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Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

T >> Thomas Preskett Prest >> Varney the Vampire




"I really do not; I never saw him in my life, or heard of him before he
came into this neighbourhood."

"And I have been too much occupied with the painful occurrences of this
hall to know anything of our neighbours. I dare say Mr. Chillingworth,
if we had thought to ask him, would have known something concerning
him."

"No doubt."

This brief colloquy was put an end to by the servant, who said,--

"My master, gentlemen, is not very well; but he begs me to present his
best compliments, and to say he is much gratified with your visit, and
will be happy to see you in his study."

Henry and Marchdale followed the man up a flight of stone stairs, and
then they were conducted through a large apartment into a smaller one.
There was very little light in this small room; but at the moment of
their entrance a tall man, who was seated, rose, and, touching the
spring of a blind that was to the window, it was up in a moment,
admitting a broad glare of light. A cry of surprise, mingled with
terror, came from Henry Bannerworth's lip. _The original of the portrait
on the panel stood before him!_ There was the lofty stature, the long,
sallow face, the slightly projecting teeth, the dark, lustrous, although
somewhat sombre eyes; the expression of the features--all were alike.

"Are you unwell, sir?" said Sir Francis Varney, in soft, mellow accents,
as he handed a chair to the bewildered Henry.

"God of Heaven!" said Henry; "how like!"

"You seem surprised, sir. Have you ever seen me before?"

Sir Francis drew himself up to his full height, and cast a strange
glance upon Henry, whose eyes were rivetted upon his face, as if with a
species of fascination which he could not resist.

"Marchdale," Henry gasped; "Marchdale, my friend, Marchdale. I--I am
surely mad."

"Hush! be calm," whispered Marchdale.

"Calm--calm--can you not see? Marchdale, is this a dream?
Look--look--oh! look."

"For God's sake, Henry, compose yourself."

"Is your friend often thus?" said Sir Francis Varney, with the same
mellifluous tone which seemed habitual to him.

"No, sir, he is not; but recent circumstances have shattered his nerves;
and, to tell the truth, you bear so strong a resemblance to an old
portrait, in his house, that I do not wonder so much as I otherwise
should at his agitation."

"Indeed."

"A resemblance!" said Henry; "a resemblance! God of Heaven! it is the
face itself."

"You much surprise me," said Sir Francis.

[Illustration]

Henry sunk into the chair which was near him, and he trembled violently.
The rush of painful thoughts and conjectures that came through his mind
was enough to make any one tremble. "Is this the vampyre?" was the
horrible question that seemed impressed upon his very brain, in letters
of flame. "Is this the vampyre?"

"Are you better, sir?" said Sir Francis Varney, in his bland, musical
voice. "Shall I order any refreshment for you?"

"No--no," gasped Henry; "for the love of truth tell me! Is--is your name
really Varney!"

"Sir?"

"Have you no other name to which, perhaps, a better title you could
urge?"

"Mr. Bannerworth, I can assure you that I am too proud of the name of
the family to which I belong to exchange it for any other, be it what it
may."

"How wonderfully like!"

"I grieve to see you so much distressed. Mr. Bannerworth. I presume ill
health has thus shattered your nerves?"

"No; ill health has not done the work. I know not what to say, Sir
Francis Varney, to you; but recent events in my family have made the
sight of you full of horrible conjectures."

"What mean you, sir?"

"You know, from common report, that we have had a fearful visitor at our
house."

"A vampyre, I have heard," said Sir Francis Varney, with a bland, and
almost beautiful smile, which displayed his white glistening teeth to
perfection.

"Yes; a vampyre, and--and--"

"I pray you go on, sir; you surely are far above the vulgar superstition
of believing in such matters?"

"My judgment is assailed in too many ways and shapes for it to hold out
probably as it ought to do against so hideous a belief, but never was it
so much bewildered as now."

"Why so?"

"Because--"

"Nay, Henry," whispered Mr. Marchdale, "it is scarcely civil to tell Sir
Francis to his face, that he resembles a vampyre."

"I must, I must."

"Pray, sir," interrupted Varney to Marchdale, "permit Mr. Bannerworth to
speak here freely. There is nothing in the whole world I so much admire
as candour."

"Then you so much resemble the vampyre," added Henry, "that--that I know
not what to think."

"Is it possible?" said Varney.

"It is a damning fact."

"Well, it's unfortunate for me, I presume? Ah!"

Varney gave a twinge of pain, as if some sudden bodily ailment had
attacked him severely.

"You are unwell, sir?" said Marchdale.

"No, no--no," he said; "I--hurt my arm, and happened accidentally to
touch the arm of this chair with it."

