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Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

T >> Thomas Preskett Prest >> Varney the Vampire




"What purpose is it, Flora, that you have to pray thus fervently for
strength to execute? Oh, if it savour aught of treason against love's
majesty, forget it. Love is a gift from Heaven. The greatest and the
most glorious gift it ever bestowed upon its creatures. Heaven will not
aid you in repudiating that which is the one grand redeeming feature
that rescues human nature from a world of reproach."

Flora wrung her hands despairingly as she said,--

"Charles, I know I cannot reason with you. I know I have not power of
language, aptitude of illustration, nor depth of thought to hold a
mental contention with you."

"Flora, for what do I contend?"

"You, you speak of love."

"And I have, ere this, spoken to you of love unchecked."

"Yes, yes. Before this."

"And now, wherefore not now? Do not tell me you are changed."

"I am changed, Charles. Fearfully changed. The curse of God has fallen
upon me, I know not why. I know not that in word or in thought I have
done evil, except perchance unwittingly, and yet--the vampyre."

"Let not that affright you."

"Affright me! It has killed me."

"Nay, Flora,--you think too much of what I still hope to be susceptible
of far more rational explanation."

"By your own words, then, Charles, I must convict you. I cannot, I dare
not be yours, while such a dreadful circumstance is hanging over me,
Charles; if a more rational explanation than the hideous one which my
own fancy gives to the form that visits me can be found, find it, and
rescue me from despair and from madness."

They had now reached the summer-house, and as Flora uttered these words
she threw herself on to a seat, and covering her beautiful face with her
hands, she sobbed convulsively.

"You have spoken," said Charles, dejectedly. "I have heard that which
you wished to say to me."

"No, no. Not all, Charles."

"I will be patient, then, although what more you may have to add should
tear my very heart-strings."

"I--I have to add, Charles," she said, in a tremulous voice, "that
justice, religion, mercy--every human attribute which bears the name of
virtue, calls loudly upon me no longer to hold you to vows made under
different auspices."

"Go on, Flora."

"I then implore you, Charles, finding me what I am, to leave me to the
fate which it has pleased Heaven to cast upon me. I do not ask you,
Charles, not to love me."

"'Tis well. Go on, Flora."

"Because I should like to think that, although I might never see you
more, you loved me still. But you must think seldom of me, and you must
endeavour to be happy with some other--"

"You cannot, Flora, pursue the picture you yourself would draw. These
words come not from your heart."

"Yes--yes--yes."

"Did you ever love me?"

"Charles, Charles, why will you add another pang to those you know must
already rend my heart?"

"No, Flora, I would tear my own heart from my bosom ere I would add one
pang to yours. Well I know that gentle maiden modesty would seal your
lips to the soft confession that you loved me. I could not hope the joy
of hearing you utter these words. The tender devoted lover is content to
see the truthful passion in the speaking eyes of beauty. Content is he
to translate it from a thousand acts, which, to eyes that look not so
acutely as a lover's, bear no signification; but when you tell me to
seek happiness with another, well may the anxious question burst from my
throbbing heart of, 'Did you ever love me, Flora?'"

Her senses hung entranced upon his words. Oh, what a witchery is in the
tongue of love. Some even of the former colour of her cheek returned as
forgetting all for the moment but that she was listening to the voice of
him, the thoughts of whom had made up the day dream of her happiness,
she gazed upon his face.

His voice ceased. To her it seemed as if some music had suddenly left
off in its most exquisite passage. She clung to his arm--she looked
imploringly up to him. Her head sunk upon his breast as she cried,

"Charles, Charles, I did love you. I do love you now."

"Then let sorrow and misfortune shake their grisly locks in vain," he
cried. "Heart to heart--hand to hand with me, defy them."

He lifted up his arms towards Heaven as he spoke, and at the moment came
such a rattling peal of thunder, that the very earth seemed to shake
upon its axis.

A half scream of terror burst from the lips of Flora, as she cried,--

"What was that?"

