Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
Tom
Eccles, as he was named, was one of those individuals who act greatly from
impulse. He was certainly not a coward, and, perhaps, really as free from
superstition as most persons, but he was human, and consequently he had nerves,
and he had likewise an imagination.
He
went to his house first before he started on his errand to the ruins. It was to
get a horse-pistol which he had, and which he duly loaded and placed in his
pocket. Then he wrapped himself up in a great-coat, and with the air of a man
quite determined upon something desperate he left the town.
The
guests at the inn looked after him as he walked from the door of that friendly
establishment, and some of them, as they saw his resolved aspect, began to
quake for the amount of the wagers they had laid upon his non-success.
However,
it was resolved among them, that they would stay until half-past twelve, in the
expectation of his return, before they separated.
To
while away the time, he who had been so facetious about his story of the
clock-weight, volunteered to tell what happened to a friend of his who went to
take possession of some family property which he became possessed of as
heir-at-law to an uncle who had died without a will, having an illegitimate
family unprovided for in every shape.
"Ah!
nobody cares for other people's illegitimate children, and, if their parents
don't provide for them, why, the workhouse is open for them, just as if they
were something different from other people."
"So
they are; if their parents don't take care of them, and provide for them,
nobody else will, as you say, neighbour, except when they have a Fitz put to
their name, which tells you they are royal bastards, and of course unlike
anybody else's."
"But
go on—let's know all about it; we sha'n't hear what he has got to say at all,
at this rate."
"Well,
as I was saying, or about to say, the nephew, as soon as he heard his uncle was
dead, comes and claps his seal upon everything in the house."
"But,
could he do so?" inquired one of the guests.
"I
don't see what was to hinder him," replied a third. "He could do so,
certainly."
"But
there was a son, and, as I take it, a son's nearer than a nephew any day."
"But
the son is illegitimate."
"Legitimate,
or illegitimate, a son's a son; don't bother me about distinction of that sort;
why, now, there was old Weatherbit—"
"Order,
order."
"Let's
hear the tale."
"Very
good, gentlemen, I'll go on, if I ain't to be interrupted; but I'll say this,
that an illegitimate son is no son, in the eyes of the law; or at most he's an
accident quite, and ain't what he is, and so can't inherit."
"Well,
that's what I call making matters plain," said one of the guests, who took
his pipe from his mouth to make room for the remark; "now that is what I
likes."
"Well,
as I have proved then," resumed the speaker, "the nephew was the
heir, and into the house he would come. A fine affair it was too—the
illegitimates looking the colour of sloes; but he knew the law, and would have
it put in force."
"Law's
law, you know."
"Uncommonly
true that; and the nephew stuck to it like a cobbler to his last—he said they
should go out, and they did go out; and, say what they would about their
natural claims, he would not listen to them, but bundled them out and out in a
pretty short space of time."
"It
was trying to them, mind you, to leave the house they had been born in with
very different expectations to those which now appeared to be their fate. Poor
things, they looked ruefully enough, and well they might, for there was a wide
world for them, and no prospect of a warm corner.
"Well,
as I was saying, he had them all out and the house clear to himself.
"Now,"
said he, "I have an open field and no favour. I don't care for no—Eh!
what?"
"There
was a sudden knocking, he thought, the door, and went and opened it, but
nothing was to be seen.
"Oh!
I see—somebody next door; and if it wasn't, it don't matter. There's nobody
here. I'm alone, and there's plenty of valuables in the house. That is what I
call very good company. I wouldn't wish for better."
He
turned about, looked over room after room, and satisfied himself that he was
alone—that the house was empty.
At
every room he entered he paused to think over the value—what it was worth, and
that he was a very fortunate man in having dropped into such a good thing.
"Ah!
there's the old boy's secretary, too—his bureau—there'll be something in that
that will amuse me mightily; but I don't think I shall sit up late. He was a
rum old man, to say the least of it—a very odd sort of man."
With
that he gave himself a shrug, as if some very uncomfortable feeling had come
over him.
"I'll
go to bed early, and get some sleep, and then in daylight I can look after
these papers. They won't be less interesting in the morning than they are
now."
There
had been some rum stories about the old man, and now the nephew seemed to think
he might have let the family sleep on the premises for that night; yes, at that
moment he could have found it in his heart to have paid for all the expense of
their keep, had it been possible to have had them back to remain the night.
But
that wasn't possible, for they would not have done it, but sooner have remained
in the streets all night than stay there all night, like so many house-dogs,
employed by one who stepped in between them and their father's goods, which
were their inheritance, but for one trifling circumstance—a mere ceremony.