"A hurt?" said Henry.

"Yes, Mr. Bannerworth."

"A--a wound?"

"Yes, a wound, but not much more than skin deep. In fact, little beyond
an abrasion of the skin."

"May I inquire how you came by it?"

"Oh, yes. A slight fall."

"Indeed."

"Remarkable, is it not? Very remarkable. We never know a moment when,
from same most trifling cause, we may receive really some serious bodily
harm. How true it is, Mr. Bannerworth, that in the midst of life we are
in death."

"And equally true, perhaps," said Henry, "that in the midst of death
there may be found a horrible life."

"Well, I should not wonder. There are really so many strange things in
this world, that I have left off wondering at anything now."

"There are strange things," said Henry. "You wish to purchase of me the
Hall, sir?"

"If you wish to sell."

"You--you are perhaps attached to the place? Perhaps you recollected it,
sir, long ago?"

"Not very long," smiled Sir Francis Varney. "It seems a nice comfortable
old house; and the grounds, too, appear to be amazingly well wooded,
which, to one of rather a romantic temperament like myself, is always an
additional charm to a place. I was extremely pleased with it the first
time I beheld it, and a desire to call myself the owner of it took
possession of my mind. The scenery is remarkable for its beauty, and,
from what I have seen of it, it is rarely to be excelled. No doubt you
are greatly attached to it."

"It has been my home from infancy," returned Henry, "and being also the
residence of my ancestors for centuries, it is natural that I should be
so."

"True--true."

"The house, no doubt, has suffered much," said Henry, "within the last
hundred years."

"No doubt it has. A hundred years is a tolerable long space of time, you
know."

"It is, indeed. Oh, how any human life which is spun out to such an
extent, must lose its charms, by losing all its fondest and dearest
associations."

"Ah, how true," said Sir Francis Varney. He had some minutes previously
touched a bell, and at this moment a servant brought in on a tray some
wine and refreshments.




CHAPTER XIV.

HENRY'S AGREEMENT WITH SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.--THE SUDDEN ARRIVAL AT THE
HALL.--FLORA'S ALARM.


[Illustration]

On the tray which the servant brought into the room, were refreshments
of different kinds, including wine, and after waving his hand for the
domestic to retire, Sir Francis Varney said,--

"You will be better, Mr. Bannerworth, for a glass of wine after your
walk, and you too, sir. I am ashamed to say, I have quite forgotten your
name."

"Marchdale."

"Mr. Marchdale. Ay, Marchdale. Pray, sir, help yourself."

"You take nothing yourself?" said Henry.

"I am under a strict regimen," replied Varney. "The simplest diet alone
does for me, and I have accustomed myself to long abstinence."

"He will not eat or drink," muttered Henry, abstractedly.

"Will you sell me the Hall?" said Sir Francis Varney.

Henry looked in his face again, from which he had only momentarily
withdrawn his eyes, and he was then more struck than ever with the
resemblance between him and the portrait on the panel of what had been
Flora's chamber. What made that resemblance, too, one about which there
could scarcely be two opinions, was the mark or cicatrix of a wound in
the forehead, which the painter had slightly indented in the portrait,
but which was much more plainly visible on the forehead of Sir Francis
Varney. Now that Henry observed this distinctive mark, which he had not
done before, he could feel no doubt, and a sickening sensation came over
him at the thought that he was actually now in the presence of one of
those terrible creatures, vampyres.

"You do not drink," said Varney. "Most young men are not so modest with
a decanter of unimpeachable wine before them. I pray you help yourself."

"I cannot."

Henry rose as he spoke, and turning to Marchdale, he said, in
addition,--

"Will you come away?"

"If you please," said Marchdale, rising.

"But you have not, my dear sir," said Varney, "given me yet any answer
about the Hall?"

"I cannot yet," answered Henry, "I will think. My present impression is,
to let you have it on whatever terms you may yourself propose, always
provided you consent to one of mine."

"Name it."

"That you never show yourself in my family."

"How very unkind. I understand you have a charming sister, young,
beautiful, and accomplished. Shall I confess, now, that I had hopes of
making myself agreeable to her?"

"You make yourself agreeable to her? The sight of you would blast her
for ever, and drive her to madness."

"Am I so hideous?"

"No, but--you are--"

"What am I?"

"Hush, Henry, hush," cried Marchdale. "Remember you are in this
gentleman's house."

"True, true. Why does he tempt me to say these dreadful things? I do not
want to say them."

"Come away, then--come away at once. Sir Francis Varney, my friend, Mr.
Bannerworth, will think over your offer, and let you know. I think you
may consider that your wish to become the purchaser of the Hall will be
complied with."