"Only thunder," said Charles, calmly.

"'Twas an awful sound."

"A natural one."

"But at such a moment, when you were defying Fate to injure us. Oh!
Charles, is it ominous?"

"Flora, can you really give way to such idle fancies?"

"The sun is obscured."

"Ay, but it will shine all the brighter for its temporary eclipse. The
thunder-storm will clear the air of many noxious vapours; the forked
lightning has its uses as well as its powers of mischief. Hark! there
again!"

Another peal, of almost equal intensity to the other, shook the
firmament. Flora trembled.

"Charles," she said, "this is the voice of Heaven. We must part--we must
part for ever. I cannot be yours."

"Flora, this is madness. Think again, dear Flora. Misfortunes for a time
will hover over the best and most fortunate of us; but, like the clouds
that now obscure the sweet sunshine, will pass away, and leave no trace
behind them. The sunshine of joy will shine on you again."

There was a small break in the clouds, like a window looking into
Heaven. From it streamed one beam of sunlight, so bright, so dazzling,
and so beautiful, that it was a sight of wonder to look upon. It fell
upon the face of Flora; it warmed her cheek; it lent lustre to her pale
lips and tearful eyes; it illumined that little summer-house as if it
had been the shrine of some saint.

"Behold!" cried Charles, "where is your omen now?"

"God of Heaven!'" cried Flora; and she stretched out her arms.

"The clouds that hover over your spirit now," said Charles, "shall pass
away. Accept this beam of sunlight as a promise from God."

"I will--I will. It is going."

"It has done its office."

The clouds closed over the small orifice, and all was gloom again as
before.

"Flora," said Charles, "you will not ask me now to leave you?"

She allowed him to clasp her to his heart. It was beating for her, and
for her only.

"You will let me, Flora, love you still?"

Her voice, as she answered him, was like the murmur of some distant
melody the ears can scarcely translate to the heart.

"Charles we will live, love, and die together."

And now there was a wrapt stillness in that summer-house for many
minutes--a trance of joy. They did not speak, but now and then she would
look into his face with an old familiar smile, and the joy of his heart
was near to bursting in tears from his eyes.

A shriek burst from Flora's lips--a shriek so wild and shrill that it
awakened echoes far and near. Charles staggered back a step, as if shot,
and then in such agonised accents as he was long indeed in banishing the
remembrance of, she cried,--

"The vampyre! the vampyre!"




CHAPTER XVII.

THE EXPLANATION.--THE ARRIVAL OF THE ADMIRAL AT THE HOUSE.--A SCENE OF
CONFUSION, AND SOME OF ITS RESULTS.


[Illustration]

So sudden and so utterly unexpected a cry of alarm from Flora, at such a
time might well have the effect of astounding the nerves of any one, and
no wonder that Charles was for a few seconds absolutely petrified and
almost unable to think.

Mechanically, then, he turned his eyes towards the door of the
summer-house, and there he saw a tall, thin man, rather elegantly
dressed, whose countenance certainly, in its wonderful resemblance to
the portrait on the panel, might well appal any one.

The stranger stood in the irresolute attitude on the threshold of the
summer-house of one who did not wish to intrude, but who found it as
awkward, if not more so now, to retreat than to advance.

Before Charles Holland could summon any words to his aid, or think of
freeing himself from the clinging grasp of Flora, which was wound around
him, the stranger made a very low and courtly bow, after which he said,
in winning accents,--

"I very much fear that I am an intruder here. Allow me to offer my
warmest apologies, and to assure you, sir, and you, madam, that I had no
idea any one was in the arbour. You perceive the rain is falling
smartly, and I made towards here, seeing it was likely to shelter me
from the shower."

These words were spoken in such a plausible and courtly tone of voice,
that they might well have become any drawing-room in the kingdom.

Flora kept her eyes fixed upon him during the utterance of these words;
and as she convulsively clutched the arm of Charles, she kept on
whispering,--

"The vampyre! the vampyre!"

