Dracula's Guest And Other Weird Tales

by Bram Stoker

  ‘All right, sir, ’ said Adam heartily. ‘I think you may depend on me now with regard to any topic. I can even discuss with Mr Caswall. Indeed, I may meet him to-morrow. He is going, as I said, to call at Mercy Farm at three o’clock – but I have an appointment at two.’

  ‘I notice, ’ said Mr Salton, ‘that you do not lose any time.’

  ‘No, sir. Perhaps that is the reason why the part I came from has for its motto – “Advance, Australia!” ’1

  ‘All right, my boy. Advance is good – so long as you take care where you are going and how. There is a line in one of Shakespeare’s plays, “They stumble that run fast.”2 It is worth bearing in mind.’

  ‘All right again, sir; but I don’t think you need fear me now I have had my kick.’

  The two old men once more looked at each other steadily. It was as much as to say, ‘Good! The boy has had his lesson. He will be all right!’ Then, lest the mood of his listener should change with delay, Sir Nathaniel began at once:

  ‘I don’t propose to tell you all the legends of Mercia, or even to make a selection of them. It will be better, I think, for our purpose if we consider a few facts – recorded or unrecorded – about this neighbourhood. I shall try to remember, and you, Adam, shall ask me questions as we go along. We all want stimulation to memory. When we have nothing amongst us to remember it will be time enough to invent. I propose to go on where we left off yesterday morning, about the few places round here that we spoke of. I think we might begin with Diana’s Grove. It has roots in the different epochs of our history, and each has, be sure, its special crop of legend. The Druid and the Roman are too far off for matters of detail; but it seems to me the Saxon and the Angles are near enough to yield material for legendary lore. If there were anything well remembered of an earlier period, we may take it that it had some beginning in what was accepted as fact. We find that this particular place had another name or sobriquet besides Diana’s Grove. This was manifestly of Roman origin, or of Grecian accepted as Roman. The former is more pregnant of adventure and romance than the Roman name. In Mercian tongue it was “The Lair of the White Worm.” This needs a word of explanation at the beginning.

  ‘In the dawn of the language, the word “worm” had a somewhat different meaning from that in use to-day. It was an adaptation of the Anglo-Saxon “wyrm, ” meaning primarily a dragon or snake; or from the Gothic “waurms, ” a serpent; or the Icelandic “ormur, ” or the German “wurm.” We gather that it conveyed originally an idea of size and power, not as now in the diminutive of both these meanings. Here legendary history helps us. We have the well-known legend of the “Worm Well” of Lambton Castle, and that of the “Laidly Worm of Spindleston Heugh” near Bamborough.3 In both these legends the “worm” was a monster of vast size and power – a veritable dragon or serpent, such as legend attributes to vast fens or quags where there was illimitable room for expansion. A glance at a geological map will show that whatever truth there may have been of the actuality of such monsters in the early geologic periods, at least there was plenty of possibility. In the eastern section of England there were originally vast plains where the naturally plentiful supply of water could gather. There the streams were deep and slow, and there were holes of abysmal depth, where any kind and size of antediluvian monster could find a habitat. In places, which now we can see from our windows, were mud-holes a hundred or more feet deep. Who can tell us when the age of the monsters which flourished in slime came to an end? If such a time there was indeed, its limits could only apply to the vast number of such dangers. There must have been times and places and conditions which made for greater longevity, greater size, greater strength than was usual. Such overlappings may have come down even to our earlier centuries. Nay, are there not now creatures of a vastness of bulk regarded by the generality of men as impossible? Even in our own day there are here and there seen the traces of animals, if not the animals themselves, of stupendous size – veritable survivals from earlier ages, preserved by some special qualities in their habitats. I remember meeting a distinguished man in India, who had the reputation of being a great shikaree, 4 who told me that the greatest temptation he had ever had in his life was to shoot a giant snake which he had literally come across in the Terai of Upper India. He was on a tiger-shooting expedition, and as his elephant was crossing a nullah it squealed. He looked down from his howdah and saw that the elephant had stepped across the body of a snake which was dragging itself through the jungle. “So far as I could see, ” he said, “it must have been eighty or one hundred feet in length. Fully forty or fifty feet was on each side of the track, and though the weight which it dragged had thinned it to its least, it was as thick round as a man’s body. I suppose you know that when you are after tiger, it is a point of honour not to shoot at anything else, as life may depend on it. I could easily and with safety have spined this monster, but I felt that I must not – and so with regret I had to let it go.”