"I wish to have it," said Varney, "and I can only say, that if I am
master of it, I shall be very happy to see any of the family on a visit
at any time."

"A visit!" said Henry, with a shudder. "A visit to the tomb were far
more desirable. Farewell, sir."

"Adieu," said Sir Francis Varney, and he made one of the most elegant
bows in the world, while there came over his face a peculiarity of
expression that was strange, if not painful, to contemplate. In another
minute Henry and Marchdale were clear of the house, and with feelings of
bewilderment and horror, which beggar all description, poor Henry
allowed himself to be led by the arm by Marchdale to some distance,
without uttering a word. When he did speak, he said,--

"Marchdale, it would be charity of some one to kill me."

"To kill you!"

"Yes, for I am certain otherwise that I must go mad."

"Nay, nay; rouse yourself."

"This man, Varney, is a vampyre."

"Hush! hush!"

"I tell you, Marchdale," cried Henry, in a wild, excited manner, "he is
a vampyre. He is the dreadful being who visited Flora at the still hour
of midnight, and drained the life-blood from her veins. He is a vampyre.
There are such things. I cannot doubt now. Oh, God, I wish now that your
lightnings would blast me, as here I stand, for over into annihilation,
for I am going mad to be compelled to feel that such horrors can really
have existence."

"Henry--Henry."

"Nay, talk not to me. What can I do? Shall I kill him? Is it not a
sacred duty to destroy such a thing? Oh, horror--horror. He must be
killed--destroyed--burnt, and the very dust to which he is consumed must
be scattered to the winds of Heaven. It would be a deed well done,
Marchdale."

"Hush! hush! These words are dangerous."

"I care not."

"What if they were overheard now by unfriendly ears? What might not be
the uncomfortable results? I pray you be more cautious what you say of
this strange man."

"I must destroy him."

"And wherefore?"

"Can you ask? Is he not a vampyre?"

"Yes; but reflect, Henry, for a moment upon the length to which you
might carry out so dangerous an argument. It is said that vampyres are
made by vampyres sucking the blood of those who, but for that
circumstance, would have died and gone to decay in the tomb along with
ordinary mortals; but that being so attacked during life by a vampyre,
they themselves, after death, become such."

"Well--well, what is that to me?"

"Have you forgotten Flora?"

A cry of despair came from poor Henry's lips, and in a moment he seemed
completely, mentally and physically, prostrated.

"God of Heaven!" he moaned, "I had forgotten her!"

"I thought you had."

"Oh, if the sacrifice of my own life would suffice to put an end to all
this accumulating horror, how gladly would I lay it down. Ay, in any
way--in any way. No mode of death should appal me. No amount of pain
make me shrink. I could smile then upon the destroyer, and say,
'welcome--welcome--most welcome.'"

"Rather, Henry, seek to live for those whom you love than die for them.
Your death would leave them desolate. In life you may ward off many a
blow of fate from them."

"I may endeavour so to do."

"Consider that Flora may be wholly dependent upon such kindness as you
may be able to bestow upon her."

"Charles clings to her."

"Humph!"

"You do not doubt him?"

"My dear friend, Henry Bannerworth, although I am not an old man, yet I
am so much older than you that I have seen a great deal of the world,
and am, perhaps, far better able to come to accurate judgments with
regard to individuals."

"No doubt--no doubt; but yet--"

"Nay, hear me out. Such judgments, founded upon experience, when uttered
have all the character of prophecy about them. I, therefore, now
prophecy to you that Charles Holland will yet be so stung with horror at
the circumstance of a vampyre visiting Flora, that he will never make
her his wife."

"Marchdale, I differ from you most completely," said Henry. "I know that
Charles Holland is the very soul of honour."

"I cannot argue the matter with you. It has not become a thing of fact.
I have only sincerely to hope that I am wrong."

"You are, you may depend, entirely wrong. I cannot be deceived in
Charles. From you such words produce no effect but one of regret that
you should so much err in your estimate of any one. From any one but
yourself they would have produced in me a feeling of anger I might have
found it difficult to smother."

"It has often been my misfortune through life," said Mr. Marchdale,
sadly, "to give the greatest offence where I feel the truest friendship,
because it is in such quarters that I am always tempted to speak too
freely."

"Nay, no offence," said Henry. "I am distracted, and scarcely know what
I say. Marchdale, I know you are my sincere friend--but, as I tell you,
I am nearly mad."

"My dear Henry, be calmer. Consider upon what is to be said concerning
this interview at home."

"Ay; that is a consideration."

"I should not think it advisable to mention the disagreeable fact, that
in your neighbour you think you have found out the nocturnal disturber
of your family."

