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 questions 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.”
Tom Eccles hung 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.
“He is quite dead,” he said; “but I cannot see the hurt.”—“I think he
turned his head as I fired.”
“Did he? Let us see.”
Marchdale lifted up the head, and disclosed such a mass of
clotted-looking blood, that Tom Eccles at once took to his heels, nor
stopped until he was nearly as far off as the ruins. Marchdale followed
him more slowly, and when he came up to him, he said,—
“The slugs have taken effect on his face.”—“I know it—I know it. Don’t
tell me.”
“He looks horrible.”—“And I am a murderer.”
“Psha! You look upon this matter too seriously. Think of who and what
he was, and then you will soon acquit yourself of being open to any
such charge.”—“I am bewildered, Mr. Marchdale, and cannot now know
whether he be a vampyre or not. If he be not, I have murdered, most
unjustifiably, a fellow-creature.”
“Well, but if he be?”—“Why, even then I do not know but that I ought to
consider myself as guilty. He is one of God’s creatures if he were ten
times a vampyre.”
“Well, you really do take a serious view of the affair.”—“Not more
serious than it deserves.”
“And what do you mean to do?”—“I shall remain here to await the result
of what you tell me will ensue, if he be a real vampire. Even now the
moonbeams are full upon him, and each moment increasing in intensity.
Think you he will recover?”
“I do indeed.”—“Then here will I wait.”
“Since that is your resolve, I will keep you company. We shall easily
find some old stone in the ruins which will serve us for a seat, and
there at leisure we can keep our eyes upon the dead body, and be able
to observe if it make the least movement.”
This plan was adopted, and they sat down just within the ruins, but in
such a place that they had a full view of the dead body, as it appeared
to be, of Sir Francis Varney, upon which the sweet moonbeams shone full
and clear.
Tom Eccles related how he was incited to come upon his expedition, but
he might have spared himself that trouble, as Marchdale had been in a
retired corner of the inn parlour before he came to his appointment
with Varney, and heard the business for the most part proposed.
Half-an-hour, certainly not more, might have elapsed; when suddenly Tom
Eccles uttered an exclamation, partly of surprise and partly of terror,—
“He moves; he moves!” he cried. “Look at the vampyre’s body.”
Marchdale affected to look with an all-absorbing interest, and
there was Sir Francis Varney, raising slowly one arm with the hand
outstretched towards the moon, as if invoking that luminary to shed
more of its beams upon him. Then the body moved slowly, like some one
writhing in pain, and yet unable to move from the spot on which it lay.
From the head to the foot, the whole frame seemed to be convulsed,
and now and then as the ghastly object seemed to be gathering more
strength, the limbs were thrown out with a rapid and a frightful
looking violence.
[Illustration: Tom Eccles and Marchdale watch the resuscitation of the
vampyre.]
It was truly to one, who might look upon it as a reality and no juggle,
a frightful sight to see, and although Marchdale, of course, tolerably
well preserved his equanimity, only now and then, for appearance sake,
affecting to be wonderfully shocked, poor Tom Eccles was in such a
state of horror and fright that he could not, if he would, have flown
from the spot, so fascinated was he by the horrible spectacle.
This was a state of things which continued for many minutes, and then
the body showed evident symptoms of so much returning animation, that
it was about to rise from his gory bed and mingle once again with the
living.
“Behold!” said Marchdale—“behold!”—“Heaven have mercy upon us!”
“It is as I said; the beams of the moon have revived the vampyre. You
perceive now that there can be no doubt.”—“Yes, yes, I see him; I see
him.”
Sir Francis Varney now, as if with a great struggle, rose to his
feet, and looked up at the bright moon for some moments with such an
air and manner that it would not have required any very great amount
of imagination to conceive that he was returning to it some sort of
thanksgiving for the good that it had done to him.
He then seemed for some moments in a state of considerable indecision
as to which way he should proceed. He turned round several times.
Then he advanced a step or two towards the house, but apparently his
resolution changed again, and casting his eyes upon the ruins, he at
once made towards them.
This was too much for the philosophy as well as for the courage of Tom
Eccles. It was all very well to look on at some distance, and observe
the wonderful and inexplicable proceedings of the vampyre; but when he
showed symptoms of making a nearer acquaintance, it was not to be borne.
“Why, he’s coming here,” said Tom.—“He seems so indeed,” remarked
Marchdale.
“Do you mean to stay?”—“I think I shall.”
“You do, do you?”—“Yes, I should much like to question him, and as we
are two to one I think we really can have nothing to fear.”
“Do you? I’m altogether of a different opinion. A man who has more
lives than a cat don’t much mind at what odds he fights. You may stay
if you like.”—“You do not mean to say that you will desert me?”
“I don’t see a bit how you call it deserting you; if we had come out
together on this adventure, I would have stayed it out with you; but as
we came separate and independent, we may as well go back so.”—“Well,
but——”
“Good morning,” cried Tom, and he at once took to his heels towards
the town, without staying to pay any attention to the remonstrances of
Marchdale, who called after him in vain.
Sir Francis Varney, probably, had Tom Eccles not gone off so rapidly,
would have yet taken another thought, and gone in another direction
than that which led him to the ruins, and Tom, if he had had his senses
fully about him, as well as all his powers of perception, would have
seen that the progress of the vampyre was very slow, while he continued
to converse with Marchdale, and that it was only when he went off at
good speed that Sir Francis Varney likewise thought it prudent to do so.
