by Bram Stoker
“No, Varney; I have said enough, and not thus much would I have said had I not been aware, most certainly and truly aware, without the shadow of a doubt, by your manner, that you were most accessible to human feeling.”
“I accessible to human feeling! know you to whom you speak? Am I not he before whom all men shudder, whose name has been a terror and a desolation; and yet you can talk of my human feelings. Nay, if I had had any, be sure they would have been extinguished by the persecutions I have endured from those who, you know, with savage ferocity have sought my life.”
“No, Varney; I give you credit for being a subtler reasoner than thus to argue; you know well that you were the aggressor to those parties who sought your life; you know well that with the greatest imaginable pains you held yourself up to them as a thing of great terror.”
“I did — I did.”
“You cannot, then, turn round upon ignorant persons, and blame them because your exertions to make yourself seem what you wish were but too successful.”
“You use the word seem,” said Varney, with a bitterness of aspect, “as if you would imply a doubt that I am that which thousands, by their fears, would testify me to be.”
“Thousands might,” said Charles Holland; “but not among them am I, Varney; I will not be made the victim of superstition. Were you to enact before my very eyes some of those feats which, to the senses of others, would stamp you as the preternatural being you assume to be, I would doubt the evidence of my own senses ere I permitted such a bugbear to oppress my brain.”
“Go,” said Sir Francis Varney, “go: I have no more words for you; I have nothing to relate to you.”
“Nay, you have already listened sufficiently to me to give me a hope that I had awakened some of the humanity that was in your nature. Do not, Sir Francis Varney, crush that hope, even as it was budding forth; not for my own sake do I ask you for revelations; that may, perhaps — must be painful for you; but for the sake of Flora Bannerworth, to whom you owe abundance of reparation.”
“No, no.”
“In the name of all that is great, and good, and just, I call upon you for justice.”
“What have I to do with such an invocation? Utter such a sentiment to men who, like yourself, are invested with the reality as well as the outward show of human nature.”
“Nay, Sir Francis Varney, now you belie yourself. You have passed through a long, and, perchance, a stormy life. Can you look back upon your career, and find no reminiscences of the past that shall convince you that you are of the great family of man, and have had abundance of human feelings and of human affections?”
“Peace, peace!”
“Nay, Sir Francis Varney, I will take your word, and if you will lay your hand upon your heart, and tell me truly that you never felt what it was to love — to have all feeling, all taste, and all hope of future joy, concentrated in one individual, I will despair, and leave you. If you will tell me that never, in your whole life, you have felt for any fair and glorious creature, as I now feel for Flora Bannerworth, a being for whom you could have sacrificed not only existence, but all the hopes of a glorious future that bloom around it — if you will tell me, with the calm, dispassionate aspect of truth, that you have held yourself aloof from such human feelings, I will no longer press you to a disclosure which I shall bring no argument to urge.”
The agitation of Sir Francis Varney’s countenance was perceptible, and Charles Holland was about to speak again, when, striking him upon the breast with his clinched hand, the vampyre checked him, saying —
“Do you wish to drive me mad, that you thus, from memory’s hidden cells, conjure up images of the past?”
“Then there are such images to conjure up — there are such shadows only sleeping, but which require only, as you did even now, but a touch to awaken them to life and energy. Oh, Sir Francis Varney, do not tell me that you are not human.”
The vampyre made a furious gesture, as if he would have attacked Charles Holland; but then he sank nearly to the floor, as if soul-stricken by some recollection that unnerved his arm; he shook with unwonted emotion, and, from the frightful livid aspect of his countenance, Charles dreaded some serious accession of indisposition, which might, if nothing else did, prevent him from making the revelation he so much sought to hear from his lips.
“Varney,” he cried, “Varney, be calm! you will be listened to by one who will draw no harsh — no hasty conclusions; by one, who, with that charity, I grieve to say, is rare, will place upon the words you utter the most favourable construction. Tell me all, I pray you, tell me all.”
“This is strange,” said the vampyre. “I never thought that aught human could thus have moved me. Young man, you have touched the chords of memory; they vibrate throughout my heart, producing cadences and sounds of years long past. Bear with me awhile.”
“And you will speak to me?”
“I will.”
“Having your promise, then, I am content, Varney.”
“But you must be secret; not even in the wildest waste of nature, where you can well presume that naught but Heaven can listen to your whisperings, must you utter one word of that which I shall tell to you.”