"No--no."

"I would say nothing of it. It is not at all probable that, after what
you have said to him this Sir Francis Varney, or whatever his real name
may be will obtrude himself upon you."

"If he should he die."

"He will, perhaps, consider that such a step would be dangerous to him."

"It would be fatal, so help me. However, and then would I take especial
care that no power of resuscitation should ever enable that man again to
walk the earth."

"They say that only way of destroying a vampyre is to fix him to the
earth with a stake, so that he cannot move, and then, of course,
decomposition will take its course, as in ordinary cases."

"Fire would consume him, and be a quicker process," said Henry. "But
these are fearful reflections, and, for the present, we will not pursue
them. Now to play the hypocrite, and endeavour to look composed and
serene to my mother, and to Flora while my heart is breaking."

The two friends had by this time reached the hall, and leaving his
friend Marchdale, Henry Bannerworth, with feelings of the most
unenviable description, slowly made his way to the apartment occupied by
his mother and sister.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER XV.

THE OLD ADMIRAL AND HIS SERVANT.--THE COMMUNICATION FROM THE LANDLORD OF
THE NELSON'S ARMS.


[Illustration]

While those matters of most grave and serious import were going on at
the Hall, while each day, and almost each hour in each day, was
producing more and more conclusive evidence upon a matter which at first
had seemed too monstrous to be at all credited, it may well be supposed
what a wonderful sensation was produced among the gossip-mongers of the
neighbourhood by the exaggerated reports that had reached them.

The servants, who had left the Hall on no other account, as they
declared, but sheer fright at the awful visits of the vampyre, spread
the news far and wide, so that in the adjoining villages and
market-towns the vampyre of Bannerworth Hall became quite a staple
article of conversation.

Such a positive godsend for the lovers of the marvellous had not
appeared in the country side within the memory of that sapient
individual--the oldest inhabitant.

And, moreover, there was one thing which staggered some people of better
education and maturer judgments, and that was, that the more they took
pains to inquire into the matter, in order, if possible, to put an end
to what they considered a gross lie from the commencement, the more
evidence they found to stagger their own senses upon the subject.

Everywhere then, in every house, public as well as private, something
was being continually said of the vampyre. Nursery maids began to think
a vampyre vastly superior to "old scratch and old bogie" as a means of
terrifying their infant charges into quietness, if not to sleep, until
they themselves became too much afraid upon the subject to mention it.

But nowhere was gossiping carried on upon the subject with more
systematic fervour than at an inn called the Nelson's Arms, which was in
the high street of the nearest market town to the Hall.

There, it seemed as if the lovers of the horrible made a point of
holding their head quarters, and so thirsty did the numerous discussions
make the guests, that the landlord was heard to declare that he, from
his heart, really considered a vampyre as very nearly equal to a
contested election.

It was towards evening of the same day that Marchdale and Henry made
their visit to Sir Francis Varney, that a postchaise drew up to the inn
we have mentioned. In the vehicle were two persons of exceedingly
dissimilar appearance and general aspect.

One of these people was a man who seemed fast verging upon seventy years
of age, although, from his still ruddy and embrowned complexion and
stentorian voice, it was quite evident he intended yet to keep time at
arm's-length for many years to come.

He was attired in ample and expensive clothing, but every article had a
naval animus about it, it we may be allowed such an expression with
regard to clothing. On his buttons was an anchor, and the general
assortment and colour of the clothing as nearly assimilated as possible
to the undress naval uniform of an officer of high rank some fifty or
sixty years ago.

His companion was a younger man, and about his appearance there was no
secret at all. He was a genuine sailor, and he wore the shore costume of
one. He was hearty-looking, and well dressed, and evidently well fed.

As the chaise drove up to the door of the inn, this man made an
observation to the other to the following effect,--

"A-hoy!"

"Well, you lubber, what now?" cried the other.

"They call this the Nelson's Arms; and you know, shiver me, that for the
best half of his life he had but one."

"D--n you!" was the only rejoinder he got for this observation; but,
with that, he seemed very well satisfied.

"Heave to!" he then shouted to the postilion, who was about to drive the
chaise into the yard. "Heave to, you lubberly son of a gun! we don't
want to go into dock."

"Ah!" said the old man, "let's get out, Jack. This is the port; and, do
you hear, and be cursed to you, let's have no swearing, d--n you, nor
bad language, you lazy swab."

"Aye, aye," cried Jack; "I've not been ashore now a matter o' ten years,
and not larnt a little shore-going politeness, admiral, I ain't been
your _walley de sham_ without larning a little about land reckonings.
Nobody would take me for a sailor now, I'm thinking, admiral."