“Is he much terrified?” said Varney, as he came up to Marchdale.—“Yes,
most completely.”
“This then, will make a good story in the town.”—“It will, indeed, and
not a little enhance your reputation.”
“Well, well; it don’t much matter now; but if by terrifying people I
can purchase for myself anything like immunity for the past, I shall be
satisfied.”—“I think you may now safely reckon that you have done so.
This man who has fled with so much precipitation, had courage.”
“Unquestionably.”—“Or else he would have shrunk from coming here at
all.”
“True, but his courage and presence arose from his strong doubts as to
the existence of such beings as vampyres.”—“Yes, and now that he is
convinced, his bravery has evaporated along with his doubts; and such
a tale as he has now to tell, will be found sufficient to convert even
the most sceptical in the town.”
“I hope so.”—“And yet it cannot much avail you.”
“Not personally, but I must confess that I am not dead to all human
passions, and I feel some desire of revenge against those dastards
who by hundreds have hunted me, burnt down my mansion, and sought my
destruction.”—“That I do not wonder at.”
“I would fain leave among them a legacy of fear. Such fear as shall
haunt them and their children for years to come. I would wish that
the name of Varney, the vampire, should be a sound of terror for
generations.”—“It will be so.”
“It shall.”—“And now, then, for a consideration of what is to be done
with our prisoner. What is your resolve upon that point?”
“I have considered it while I was lying upon yon green sward waiting
for the friendly moonbeams to fall upon my face, and it seems to me
that there is no sort of resource but to——”—“Kill him?”
“No, no.”—“What then?”
“To set him free.”—“Nay, have you considered the immense hazard of
doing so? Think again; I pray you think again. I am decidedly of
opinion that he more than suspects who are his enemies; and, in that
case, you know what consequences would ensue; besides, have we not
enough already to encounter? Why should we add another young, bold,
determined spirit to the band which is already arrayed against us?”
“You talk in vain, Marchdale; I know to what it all tends; you have a
strong desire for the death of this young man.”—“No; there you wrong
me. I have no desire for his death, for its own sake; but, where great
interests are at stake, there must be sacrifices made.”
“So there must; therefore, I will make a sacrifice, and let this young
prisoner free from his dungeon.”—“If such be your determination, I know
well it is useless to combat with it. When do you purpose giving him
his freedom?”
“I will not act so heedlessly as that your principles of caution shall
blame me. I will attempt to get from him some promise that he will
not make himself an active instrument against me. Perchance, too, as
Bannerworth Hall, which he is sure to visit, wears such an air of
desertion, I may be able to persuade him that the Bannerworth family,
as well as his uncle, have left this part of the country altogether; so
that, without making any inquiry for them about the neighbourhood, he
may be induced to leave at once.”—“That would be well.”
“Good; your prudence approves of the plan, and therefore it shall be
done.”—“I am rather inclined to think,” said Marchdale, with a slight
tone of sarcasm, “that if my prudence did not approve of the plan, it
would still be done.”
“Most probably,” said Varney, calmly.—“Will you release him to-night?”
“It is morning, now, and soon the soft grey light of day will tint the
east. I do not think I will release him till sunset again now. Has he
provision to last him until then?”—“He has.”
“Well, then, two hours after sunset I will come here and release him
from his weary bondage, and now I must go to find some place in which
to hide my proscribed head. As for Bannerworth Hall, I will yet have
it in my power; I have sworn to do so, I will keep my oath.”—“The
accomplishment of our purpose, I regret to say, seems as far off as
ever.”
“Not so—not so. As I before remarked, we must disappear, for a time, so
as to lull suspicion. There will then arise a period when Bannerworth
Hall will neither be watched, as it is now, nor will it be inhabited,—a
period before the Bannerworth family has made up its mind to go back to
it, and when long watching without a result has become too tiresome to
be continued at all; then we can at once pursue our object.”—“Be it so.”
“And now, Marchdale, I want more money.”—“More money!”
“Yes; you know well that I have had large demands of late.”—“But I
certainly had an impression that you were possessed, by the death of
some one, with very ample means.”
“Yes, but there is a means by which all is taken from me. I have no
real resources but what are rapidly used up, so I must come upon you
again.”—“I have already completely crippled myself as regards money
matters in this enterprise, and I do certainly hope that the fruits
will not be far distant. If they be much longer delayed, I shall
really not know what to do. However, come to the lodge where you have
been staying, and then I will give you, to the extent of my ability,
whatever sum you think your present exigencies require.”
“Come on, then, at once. I would certainly, of course, rather leave
this place now, before daybreak. Come on, I say, come on.”
Sir Francis Varney and Marchdale walked for some time in silence across
the meadows. It was evident that there was not between these associates
the very best of feelings. Marchdale was always smarting under an
assumption of authority over him, on the part of Sir Francis Varney,
while the latter scarcely cared to conceal any portion of the contempt
with which he regarded his hypocritical companion.
Some very strong bond of union, indeed, must surely bind these two
strange persons together! It must be something of a more than common
nature which induces Marchdale not only to obey the behests of his
mysterious companion, but to supply him so readily with money as we
perceive he promises to do.
And, as regards Varney, the vampyre, he, too, must have some great
object in view to induce him to run such a world of risk, and take so
much trouble as he was doing with the Bannerworth family.
What his object is, and what is the object of Marchdale, will, now that
we have progressed so far in our story, soon appear, and then much that
is perfectly inexplicable, will become clear and distinct, and we shall
find that some strong human motives are at the bottom of it all.