he thought it prudent to leave him, so he said to him,  — 

“Be assured, Varney, I shall keep the appointment you have made, with an expectation when we do meet of being rewarded by a recital of some full particulars.”

“You shall not he disappointed; farewell, farewell!”

Charles Holland bade him adieu, and left the place.

Although he had now acquired all the information he hoped to take away with him when Varney first began to be communicative, yet, when he came to consider how strange and unaccountable a being he had been in communication with, Charles could not but congratulate himself that he had heard so much, for, from the manner of Varney, he could well suppose that that was, indeed, the first time he had been so communicative upon subjects which evidently held so conspicuous a place in his heart.

And he had abundance of hope, likewise, from what had been said by Varney, that he would keep his word, and communicate to him fully all else that he required to know; and when he recollected those words which Varney had used, signifying that he knew the danger of half confidences, that hope grew into a certainty, and Charles began to have no doubt but that on the next evening all that was mysterious in the various affairs connected with the vampyre would become clear and open to the light of day.

He strolled down the lane in which the lone house was situated, revolving these matters in his mind, and when he arrived at its entrance, he was rather surprised to see a throng of persons hastily moving onward, with come appearance of dismay about them, and anxiety depicted upon their countenances.

He stopped a lad, and inquired of him the cause of the seeming tumult.

“Why, sir, the fact is,” said the boy, “a crowd from the town’s been burning down Bannerworth Hall, and they’ve killed a man”

“Bannerworth Hall! you must be mistaken.”

“Well, sir, I ought not to call it Bannerworth Hall, because I mean the old ruins in the neighbourhood that are supposed to have been originally Bannerworth Hall before the house now called such was built; and, moreover, as the Bannerworths have always had a garden there, and two or three old sheds, the people in the town called it Bannerworth Hall in common with the other building.”

“I understand. And do you say that all have been destroyed?”

“Yes, sir. All that was capable of being burnt has been burnt, and, what is more, a man has been killed among the ruins. We don’t know who he is, but the folks said he was a vampyre, and they left him for dead,”

“When will these terrible outrages cease? Oh! Varney, Varney, you have much to answer for; even if in your conscience you succeed in acquitting yourself of the murder, some of the particulars concerning which you have informed me of.”

CHAPTER LXXXIII.

THE MYSTERIOUS ARRIVAL AT THE INN.  —  THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN.  —  THE LETTER TO VARNEY.

While these affairs are proceeding, and when there seems every appearance of Sir Francis Varney himself quickly putting an end to some of the vexatious circumstances connected with himself and the Bannerworth family, it is necessary that we should notice an occurrence which took place at the same inn which the admiral had made such a scene of confusion upon the occasion of his first arrival in the town.

Not since the admiral had arrived with Jack Pringle, and so disturbed the whole economy of the household, was there so much curiosity excited as on the morning following the interview which Charles Holland had had with Varney, the vampyre.

The inn was scarcely opened, when a stranger arrived, mounted on a coal-black horse, and, alighting, he surrendered the bridle into the hands of a boy who happened to be at the inn-door, and stalked slowly and solemnly into the building.

He was tall, and of a cadaverous aspect; in attire he was plainly apparelled, but there was no appearance of poverty about him; on the contrary, what he really had on was of a rich and costly character, although destitute of ornament.

He sat down in the first room that presented itself, and awaited the appearance of the landlord, who, upon being informed that a guest of apparently ample means, and of some consequence, had entered the place, hastily went to him to receive his commands.

With a profusion of bows, our old friend, who had been so obsequious to Admiral Bell, entered the room, and begged to know what orders the gentleman had for him.

“I presume,” said the stranger, in a deep, solemn voice, “I presume that you have no objection, for a few days that I shall remain in this town, to board and lodge me for a certain price which you can name to me at once?”

“Certainly, sir,” said the landlord; “any way you please; without wine, sir, I presume?”

“As you please; make your own arrangements.”

“Well, sir, as we can’t tell, of course, what wine a gentleman may drink, but when we come to consider breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper, and a bed, and all that sort of thing, and a private sitting-room, I suppose, sir?”

“Certainly.”

“You would not, then, think, sir, a matter of four guineas a week will be too much, perhaps.”

“I told you to name your own charge. Let it be four guineas; if you had said eight I should have paid it.”

“Good God!” said the publican, “here’s a damned fool that I am. I beg your pardon, sir, I didn’t mean you. Now I could punch my own head  —  will you have breakfast at once, sir, and then we shall begin regular, you know, sir?”

“Have what?”

“Breakfast, breakfast, you know, sir; tea, coffee, cocoa, or chocolate; ham, eggs, or a bit of grilled fowl, cold sirloin of roast beef, or a red herring  —  anything you like, sir.”

“I never take breakfast, so you may spare yourself the trouble of providing anything for me.”

“Not take breakfast, sir! not take breakfast! Would you like to take anything to drink then, sir? People say it’s an odd time, at eight o’clock in the morning, to drink; but, for my part, I always have thought that you couldn’t begin a good thing too soon.”

“I live upon drink,” said the stranger; “but you have none in the cellar that will suit me.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“No, no, I am certain.”

“Why, we’ve got some claret now, sir,” said the landlord.

“Which may look like blood, and yet not be it.”

“Like what, sir?  —  damn my rags!”

“Begone, begone.”

The stranger uttered these words so peremptorily that the landlord hastily left the room, and going into his own bar, he gave himself so small a tap on the side of the head, that it would not have hurt a fly, as he said,  — 

“I could punch myself into bits, I could tear my hair out by the roots;” and then he pulled a little bit of his hair, so gently and tenderly that it showed what a man of discretion he was, even in the worst of all his agony of passion.