"I much fear," added the stranger, in the same bland tones, "that I have
been the cause of some alarm to the young lady!"

"Release me," whispered Charles to Flora. "Release me; I will follow him
at once."

"No, no--do not leave me--do not leave me. The vampyre--the dreadful
vampyre!"

"But, Flora--"

"Hush--hush--hush! It speaks again."

"Perhaps I ought to account for my appearance in the garden at all,"
added the insinuating stranger. "The fact is, I came on a visit--"

Flora shuddered.

"To Mr. Henry Bannerworth," continued the stranger; "and finding the
garden-gate open, I came in without troubling the servants, which I much
regret, as I can perceive I have alarmed and annoyed the lady. Madam,
pray accept of my apologies."

"In the name of God, who are you?" said Charles.

"My name is Varney."

"Oh, yes. You are the Sir Francis Varney, residing close by, who bears
so fearful a resemblance to--"

"Pray go on, sir. I am all attention."

"To a portrait here."

"Indeed! Now I reflect a moment, Mr. Henry Bannerworth did incidentally
mention something of the sort. It's a most singular coincidence."

The sound of approaching footsteps was now plainly heard, and in a few
moments Henry and George, along with Mr. Marchdale, reached the spot.
Their appearance showed that they had made haste, and Henry at once
exclaimed,--

"We heard, or fancied we heard, a cry of alarm."

"You did hear it," said Charles Holland. "Do you know this gentleman?"

"It is Sir Francis Varney."

"Indeed!"

Varney bowed to the new comers, and was altogether as much at his ease
as everybody else seemed quite the contrary. Even Charles Holland found
the difficulty of going up to such a well-bred, gentlemanly man, and
saying, "Sir, we believe you to be a vampyre"--to be almost, if not
insurmountable.

"I cannot do it," he thought, "but I will watch him."

"Take me away," whispered Flora. "'Tis he--'tis he. Oh, take me away,
Charles."

"Hush, Flora, hush. You are in some error; the accidental resemblance
should not make us be rude to this gentleman."

"The vampyre!--it is the vampyre!"

"Are you sure, Flora?"

"Do I know your features--my own--my brother's? Do not ask me to
doubt--I cannot. I am quite sure. Take me from his hideous presence,
Charles."

"The young lady, I fear, is very much indisposed," remarked Sir Francis
Varney, in a sympathetic tone of voice. "If she will accept of my arm, I
shall esteem it a great honour."

"No--no--no!--God! no," cried Flora.

"Madam, I will not press you."

He bowed, and Charles led Flora from the summer-house towards the hall.

"Flora," he said, "I am bewildered--I know not what to think. That man
most certainly has been fashioned after the portrait which is on the
panel in the room you formerly occupied; or it has been painted from
him."

"He is my midnight visitor!" exclaimed Flora. "He is the vampyre;--this
Sir Francis Varney is the vampyre."

"Good God! What can be done?"

"I know not. I am nearly distracted."

"Be calm, Flora. If this man be really what you name him, we now know
from what quarter the mischief comes, which is, at all events, a point
gained. Be assured we shall place a watch upon him."

"Oh, it is terrible to meet him here."

"And he is so wonderfully anxious, too, to possess the Hall."

"He is--he is."

"It looks strange, the whole affair. But, Flora, be assured of one
thing, and that is, of your own safety."

"Can I be assured of that?"

"Most certainly. Go to your mother now. Here we are, you see, fairly
within doors. Go to your mother, dear Flora, and keep yourself quiet. I
will return to this mysterious man now with a cooler judgment than I
left him."

"You will watch him, Charles?"

"I will, indeed."

"And you will not let him approach the house here alone?"

"I will not."

"Oh, that the Almighty should allow such beings to haunt the earth!"

"Hush, Flora, hush! we cannot judge of his allwise purpose."