“Alas!” said Charles, “I dare not take such a confidence; I have said that it is not for myself; I seek such knowledge of what you are, and what you have been, but it is for another so dear to me, that all the charms of life that make up other men’s delights, equal not the witchery of one glance from her, speaking as it does of the glorious light from that Heaven which is eternal, from whence she sprung.”
“And you reject my communication,” said Varney, “because I will not give you leave to expose it to Flora Bannerworth?”
“It must be so.”
“And you are most anxious to hear that which I have to relate?”
“Most anxious, indeed — indeed, most anxious.”
“Then have I found in that scruple which besets your mind, a better argument for trusting you, than had ye been loud in protestation. Had your promises of secrecy been but those which come from the lip, and not from the heart, my confidence would not have been rejected on such grounds. I think that I dare trust you.”
“With leave to tell to Flora that which you shall communicate.”
“You may whisper it to her, but to no one else, without my special leave and licence.”
“I agree to those terms, and will religiously preserve them.”
“I do not doubt you for one moment; and now I will tell to you what never yet has passed my lips to mortal man. Now will I connect together some matters which you may have heard piecemeal from others.”
“What others are they?”
“Dr. Chillingworth, and he who once officiated as a London hangman.”
“I have heard something from those quarters.”
“Listen then to me, and you shall better understand that which you have heard. Some years ago, it matters not the number, on a stormy night, towards the autumn of the year, two men sat alone in poverty, and that species of distress which beset the haughty, profligate, daring man, who has been accustomed all his life to its most enticing enjoyments, but never to that industry which alone ought to produce them, and render them great and magnificent.”
“Two men; and who were they?”
“I was one. Look upon me! I was of those men; and strong and evil passions were battling in my heart.”
“And the other!”
“Was Marmaduke Bannerworth.”
“Gracious Heaven! the father of her whom I adore; the suicide.”
“Yes, the same; that man stained with a thousand vices — blasted by a thousand crimes — the father of her who partakes nothing of his nature, who borrows nothing from his memory but his name — was the man who there sat with me, plotting and contriving how, by fraud or violence, we were to lead our usual life of revelry and wild audacious debauch.”
“Go on, go on; believe me, I am deeply interested.”
“I can see as m
uch. We were not nice in the various schemes which our prolific fancies engendered. If trickery, and the false dice at the gaming-table, sufficed not to fill our purses, we were bold enough for violence. If simple robbery would not succeed, we could take a life.”
“Murder?”
“Ay, call it by its proper name, a murder. We sat till the midnight hour had passed, without arriving at a definite conclusion; we saw no plan of practicable operation, and so we wandered onwards to one of those deep dens of iniquity, a gaming-house, wherein we had won and lost thousands.
“We had no money, but we staked largely, in the shape of a wager, upon the success of one of the players; we knew not, or cared not, for the consequence, if we had lost; but, as it happened, we were largely successful, and beggars as we had walked into that place, we might have left it independent men.
“But when does the gambler know when to pause in his career? If defeat awakens all the raging passions of humanity within his bosom, success but feeds the great vice that has been there engendered. To the dawn of morn we played; the bright sun shone in, and yet we played — the midday came, and went — the stimulant of wine supported us, and still we played; then came the shadows of evening, stealing on in all their beauty. But what were they to us, amid those mutations of fortune, which, at one moment, made us princes, and placed palaces at our control, and, at another, debased us below the veriest beggar, that craves the stinted alms of charity from door to door.
“And there was one man who, from the first to the last, stayed by us like a very fiend; more than man, I thought he was not human. We won of all, but of him. People came and brought their bright red gold, and laid it down before us, but for us to take it up, and then, by a cruel stroke of fortune, he took it from us.
“The night came on; we won, and he won of us; the clock struck twelve — we were beggars. God knows what was he.
“We saw him place his winnings about his person — we saw the smile that curved the corners of his lips; he was calm, and we were maddened. The blood flowed temperately through his veins, but in ours it was burning lava, scorching as it went through every petty artery, and drying up all human thought — all human feeling.
“The winner left, and we tracked his footsteps. When he reached the open air, although he had taken much less than we of the intoxicating beverages that are supplied gratis to those who frequent those haunts of infamy, it was evident that some sort of inebriation attacked him; his steps were disordered and unsteady, and, as we followed him, we could perceive, by the devious track that he took, that he was somewhat uncertain of his route.
“We had no fixed motive in so pursuing this man. It was but an impulsive proceeding at the best; but as he still went on and cleared the streets, getting into the wild and open country, and among the hedge-rows, we began to whisper together, and to think that what we did not owe to fortune, we might to our own energy and courage at such a moment.
