by Bram Stoker
“Explain yourself more fully.”
“I will. At a tavern in the town, there has happened some strange scenes of violence, in consequence of the general excitement into which the common people have been thrown upon the dreadful subject of vampyres.”
“Well.”
“The consequence is, that numerous arrests have taken place, and the places of confinement for offenders against the laws are now full of those whose heated and angry imaginations have induced them to take violent steps to discover the reality or the falsehood of rumours which so much affected them, their wives, and their families, that they feared to lie down to their night’s repose.”
The other laughed a short, hollow, restless sort of laugh, which had not one particle of real mirth in it.
“Go on — go on,” he said. “What did they do?”
“Immense excesses have been committed; but what made me, first of all, stay beyond my time, was that I overheard a man declare his intentions this night, from twelve till the morning, and for some nights to come, to hold watch and ward for the vampyre.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. He did but stay, at the earnest solicitation of his comrades, to take yet another glass, ere he came upon his expedition.”
“He must be met. The idiot! what business is it of his?”
“There are always people who will make everything their business, whether it be so or not.”
“There are. Let us retire further into the recesses of the ruin, and there consider as well what is to be done regarding more important affairs, as with this rash intruder here.”
They both walked for some twenty paces, or so, right into the ruin, and then he who had been there first, said, suddenly, to his companion, —
“I am annoyed, although the feeling reaches no further than annoyance, for I have a natural love of mischief, to think that my reputation has spread so widely, and made so much noise.”
“Your reputation as a vampyre, Sir Francis Varney, you mean?”
“Yes; but there is no occasion for you to utter my name aloud, even here where we are alone together.”
“It came out unawares.”
“Unawares! Can it be possible that you have so little command over yourself as to allow a name to come from your lips unawares?”
“Sometimes.”
“I am surprised.”
“Well, it cannot be helped. What do you now propose to do?”
“Nay, you are my privy councillor. Have you no deep-laid, artful project in hand? Can you not plan and arrange something which may yet have the effect of accomplishing what at first seemed so very simple, but which has, from one unfortunate circumstance and another, become full of difficulty and pregnant with all sorts of dangers?”
“I must confess I have no plan.”
“I listen with astonishment.”
“Nay, now, you are jesting.”
“When did you ever hear of me jesting?”
“Not often, I admit. But you have a fertile genius, and I have always, myself, found it easier to be the executive than to plan an elaborate course of action for others.”
“Then you throw it all on me?”
“I throw a weight, naturally enough, upon the shoulders which I think the best adapted to sustain it.”
“Be it so, then — be it so.”
“You are, I presume, from what you say, provided with a scheme of action which shall present better hopes of success, at less risk, I hope. Look what great danger we have already passed through.”
“Yes, we have.”
“I pray you avoid that in the next campaign.”
“It is not the danger that annoys and troubles me, but it is that, notwithstanding it, the object is as far off as ever from being attained.”
“And not only so, but, as is invariably the case under such circumstances, we have made it more difficult of execution because we have put those upon their guard thoroughly who are the most likely to oppose us.”
“We have — we have.”
“And placed the probability of success afar off indeed.”
“And yet I have set my life upon the cast, and I will stand the hazard. I tell you I will accomplish this object, or I will perish in the attempt.”
“You are too enthusiastic.”
“Not at all. Nothing has been ever done, the execution of which was difficult, without enthusiasm. I will do what I intend, or Bannerworth Hall shall become a heap of ruins, where fire shall do its worst work of devastation, and I will myself find a grave in the midst.”
“Well, I quarrel with no man for chalking out the course he intends to pursue; but what do you mean to do with the prisoner below here?”
“Kill him.”
“What?”
“I say kill him. Do you not understand me?”
“I do, indeed.”
“When everything else is secured, and when the whole of that which I so much court, and which I will have, is in my possession, I will take his life, or you shall. Ay, you are just the man for such a deed. A smooth-faced, specious sort of roan are you, and you like not danger. There will be none in taking the life of a man who is chained to the floor of a dungeon.”
“I know not why,” said the other, “you take a pleasure on this particular night, of all others, in saying all you can which you think will be offensive to me.”
“Now, how you wrong me. This is the reward of confidence.”
“I don’t want such confidence.”
“Why, you surely don’t want me to flatter you.”
“No; but — ”
“Psha! Hark you. That admiral is the great stumbling-block in my way. I should ere this have had undisturbed possession of Bannerworth Hall but for him. He must be got out of the way somehow.”
“A short time will tire him out of watching. He is one of those men of impulse who soon become wearied of inaction.”
“Ay, and then the Bannerworths return to the Hall.”
“It may be so.”
“I am certain of it. We have been out-generalled in this matter, although I grant we did all that men could do to give us success.”
“In what way would you get rid of this troublesome admiral?”
“I scarcely know. A letter from his nephew might, if well put together, get him to London.”