  ‘Just imagine such a monster anywhere in this country, and at once we could get a sort of idea of the “worms, ” which possibly did frequent the great morasses which spread round the mouths of any of the great European rivers.’

  Adam had been thinking; at last he spoke:

  ‘I haven’t the least doubt, sir, that there may have been such monsters as you have spoken of still existing at a much later period than is generally accepted. Also, that if there were such things, that this was the very place for them. I have tried to think over the matter since you pointed out the configuration of the ground. But if you will not be offended by my expressing – not indeed a doubt, but a difficulty – it seems to me that there is a hiatus somewhere.’

  ‘Where? What kind? Tell me frankly, where is your difficulty. You know I am always glad of an honest opinion in any difficulty.’

  ‘Well, sir, all that you say may be, probably is, true. But are there not mechanical difficulties?’

  ‘As how?’

  ‘Well, our antique monster must have been mighty heavy, and the distances he had to travel were long and the ways difficult. From where we are now sitting down to the level of the mud-holes even the top of them is a distance of several hundred feet – I am leaving out of consideration altogether for the present lateral distance. Is it possible that there was a way by which a monster such as you have spoken of could travel up and down, and yet no chance recorder have ever seen him? Of course we have the legends; but is not some more exact evidence necessary in a scientific investigation?’

  ‘My dear Adam, all you say is perfectly right, and, were we starting on just such an investigation, we could not do better than follow your reasoning. But, my dear boy, you must remember that all this took place thousands of years ago. You must remember, too, that all records of the kind that would help us are lacking. Also, that the places to be considered were absolutely desert so far as human habitation or population are considered. In the vast desolation of such a place as complied with the necessary conditions there must have been such profusion of natural growth as would bar the progress of men formed as we are. The lair of such a monster as we have in mind would not have been disturbed for hundreds – or thousands – of years. Moreover, these creatures must have occupied places quite inaccessible to man. A snake who could make himself comfortable in a quagmire a hundred feet deep would be protected even on the outskirts by such stupendous morasses as now no longer exist, or which, if they exist anywhere at all, can be on very few places on the earth’s surface. Far be it from me to say, or even to think for a moment, that in more elemental times such things could not have been. The condition of things we speak of belongs to the geologic age – the great birth and growth of the world, when natural forces ran riot, when the struggle for existence was so savage that no vitality which was not founded in a gigantic form could have even a possibility of survival.5 That such a time was we have evidences in geology, but there only. We can never expect proofs such as this age demands. We can only imagine or surmise such things – or such conditions
and such forces as overcame them.’

  ‘Come, let us get to bed, ’ said Mr Salton. ‘Like you both, I enjoy the conversation. But one thing is certain: we cannot settle it before breakfast.’

  CHAPTER VII

  HAWK AND PIGEON

  At breakfast-time next morning Sir Nathaniel and Mr Salton were seated when Adam came hurriedly into the room.

  ‘Any news?’ asked his uncle mechanically.

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Four what?’ asked Sir Nathaniel.

  ‘Snakes, ’ said Adam, helping himself to a grilled kidney.

  ‘Four snakes. How? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Mongoose, ’ said Adam, and then added explanatorily: ‘I was out with the mongoose just after three.’

  ‘Four snakes in one morning! Why, I didn’t know there were so many on the Brow’ – the local name for the western cliff. ‘I hope that wasn’t the consequence of our talk of last night?’

  ‘It was, sir. But not directly.’