'"Tis hard that the innocent should be inflicted with its presence."

Charles bowed his head in mournful assent.

[Illustration]

"Is it not very, very dreadful?"

"Hush--hush! Calm yourself, dearest, calm yourself. Recollect that all
we have to go upon in this matter is a resemblance, which, after all,
may be accidental. But leave it all to me, and be assured that now I
have some clue to this affair, I will not lose sight of it, or of Sir
Francis Varney."

So saying, Charles surrendered Flora to the care of her mother, and then
was hastening back to the summer-house, when he met the whole party
coming towards the Hall, for the rain was each moment increasing in
intensity.

"We are returning," remarked Sir Francis Varney, with a half bow and a
smile, to Charles.

"Allow me," said Henry, "to introduce you, Mr. Holland, to our
neighbour, Sir Francis Varney."

Charles felt himself compelled to behave with courtesy, although his
mind was so full of conflicting feelings as regarded Varney; but there
was no avoiding, without such brutal rudeness as was inconsistent with
all his pursuits and habits, replying in something like the same strain
to the extreme courtly politeness of the supposed vampyre.

"I will watch him closely," thought Charles. "I can do no more than
watch him closely."

Sir Francis Varney seemed to be a man of the most general and discursive
information. He talked fluently and pleasantly upon all sorts of topics,
and notwithstanding he could not but have heard what Flora had said of
him, he asked no questions whatever upon that subject.

This silence as regarded a matter which would at once have induced some
sort of inquiry from any other man, Charles felt told much against him,
and he trembled to believe for a moment that, after all, it really might
be true.

"Is he a vampyre?" he asked himself. "Are there vampyres, and is this
man of fashion--this courtly, talented, educated gentleman one?" It was
a perfectly hideous question.

"You are charmingly situated here," remarked Varney, as, after ascending
the few steps that led to the hall door, he turned and looked at the
view from that slight altitude.

"The place has been much esteemed," said Henry, "for its picturesque
beauties of scenery."

"And well it may be. I trust, Mr. Holland, the young lady is much
better?"

"She is, sir," said Charles.

"I was not honoured by an introduction."

"It was my fault," said Henry, who spoke to his extraordinary guest with
an air of forced hilarity. "It was my fault for not introducing you to
my sister."

"And that was your sister?"

"It was, sir."

"Report has not belied her--she is beautiful. But she looks rather pale,
I thought. Has she bad health?"

"The best of health."

"Indeed! Perhaps the little disagreeable circumstance, which is made so
much food for gossip in the neighbourhood, has affected her spirits?"

"It has."

"You allude to the supposed visit here of a vampyre?" said Charles, as
he fixed his eyes upon Varney's face.

"Yes, I allude to the supposed appearance of a supposed vampyre in this
family," said Sir Francis Varney, as he returned the earnest gaze of
Charles, with such unshrinking assurance, that the young man was
compelled, after about a minute, nearly to withdraw his own eyes.

"He will not be cowed," thought Charles. "Use has made him familiar to
such cross-questioning."

It appeared now suddenly to occur to Henry that he had said something at
Varney's own house which should have prevented him from coming to the
Hall, and he now remarked,--

"We scarcely expected the pleasure of your company here, Sir Francis
Varney."

"Oh, my dear sir, I am aware of that; but you roused my curiosity. You
mentioned to me that there was a portrait here amazingly like me."

"Did I?"

"Indeed you did, or how could I know it? I wanted to see if the
resemblance was so perfect."

"Did you hear, sir," added Henry, "that my sister was alarmed at your
likeness to that portrait?"

"No, really."

"I pray you walk in, and we will talk more at large upon that matter."

"With great pleasure. One leads a monotonous life in the country, when
compared with the brilliancy of a court existence. Just now I have no
particular engagement. As we are near neighbours I see no reason why we
should not be good friends, and often interchange such civilities as
make up the amenities of existence, and which, in the country, more
particularly, are valuable."