“I doubt it. I hate him mortally. He has offended me more than once most grievously.”
“I know it. He saw through you.”
“I do not give him so much credit. He is a suspicious man, and a vain and a jealous one.”
“And yet he saw through you. Now, listen to me. You are completely at fault, and have no plan of operations whatever in your mind. What I want you to do is, to disappear from the neighbourhood for a time, and so will I. As for our prisoner here below, I cannot see what else can be done with him than — than — ”
“Than what? Do you hesitate?”
“I do.”
“Then what is it you were about to say?”
“I cannot but feel that all we have done hitherto, as regards this young prisoner of ours, has failed. He has, with a determined obstinacy, set at naught, as well you know, all threats.”
“He has.”
“He has refused to do one act which could in any way aid me in my objects. In fact, from the first to the last, he has been nothing but an expense and an encumbrance to us both.”
“All that is strictly true.”
“And yet, although you, as well as I, know of a marvellously ready way of getting rid of such encumbrances, I must own, that I shrink with more than a feeling of reluctance from the murder of the youth.”
“You contemplated it then?” asked the other.
“No; I cannot be said to have contemplated it. That is not the proper sort of expression to use.”
“What is then?”
“To contemplate a deed seems to me to have some close connexion to the wish to do it.”
“And you have no such wish?”
“
I have no such wish, and what is more I will not do it.”
“Then that is sufficient; and the only question that remains for you to confide, is, what you will do. It is far easier in all enterprises to decide upon what we will not do, than upon what we will. For my own part I must say that I can perceive no mode of extricating ourselves from this involvement with anything like safety.”
“Then it must be done with something like danger.”
“As you please.”
“You say so, and your words bear a clear enough signification; but from your tone I can guess how much you are dissatisfied with the aspect of affairs.”
“Dissatisfied!”
“Yes; I say, dissatisfied. Be frank, and own that which it is in vain to conceal from me. I know you too well; arch hypocrite as you are, and fully capable of easily deceiving many, you cannot deceive me.”
“I really cannot understand you.”
“Then I will take care that you shall.”
“How?”
“Listen. I will not have the life of Charles Holland taken.”
“Who wishes to take it?”
“You.”
“There, indeed, you wrong me. Unless you yourself thought that such an act was imperatively called for by the state of affairs, do you think that I would needlessly bring down upon my head the odium as well as the danger of such a deed? No, no. Let him live, if you are willing; he may live a thousand years for all I care.”
“‘Tis well. I am, mark me, not only willing, but I am determined that he shall live so far as we are concerned. I can respect the courage that, even when he considered that his life was at stake, enabled him to say no to a proposal which was cowardly and dishonourable, although it went far to the defeat of my own plans and has involved me in much trouble.”
“Hush! hush!”
“What is it?”
“I fancy I hear a footstep.”
“Indeed; that were a novelty in such a place as this.”
“And yet not more than I expected. Have you forgotten what I told you when I reached here to-night after the appointed hour?”
“Truly; I had for the moment. Do you think then that the footstep which now meets our ears, is that of the adventurer who boasted that he could keep watch for the vampyre?”
“In faith do I. What is to be done with such a meddling fool?”
“He ought certainly to be taught not to be so fond of interfering with other people’s affairs.”
“Certainly.”
“Perchance the lesson will not be wholly thrown away upon others. It may be worth while to take some trouble with this poor valiant fellow, and let him spread his news so as to stop any one else from being equally venturous and troublesome.”
“A good thought.”
“Shall it be done?”
“Yes; if you will arrange that which shall accomplish such a result.”
“Be it so. The moon rises soon.”
“It does.”
“Ah, already I fancy I see a brightening of the air as if the mellow radiance of the queen of night were already quietly diffusing itself throughout the realms of space. Come further within the ruins.”
They both walked further among the crumbling walls and fragments of columns with which the place abounded. As they did so they paused now and then to listen, and more than once they both heard plainly the sound of certain footsteps immediately outside the once handsome and spacious building.
Varney, the vampyre, who had been holding this conversation with no other than Marchdale, smiled as he, in a whispered voice, told the latter what to do in order to frighten away from the place the foolhardy man who thought that, by himself, he should be able to accomplish anything against the vampyre.
It was, indeed, a hair-brained expedition, for whether Sir Francis Varney was really so awful and preternatural a being as so many concurrent circumstances would seem to proclaim, or not, he was not a likely being to allow himself to be conquered by anyone individual, let his powers or his courage be what they might.
What induced this man to become so ventursome we shall now proceed to relate, as well as what kind of reception he got in the old ruins, which, since the mysterious disappearance of Sir Francis Varney within their recesses, had possessed so increased a share of interest and attracted so much popular attention and speculation.
CHAPTER LXIII.
THE GUESTS AT THE INN, AND THE STORY OF THE DEAD UNCLE.