  ‘But, God bless my soul, you didn’t expect to get a snake like the Lambton worm, did you? Why, a mongoose to tackle a monster like that – if there were one – would have to be bigger than a haystack.’

  ‘These were ordinary snakes, only about as big as a walking-stick.’

  ‘Well, it’s well to be rid of them, big or little. That is a good mongoose, I suppose; he’ll clear out all such vermin round here, ’ said Mr Salton.

  Adam went quietly on with his breakfast. Killing a few snakes in a morning was no new experience to him. He left the room the moment breakfast was finished and went to the study that his uncle had arranged for him. Both Sir Nathaniel and Mr Salton took it that he wanted to be by himself as so to avoid any questioning or talk of the visit that he was to make that afternoon. He stayed by himself either in the house or walking, till about half an hour before dinner-time. Then he came quietly into the smoking-room, where Mr Salton and Sir Nathaniel were sitting together ready dressed. He too was dressed, and the old diplomatist noticed that his hand was, if possible, more steady than usual. He had actually shaved himself when making his toilet, but there was no sign of a cut or even of a quiver of the hand. Sir Nathaniel smiled to himself quietly as he said under his voice:

  ‘He is all right. That is a sign there is no mistaking – for a man in love. He certainly was in love yesterday; and one way or another, if he can get rid of, or overcome, troubles of the heart like that, I think we needn’t have any special apprehension about him.’ So he resumed the magazine which he had been reading.

  After a few minutes of silence all round, Adam gave further evidence of his aplomb. He suddenly said, looking at the others:

  ‘I suppose there is no use waiting. We had better get it over at once.’

  His uncle, thinking to make things easier to him, said:

  ‘Get what over?’

  There was a sign of shyness about him at this. He stammered a little at first, but his voice became more even as he went on:

  ‘My visit to Mercy Farm.’

  Mr Salton waited eagerly. The old diplomatist simply smiled easily.

  ‘I suppose you both know that I was much interested yesterday in the Watfords?’ There was no denial or fending off the question. Both the old men smiled acquiescence. Adam went on: ‘I meant you to see it – both of you. You, uncle, because you are my uncle and the nearest thing to me on earth – of my own kin, and, moreover, you couldn’t have been more kind to me or made me more welcome if you had been my own father.’ Mr Salton said nothing. He simply held out his hand, and the other took it and held it for a few seconds. ‘And you, sir, because you have shown me something of the same affection which in my wildest dreams of home I had no right to expect.’ He stopped for an instant, much moved.

  Sir Nathaniel said softly, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder:

  ‘You are right, my boy; quite right. That is the proper way to look at it. And I may tell you that we old men, who have no children of our own, feel our hearts growing warm when we hear words like those.’

  Then Adam hurried on, speaking with a rush, as if he wanted to come to the crucial point:

  ‘Mr Watford had not come in, but Lilla and Mimi were at home, and they made me feel very welcome. They have all a great regard for my uncle. I am glad of that any way, for I like them all – much. We were having tea when Mr Caswall came to the door, attended by the Christy Minstrel.’1

  ‘The Christy Minstrel!’ repeated Sir Nathaniel. His voice sounded simply as an acknowledgment, not as a comment of any kind.

  ‘Lilla opened the door herself. The window of the living-room at the farm, as of course you know, is a large one, and from within you cannot help seeing anyone coming. Mr Caswall said he ventured to call, as he wished to make the acquaintance of all his tenants in a less formal way and more individually than had been possible to him on the previous day. The girls made him very welcome. They are very sweet girls those, sir. Someone will be very happy some day there – with either of them.’

  ‘And that man may be you, Adam, ’ said Mr Salton heartily.

  A sad look came over the young man’s eyes, and the fire his uncle had seen there died out. Likewise the timbre had left his voice, making it sound dreadfully lonely as he spoke:

  ‘Such might crown my life. But that happiness, I fear, is not for me, or not without pain and loss and woe.’

  ‘Well, it’s early days yet!’ said Sir Nathaniel heartily.