"Hold your noise!"

"Aye, aye, sir."

Jack, as he was called, bundled out of the chaise when the door was
opened, with a movement so closely resembling what would have ensued had
he been dragged out by the collar, that one was tempted almost to
believe that such a feat must have been accomplished all at once by some
invisible agency.

He then assisted the old gentleman to alight, and the landlord of the
inn commenced the usual profusion of bows with which a passenger by a
postchaise is usually welcomed in preference to one by a stage coach.

"Be quiet, will you!" shouted the admiral, for such indeed he was. "Be
quiet."

"Best accommodation, sir--good wine--well-aired beds--good
attendance--fine air--"

"Belay there," said Jack; and he gave the landlord what no doubt he
considered a gentle admonition, but which consisted of such a dig in the
ribs, that he made as many evolutions as the clown in a pantomime when
he vociferates hot codlings.

"Now, Jack, where's the sailing instructions?" said his master.

"Here, sir, in the locker," said Jack, a he took from his pocket a
letter, which he handed to the admiral.

"Won't you step in, sir?" said the landlord, who had begun now to
recover a little from the dig in the ribs.

"What's the use of coming into port and paying harbour dues, and all
that sort of thing, till we know if it's the right, you lubber, eh?"

"No; oh, dear me, sir, of course--God bless me, what can the old
gentleman mean?"

The admiral opened the letter, and read:--

"If you stop at the Nelson's Aims at Uxotter, you will hear of
me, and I can be sent for, when I will tell you more.

"Yours, very obediently and humbly,

"JOSIAH CRINKLES."

"Who the deuce is he?"

"This is Uxotter, sir," said the landlord; "and here you are, sir, at
the Nelson's Arms. Good beds--good wine--good--"

"Silence!"

"Yes, sir--oh, of course"

"Who the devil is Josiah Crinkles?"

"Ha! ha! ha! ha! Makes me laugh, sir. Who the devil indeed! They do say
the devil and lawyers, sir, know something of each other--makes me
smile."

"I'll make you smile on the other side of that d----d great hatchway of
a mouth of yours in a minute. Who is Crinkles?"

"Oh, Mr. Crinkles, sir, everybody knows, most respectable attorney, sir,
indeed, highly respectable man, sir."

"A lawyer?"

"Yes, sir, a lawyer."

"Well, I'm d----d!"

Jack gave a long whistle, and both master and man looked at each other
aghast.

"Now, hang me!" cried the admiral, "if ever I was so taken in in all my
life."

"Ay, ay, sir," said Jack.

"To come a hundred and seventy miles see a d----d swab of a rascally
lawyer."

"Ay, ay, sir."

"I'll smash him--Jack!"

"Yer honour?"

"Get into the chaise again."

"Well, but where's Master Charles? Lawyers, in course, sir, is all
blessed rogues; but, howsomdever, he may have for once in his life this
here one of 'em have told us of the right channel, and if so be as he
has, don't be the Yankee to leave him among the pirates. I'm ashamed on
you."

"You infernal scoundrel; how dare you preach to me in such a way, you
lubberly rascal?"

"Cos you desarves it."

"Mutiny--mutiny--by Jove! Jack, I'll have you put in irons--you're a
scoundrel, and no seaman."

"No seaman!--no seaman!"

"Not a bit of one."

"Very good. It's time, then, as I was off the purser's books. Good bye
to you; I only hopes as you may get a better seaman to stick to you and
be your _walley de sham_ nor Jack Pringle, that's all the harm I wish
you. You didn't call me no seaman in the Bay of Corfu, when the bullets
were scuttling our nobs."

"Jack, you rascal, give us your fin. Come here, you d----d villain.
You'll leave me, will you?"

"Not if I know it."

"Come in, then"

"Don't tell me I'm no seaman. Call me a wagabone if you like, but don't
hurt my feelings. There I'm as tender as a baby, I am.--Don't do it."

"Confound you, who is doing it?"

"The devil."

"Who is?"

"Don't, then."

Thus wrangling, they entered the inn, to the great amusement of several
bystanders, who had collected to hear the altercation between them.

"Would you like a private room, sir?" said the landlord.

"What's that to you?" said Jack.

"Hold your noise, will you?" cried his master. "Yes, I should like a
private room, and some grog."

"Strong as the devil!" put in Jack.

"Yes, sir-yes, sir. Good wines--good beds--good--"

"You said all that before, you know," remarked Jack, as he bestowed upon
the landlord another terrific dig in the ribs.

"Hilloa!" cried the admiral, "you can send for that infernal lawyer,
Mister Landlord."

"Mr. Crinkles, sir?"

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