“I need not hesitate to say so, since, to hide the most important feature of my revelation from you, would be but to mock you; we resolved upon robbing him.
“And was that all?”
“It was all that our resolution went to. We were not anxious to spill blood; but still we were resolved that we would accomplish our purpose, even if it required murder for its consummation. Have you heard enough?”
“I have not heard enough, although I guess the rest.”
“You may well guess it, from its preface. He turned down a lonely pathway, which, had we chosen it ourselves, could not have been more suitable for the attack we meditated.
“There were tall trees on either side, and a hedge-row stretching high up between them. We knew that that lane led to a suburban village, which, without a doubt, was the object of his destination.
“Then Marmaduke Bannerworth spoke, saying, —
“‘What we have to do, must be done now or never. There needs not two in this adventure. Shall you or I require him to refund what he has won from us?’
“‘I care not,’ I said; ‘but if we are to accomplish our purpose without arousing even a shadow of resistance, it is better to show him its futility by both appearing, and take a share in the adventure.’
“This was agreed upon, and we hastened forward. He heard footsteps pursuing him and quickened his pace. I was the fleetest runner, and overtook him. I passed him a pace or two, and then turning, I faced him, and impeded his progress.
“The lane was narrow, and a glance behind him showed him Marmaduke Bannerworth; so that he was hemmed in between two enemies, and could move neither to the right nor to the left, on account of the thick brushwood that intervened between the trees.
“Then, with an assumed courage, that sat but ill upon him, he demanded of us what we wanted, and proclaimed his right to pass despite the obstruction we placed in his way.
“The dialogue was brief. I, being foremost, spoke to him.
“‘Your money,’ I said; ‘your winnings at the gaming-table. We cannot, and we will not lose it.’
“So suddenly, that he had nearly taken my life, he drew a pistol from his pocket, and levelling it at my head, he fired upon me.
“Perhaps, had I moved, it might have been my death; but, as it was, the bullet furrowed my cheek, leaving a scar, the path of which is yet visible in a white cicatrix.
“I felt a stunning sensation, and thought myself a dead man. I cried aloud to Marmaduke Bannerworth, and he rushed forward. I knew not that he was armed, and that he had the power about him to do the deed which he then accomplished; but there was a groan, a slight struggle, and the successful gamester fell upon the green sward, bathed in his blood.”
“And this is the father of her whom I adore?”
“It is. Are you shocked to think of such a neat relationship between so much beauty and intelligence and a midnight murderer? Is your philosophy so poor, that the daughter’s beauty suffers from the commission of a father’s crime?”
“No, no, It is not so. Do not fancy that, for one moment, I can entertain such unworthy opinions. The thought that crossed me was that I should have to tell one of such a gentle nature that her father had done such a deed.”
“On that head you can use your own discretion. The deed was done; there was sufficient light for us to look upon the features of the dying man. Ghastly and terrific they glared upon us; while the glazed eyes, as they were upturned to the bright sky, seemed appealing to Heaven for vengeance against us, for having done the deed.
“Many a day and many an hour since at all times and all seasons, I have seen those eyes, with the glaze of death upon them, following me, and gloating over the misery they had the power to make. I think I see them now.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; look — look — see how they glare upon me — with what a fixed and frightful stare the bloodshot pupils keep their place — there, there! oh! save me from such a visitation again. It is too horrible. I dare not — I cannot endure it; and yet why do you gaze at me with such an aspect, dread visitant? You know that it was not my hand that did the deed — who laid you low. You know that not to me are you able to lay the heavy charge of your death!”
“Varney, you look upon vacancy,” said Charles Holland.
“No, no; vacancy it may be to you, but to me ‘tis full of horrible shapes.”
“Compose yourself; you have taken me far into your confidence already; I pray you now to tell me all. I have in my brain no room for horrible conjectures such as those which might else torment me.”
Varney was silent for a few minutes, and then he wiped from his brow the heavy drops of perspiration that had there gathered, and heaved a deep sigh.
“Speak to me,” added Charles; “nothing will so much relieve you from the terrors of this remembrance as making a confidence which reflection will approve of, and which you will know that you have no reason to repent.”
“Charles Holland,” said Varney, “I have already gone too far to retract — much too far, I know, and can well understand all the
danger of half confidence. You already know so much, that it is fit you should know more.”
“Go on then, Varney, I will listen to you.”
“I know not if, at this juncture, I can command myself to say more. I feel that what next has to be told will be most horrible for me to tell — most sad for you to hear told.”
“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.”