Complete Works of Bram Stoker (124 page)
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Authors: Bram Stoker
By this time the gypsies, seeing themselves covered by the Winchesters, and at the mercy of Lord Godalming and Dr. Seward, had given in and made no further resistance. The sun was almost down on the mountain tops, and the shadows of the whole group fell upon the snow. I saw the Count lying within the box upon the earth, some of which the rude falling from the cart had scattered over him. He was deathly pale, just like a waxen image, and the red eyes glared with the horrible vindictive look which I knew so well.
As I looked, the eyes saw the sinking sun, and the look of hate in them turned to triumph.
But, on the instant, came the sweep and flash of Jonathan’s great knife. I shrieked as I saw it shear through the throat. Whilst at the same moment Mr. Morris’s bowie knife plunged into the heart.
It was like a miracle, but before our very eyes, and almost in the drawing of a breath, the whole body crumbled into dust and passed from our sight.
I shall be glad as long as I live that even in that moment of final dissolution, there was in the face a look of peace, such as I never could have imagined might have rested there.
The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky, and every stone of its broken battlements was articulated against the light of the setting sun.
The gypsies, taking us as in some way the cause of the extraordinary disappearance of the dead man, turned, without a word, and rode away as if for their lives. Those who were unmounted jumped upon the leiter wagon and shouted to the horsemen not to desert them. The wolves, which had withdrawn to a safe distance, followed in their wake, leaving us alone.
Mr. Morris, who had sunk to the ground, leaned on his elbow, holding his hand pressed to his side. The blood still gushed through his fingers. I flew to him, for the Holy circle did not now keep me back; so did the two doctors. Jonathan knelt behind him and the wounded man laid back his head on his shoulder. With a sigh he took, with a feeble effort, my hand in that of his own which was unstained.
He must have seen the anguish of my heart in my face, for he smiled at me and said, “I am only too happy to have been of service! Oh, God!” he cried suddenly, struggling to a sitting posture and pointing to me. “It was worth for this to die! Look! Look!”
The sun was now right down upon the mountain top, and the red gleams fell upon my face, so that it was bathed in rosy light. With one impulse the men sank on their knees and a deep and earnest “Amen” broke from all as their eyes followed the pointing of his finger.
The dying man spoke, “Now God be thanked that all has not been in vain! See! The snow is not more stainless than her forehead! The curse has passed away!”
And, to our bitter grief, with a smile and in silence, he died, a gallant gentleman.
NOTE
Seven years ago we all went through the flames. And the happiness of some of us since then is, we think, well worth the pain we endured. It is an added joy to Mina and to me that our boy’s birthday is the same day as that on which Quincey Morris died. His mother holds, I know, the secret belief that some of our brave friend’s spirit has passed into him. His bundle of names links all our little band of men together. But we call him Quincey.
In the summer of this year we made a journey to Transylvania, and went over the old ground which was, and is, to us so full of vivid and terrible memories. It was almost impossible to believe that the things which we had seen with our own eyes and heard with our own ears were living truths. Every trace of all that had been was blotted out. The castle stood as before, reared high above a waste of desolation.
When we got home we were talking of the old time, which we could all look back on without despair, for Godalming and Seward are both happily married. I took the papers from the safe where they had been ever since our return so long ago. We were struck with the fact, that in all the mass of material of which the record is composed, there is hardly one authentic document. Nothing but a mass of typewriting, except the later notebooks of Mina and Seward and myself, and Van Helsing’s memorandum. We could hardly ask any one, even did we wish to, to accept these as proofs of so wild a story. Van Helsing summed it all up as he said, with our boy on his knee.
“We want no proofs. We ask none to believe us! This boy will some day know what a brave and gallant woman his mother is. Already he knows her sweetness and loving care. Later on he will understand how some men so loved her, that they did dare much for her sake.”
JONATHAN HARKER
MISS BETTY
Stoker’s sixth novel was first published in 1898 by C. Arthur Pearson, Limited of London.
CONTENTS
IN THE DEAD WATCH OF THE NIGHT
CHAPTER I
GRANDFATHER’S STORY
OF all the incidents of her early life none had so great or lasting an effect on Betty Pole as those of that evening in Cheyne Walk on which she had been accused of breaking the blue china jar. This was one of those beautiful pieces, brought from Holland, which had been given to her grandfather by the Dutch Minister when on some diplomatic mission to King William III. Great store had been set on it by the household generally, and Betty’s mother had often, during her lifetime, enjoined on the children special care of the beautiful piece of oriental china. She always said that it was to be looked upon as a sort of heirloom in the family.