As had been truly stated by Mr. Marchdale, who now stands out in his true colours to the reader as the confidant and abettor of Sir Francis Varney, there had assembled on that evening a curious and a gossipping party at the inn where such dreadful and such riotous proceedings had taken place, which, in their proper place, we have already duly and at length recorded.
It was not very likely that, on that evening, or for many and many an evening to come, the conversation in the parlour of the inn would be upon any other subject than that of the vampyre.
Indeed, the strange, mysterious, and horrible circumstances which had occurred, bade fair to be gossipping stock in trade for many a year.
Never before had a subject presenting so many curious features arisen. Never, within the memory of that personage who is supposed to know everything, had there occurred any circumstance in the county, or set of circumstances, which afforded such abundant scope for conjecture and speculation.
Everybody might have his individual opinion, and be just as likely to be right as his neighbours; and the beauty of the affair was, that such was the interest of the subject itself, that there was sure to be a kind of reflected interest with every surmise that at all bore upon it.
On this particular night, when Marchdale was prowling about, gathering what news he could, in order that he might carry it to the vampyre, a more than usually strong muster of the gossips of the town took place.
Indeed, all of any note in the talking way were there, with the exception of one, and he was in the county gaol, being one of the prisoners apprehended by the military when they made the successful attack upon the lumber-room of the inn, after the dreadful desecration of the dead which had taken place.
The landlord of the inn was likely to make a good thing of it, for talking makes people thirsty; and he began to consider that a vampyre about once a-year would be no bad thing for the Blue Lion.
“It’s shocking,” said one of the guests; “it’s shocking to think of. Only last night, I am quite sure I had such a fright that it added at least ten years to my age.”
“A fright!” said several.
“I believe I speak English — I said a fright.”
“Well, but had it anything to do with the vampyre?”
“Everything.”
“Oh! do tell us; do tell us all about it. How was it? Did he come to you? Go on. Well, well.”
The first speaker became immediately a very important personage in the room; and, when he saw that, he became at once a very important personage in his own eyes likewise; and, before he would speak another word, he filled a fresh pipe, and ordered another mug of ale.
“It’s no use trying to hurry him,” said one.
“No,” he said, “it isn’t. I’ll tell you in good time what a dreadful circumstance has made me sixty-three to-day, when I was only fifty-three yesterday.”
“Was it very dreadful?”
“Rather. You wouldn’t have survived it at all.”
“Indeed!”
“No. Now listen. I went to bed at a quarter after eleven, as usual. I didn’t notice anything particular in the room.”
“Did you peep under the bed?”
“No, I didn’t. Well, as I was a-saying, to bed I went, and I didn’t fasten the door; because, being a very sound sleeper, in case there was a fire, I shouldn’t hear a word of it if I did.”
“No,” said another. “I recollect once — ”
“Be so good as allow me to finish what I know, before you begin to recollect anything, if you please. As I was saying, I didn
’t lock the door, but I went to bed. Somehow or another, I did not feel at all comfortable, and I tossed about, first on one side, and then on the other; but it was all in vain; I only got, every moment, more and more fidgetty.”
“And did you think of the vampyre?” said one of the listeners.
“I thought of nothing else till I heard my clock, which is on the landing of the stairs above my bed-room, begin to strike twelve.”
“Ah! I like to hear a clock sound in the night,” said one; “it puts one in mind of the rest of the world, and lets one know one isn’t all alone.”
“Very good. The striking of the clock I should not at all have objected to; but it was what followed that did the business.”
“What, what?”
“Fair and softly; fair and softly. Just hand me a light, Mr. Sprigs, if you please. I’ll tell you all, gentlemen, in a moment or two.”
With the most provoking deliberation, the speaker re-lit his pipe, which had gone out while he was talking, and then, after a few whiffs, to assure himself that its contents had thoroughly ignited, he resumed, —
“No sooner had the last sound of it died away, than I heard something on the stairs.”
“Yes, yes.”
“It was as if some man had given his foot a hard blow against one of the stairs; and he would have needed to have had a heavy boot on to do it. I started up in bed and listened, as you may well suppose, not in the most tranquil state of mind, and then I heard an odd, gnawing sort of noise, and then another dab upon one of the stairs.”
“How dreadful!”
“It was. What to do I knew not, or what to think, except that the vampyre had, by some means, got in at the attic window, and was coming down stairs to my room. That seemed the most likely. Then there was another groan, and then another heavy step; and, as they were evidently coming towards my door, I felt accordingly, and got out of bed, not knowing hardly whether I was on my head or my heels, to try and lock my door.”
“Ah, to be sure.”
“Yes; that was all very well, if I could have done it; but a man in such a state of mind as I was in is not a very sharp hand at doing anything. I shook from head to foot. The room was very dark, and I couldn’t, for a moment or two, collect my senses sufficient really to know which way the door lay.”