  The young man turned on him his eyes, which had now grown excessively sad, as he answered:

  ‘Yesterday – a few hours ago – that remark would have given me new hope – new courage; but since then I have learned too much.’

  The old man, skilled in the human heart, did not attempt to argue in such a matter. He simply varied the idea and went on:

  ‘Too early to give in, my boy.’

  ‘I am not of a giving-in kind, ’ said the young man earnestly. ‘But, after all, it is wise to realise a truth. And when a man, though he is young, feels as I do – as I have felt ever since yesterday, when I first saw Mimi’s eyes – his heart jumps. He does not need to learn things. He knows.’

  There was silence in the room, during which the twilight stole on imperceptibly. It was Adam who again broke the silence as he asked his uncle:

  ‘Do you know, uncle, if we have any second sight in our family?’

  ‘Second sight? No, not that I ever heard of. Why?’

  ‘Because, ’ he answered slowly, ‘I have a conviction over me which seems to answer all the conditions of second sight that I have ever heard of.’

  ‘And then?’ asked the old man, much perturbed.

  ‘And then the usual inevitable. What in the Hebrides and other places, where the Sight is a cult – a belief – is called “the doom” – the court from which there is no appeal. I have often heard of second sight – you know we have many western Scots in Australia; but I have realised more of its true inwardness in an instant of this afternoon than I did in the whole of my life previously – a granite wall stretching up to the very heavens, so high and so dark that the eye of God Himself cannot see beyond. Well, if the Doom must come, it must. That is all.’

  The voice of Sir Nathaniel broke in, smooth and sweet and grave, but very, very stern:

  ‘Can there not be a fight for it? There can for most things.’

  ‘For most things, yes. But for the Doom, no. What a man can do I shall do. There will be – must be – a fight. When and where and how I know not. But a fight there will be. But, after all, what is a man in such a case?’

  ‘A man! Adam, there are three of us.’ He looked at his old friend as he spoke, and that old friend’s eyes blazed.

  ‘Ay, three of us, ’ he said, and his voice rang.

  There was again a pause, and Sir Nathaniel, anxious to get back to less emotional and more neutral ground, said quietly:

  ‘Tell us of the rest of the meeting. Omit no detail. It may be useful. Remember we are all pledged to this. It is
a fight à l’outrance, 2 and we can afford to throw away or forgo no chance.’

  Adam said quietly, looking at him:

  ‘We shall throw away or lose nothing that we can help. We fight to win, and the stake is a life – perhaps more than one – we shall see.’ Then he went on in a conversational tone, such as he had used when he spoke of the coming to the farm of Edgar Caswall: ‘When Mr Caswall came in the Christy Minstrel touched his ridiculous hat and went away – at least, he went a short distance and there remained. It gave one the idea that he expected to be called and intended to remain in sight, or within hail. Then Mimi got another cup and made fresh tea, and we all went on together.’

  ‘Was there anything uncommon – were you all quite friendly?’ asked Sir Nathaniel quietly.

  Adam answered at once:

  ‘Quite friendly. There was nothing that I could notice out of the common – except, ’ he went on, with a slight hardening of the voice, ‘except that he kept his eyes fixed on Lilla in a way which was quite intolerable to any man who might hold her dear.’

  ‘Now, in what way did he look?’ asked Sir Nathaniel. ‘I am not doubting. I only ask for information.’

  ‘I can hardly say, ’ was the answer. ‘There was nothing in itself offensive; but no one could help noticing it.’

  ‘You did. Miss Watford herself, who was the victim, and Mr Caswall, who was the offender, are out of range as witnesses. Was there anyone else who noticed?’

  ‘Mimi did. I tell you her face flamed with anger as she saw the look.’

  ‘What kind of look was it? Over-ardent or too admiring, or what? Was it the look of a lover or one who fain would be? You understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I quite understand. Anything of that sort I should of course notice. It would be part of my preparation for keeping my self-control – to which I am pledged.’

  ‘If it were not amatory, was it threatening? Where was the offence?’