The charge against Miss Betty was made by Abigail, she coming right into the back sitting-room after supper, when the dusk was beginning to fall through the trees in the garden of the King’s House in Chelsea. Abigail’s manner was at all times a pronounced one, for all her kindness of heart; but she was not feared so much by the children, who knew the softness as well as the weight of her hand, as by the two men whom she controlled in the despotic manner which purely domestic women assume to lonely men — men who have not wives to protect them. Abigail had in the motherless household the honour and privileges of one whom the mother had trusted, and who by faithful service had earned the trust. As a rule she was a just woman, but on this occasion the violence of her demeanour almost implied to those who knew her that she was herself not quite blameless in the matter. They all knew that she would not wilfully and deliberately lie, but they felt that the occasion was a grave one, and one in which no one would willingly be under the imputation of guilt if it could be avoided. Some of them, face to face with the charge, would have held it justifiable to have deflected the current of public thought if they could not on such an occasion have stemmed it. The young people, one and all, with wonderful unanimity, denied the charge which had at first been made in the general form of ‘ one of the children.’ The two men were concerned, as men ever are regarding the breakages of things they value. Betty’s father, Charles Pole, was as near anger as his gentle nature and the sorrow of his too recent loss would let him be. He spoke severely of the need of care, and reminded the children that their dear mother had ever told them to be careful of this thing that she loved; and then the sight of their little black clothes seemed to smite him and he stopped speaking, for he knew that to that mother’s heart one moment of any of his children’s happiness was dearer than all the vessels which had ever grown under the potter’s hand. She had accepted on her marriage the motherhood of the four children of her husband’s first wife, and treated them all just as she afterwards treated her own little Betty, her only child.
After a spell of silence Betty’s grandfather, Dudley Stanmore, spoke —
“I am sorry that the jar, which had for me very dear memories, has been broken; but we must not forget to be just. Tell me, children; which of you broke it?”
There was no answer. Then the old man spoke again, this time more sternly; his voice was grave and strong, despite his ninety and odd years —
“Let whoever did this, own to it!” All were still silent. For a few seconds the old man’s face looked very stem; but then came a smile and a sigh of relief, and he said quietly —
“Well, Mistress Abigail, that is all right! I am glad that none of the children did it.” This was more than Abigail could brook, so she answered hotly —
“Oh yes! saving your presence, but they did;” and turning to the children added: “Ye know, children, that God hates a liar, and that liars stand without the Gates and go into the burning Pit. Now, tell me, which done it?” Marjory, who though not the eldest had pertness beyond the level of her years, answered — “None of us did it, Abigail! Did you?”
“Me! Me? you wicked Miss. You! Miss Betty. You were last in the room — what do you say to it?”
Betty, who was sitting in her usual place on a little stool at her grandfather’s knee, said gently, in her sweet, old-fashioned way —
“I know nothing of it, Abigail! When I was in the room I was reading.”
“Take care, Miss Betty, take care! now take care!” said Abigail hotly, as she raised a warning finger. “Tell the truth.”
“But I am telling the truth,” said the child. Here her grandfather joined in:
“My word for Betty’s truth! She would not speak falsely! Would you, dear?” The child looked up, turning her head so that the wrinkled hand which he had laid on it slipped down on her shoulder.
“Oh no, grandfather!” she answered quietly; “how could I?”
“Old master always sticks up for Miss Betty,” said Abigail tartly, “just because she is his kin, I suppose — and so like him!” she added, with a touch of feminine causticity.
The likeness was remarkable, despite the gulf of more than fourscore years that lay between them. The old man’s face was wrinkled, his hair fell in thin, straggling flakes of snow, his eyes were dim, and his tall form was bowed with years, whilst the child’s hair was golden-brown, her eyes were sapphire, and her skin had the freshness and the warm glow of youth. But there was in each the same inward calm, the same line of profile, the same delicacy of nostril, the same resolution of mouth; and, beyond all else, that something which can hardly be put in words — the capacity of exaltation.
Betty’s father now spoke reprovingly — “Abigail Hood, you forget yourself when you so address Mr. Stanmore. Greater respect is due to him! And beside, he would say nothing but what is true. If Betty is like him, then I thank God that it is so; for her life should be pure and strong and true, like that of her dear mother.”
Abigail was prepared to do battle only up to a certain point, and as there was nothing here to be argued she used with deadly effect her purely feminine arms. Taking up the corner of her apron and holding it to her eyes, she withdrew. Mr. Stanmore then rose, and taking Betty’s hand in his, said —
“Come! We will go and see the broken jar and find out, if we can, what is the cause of it.”
The other children followed, and they all passed up the wide staircase into the drawingroom overhead. At the back of the house the dusk was now more marked, and the trees and i their shadows were mixed; but in the front the sunset still struck the summer clouds high overhead and made a sort of after-glow which gave light enough to survey the damage.
Truly the jar was broken, but it had evidently been lifted from its place and had been overturned. When the old man saw it he said —
“Why, Betty could not have done it. She could not have lifted it if she had tried. We must find out something more about it.”
As he spoke there was a sound of sobbing outside. The door opened and Abigail entered, pushing before her a maidservant who held her apron to her eyes.
“Here she is! Here is the hussy what broke the jar. I taxed her with it, and she can’t deny!”
“If you please, master, I am main sorry, but the jar was on the floor where Mrs. Abigail put it for me to put out the old popery and put the new rose-leaves in; and then I was called away. When I came back I forgot all about it, and when I was dusting round knocked it over.” Here she made a vain effort to fall on her knees to her master, and her further utterances became undistinguishable.
“Get up, girl! Get up!” said the old man. “Don’t insult the Creator by kneeling to men. There, run away now, and be more careful in future. Your crying won’t mend broken china!” and, still sobbing, she was incontinently hustled out of the room by Abigail. The old man lifted the broken jar and put it again in its old place, and then taking Betty by the hand, led the way back to the room below.
When they had resumed their old places, the room being now in a deep twilight, one of the boys said: “Tell us a story, grandfather.” The old man paused, and then said —