The
night came on, and he had lights. True it was he had not been down stairs, only
just to have a look. He could not tell what sort of a place it was; there were
a good many odd sort of passages, that seemed to end nowhere, and others that
did.
There
were large doors; but they were all locked, and he had the keys; so he didn't
mind, but secured all places that were not fastened.
He
then went up stairs again, and sat down in the room where the bureau was
placed.
"I'll
be bound," said one of the guests, "he was in a bit of a stew,
notwithstanding all his brag."
"Oh!
I don't believe," said another, "that anything done that is dangerous,
or supposed to be dangerous, by the bravest man, is any way wholly without some
uncomfortable feelings. They may not be strong enough to prevent the thing
proposed to be done from being done, but they give a disagreeable sensation to
the skin."
"You
have felt it, then?"
"Ha!
ha! ha!"
"Why,
at that time I slept in the churchyard for a wager, I must say I felt cold all
over, as if my skin was walking about me in an uncomfortable manner."
"But
you won your wager?"
"I
did."
"And
of course you slept there?"
"To
be sure I did."
"And
met with nothing?"
"Nothing,
save a few bumps against the gravestones."
"Those
were hard knocks, I should say."
"They
were, I assure you; but I lay there, and slept there, and won my wager."
"Would
you do it again?"
"No."
"And
why not?"
"Because
of the rheumatism."
"You
caught that?"
"I
did; I would give ten times my wager to get rid of them. I have them very
badly."
"Come,
order, order—the tale; let's hear the end of that, since it has begun."
"With
all my heart. Come, neighbour."
"Well,
as I said, he was fidgetty; but yet he was not a man to be very easily
frightened or overcome, for he was stout and bold.
"When
he shut himself up in the room, he took out a bottle of some good wine, and
helped himself to drink; it was good old wine, and he soon felt himself warmed
and, comforted. He could have faced the enemy.
"If
one bottle produces such an effect," he muttered, "what will two
do?"
This
was a question that could only be solved by trying it, and this he proceeded to
do.
But
first he drew a brace of long barrelled pistols from his coat pocket, and
taking a powder-flask and bullets from his pocket also, he loaded them very
carefully.
"There,"
said he, "are my bull-dogs; and rare watch-dogs they are. They never bark
but they bite. Now, if anybody does come, it will be all up with them. Tricks
upon travellers ain't a safe game when I have these; and now for the other
bottle."
He
drew the other bottle, and thought, if anything, it was better than the first.
He drank it rather quick, to be sure, and then he began to feel sleepy and
tired.
"I
think I shall go to bed," he said; "that is, if I can find my way
there, for it does seem to me as if the door was travelling. Never mind, it
will make a call here again presently, and then I'll get through."
So
saying he arose. Taking the candle in his hand, he walked with a better step
than might have been expected under the circumstance. True it was the candle
wagged to and fro, and his shadow danced upon the wall; but still, when he got
to the bed, he secured his door, put the light in a safe place, threw himself
down, and was fast asleep in a few moments, or rather he fell into a doze
instantaneously.
How
long he remained in this state he knew not, but he was suddenly awakened by a
loud bang, as though something heavy and flat had fallen upon the floor—such,
for instance, as a door, or anything of that sort. He jumped up, rubbed his
eyes, and could even then hear the reverberations through the house.
"What
is that?" he muttered; "what is that?"
He
listened, and thought he could hear something moving down stairs, and for a
moment he was seized with an ague fit; but recollecting, I suppose, that there
were some valuables down stairs that were worth fighting for, he carefully
extinguished the light that still burned, and softly crept down stairs.
When
he got down stairs he thought he could hear some one scramble up the kitchen
stairs, and then into the room where the bureau was. Listening for a moment to
ascertain if there were more than one, and then feeling convinced there was
not, he followed into the parlour, when he heard the cabinet open by a key.
This
was a new miracle, and one he could not understand; and then he heard the
papers begin to rattle and rustle; so, drawing out one of the pistols, he cocked
it, and walked in.
The
figure instantly began to jump about; it was dressed in white—in grave-clothes.
He was terribly nervous, and shook, so he feared to fire the pistol; but at
length he did, and the report was followed by a fall and a loud groan.
This
was very dreadful—very dreadful; but all was quiet, and he lit the candle
again, and approached the body to examine it, and ascertain if he knew who it
was. A groan came from it. The bureau was open, and the figure clutched firmly
a will in his hand.
The figure
was dressed in grave-clothes, and he started up when he saw the form and
features of his own uncle, the man who was dead, who somehow or other had
escaped his confinement, and found his way up, here. He held his will firmly;
and the nephew was so horrified and stunned, that he threw down the light, and
rushed out of the room with a shout of terror, and never returned again.
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.
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 tell 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."