Henry could not be hypocrite enough to assent to this; but still, under
the present aspect of affairs, it was impossible to return any but a
civil reply; so he said,--

"Oh, yes, of course--certainly. My time is very much occupied, and my
sister and mother see no company."

"Oh, now, how wrong."

"Wrong, sir?"

"Yes, surely. If anything more than another tends to harmonize
individuals, it is the society of that fairer half of the creation which
we love for their very foibles. I am much attached to the softer sex--to
young persons full of health. I like to see the rosy checks, where the
warm blood mantles in the superficial veins, and all is loveliness and
life."

Charles shrank back, and the word "Demon" unconsciously escaped his
lips.

Sir Francis took no manner of notice of the expression, but went on
talking, as if he had been on the very happiest terms with every one
present.

"Will you follow me, at once, to the chamber where the portrait hangs,"
said Henry, "or will you partake of some refreshment first?"

"No refreshment for me," said Varney. "My dear friend, if you will
permit me to call you such, this is a time of the day at which I never
do take any refreshment."

"Nor at any other," thought Henry.

They all went to the chamber where Charles had passed one very
disagreeable night, and when they arrived, Henry pointed to the portrait
on the panel, saying--

"There, Sir Francis Varney, is your likeness."

He looked, and, having walked up to it, in an under tone, rather as if
he were conversing with himself than making a remark for any one else to
hear, he said--

"It is wonderfully like."

"It is, indeed," said Charles.

"If I stand beside it, thus," said Varney, placing himself in a
favourable attitude for comparing the two faces, "I dare say you will be
more struck with the likeness than before."

So accurate was it now, that the same light fell upon his face as that
under which the painter had executed the portrait, that all started back
a step or two.

"Some artists," remarked Varney, "have the sense to ask where a portrait
is to be hung before they paint it, and then they adapt their lights and
shadows to those which would fall upon the original, were it similarly
situated."

"I cannot stand this," said Charles to Henry; "I must question him
farther."

"As you please, but do not insult him."

"I will not."

"He is beneath my roof now, and, after all, it is but a hideous
suspicion we have of him."

"Rely upon me."

Charles stepped forward, and once again confronting Varney, with an
earnest gaze, he said--

"Do you know, sir, that Miss Bannerworth declares the vampyre she
fancies to have visited this chamber to be, in features, the exact
counterpart of this portrait?"

"Does she indeed?"

"She does, indeed."

"And perhaps, then, that accounts for her thinking that I am the
vampyre, because I bear a strong resemblance to the portrait."

"I should not be surprised," said Charles.

"How very odd."

"Very."

"And yet entertaining. I am rather amused than otherwise. The idea of
being a vampyre. Ha! ha! If ever I go to a masquerade again, I shall
certainly assume the character of a vampyre."

"You would do it well."

"I dare say, now, I should make quite a sensation."

"I am certain you would. Do you not think, gentlemen, that Sir Francis
Varney would enact the character to the very life? By Heavens, he would
do it so well that one might, without much difficulty, really imagine
him a vampyre."

"Bravo--bravo," said Varney, as he gently folded his hands together,
with that genteel applause that may even be indulged in in a box at the
opera itself. "Bravo. I like to see young persons enthusiastic; it looks
as if they had some of the real fire of genius in their composition.
Bravo--bravo."

This was, Charles thought, the very height and acme of impudence, and
yet what could he do? What could he say? He was foiled by the downright
coolness of Varney.

As for Henry, George, and Mr. Marchdale, they had listened to what was
passing between Sir Francis and Charles in silence. They feared to
diminish the effect of anything Charles might say, by adding a word of
their own; and, likewise, they did not wish to lose one observation that
might come from the lips of Varney.

But now Charles appeared to have said all he had to say, he turned to
the window and looked out. He seemed like a man who had made up his
mind, for a time, to give up some contest in which he had been engaged.

And, perhaps, not so much did he give it up from any feeling or
consciousness of being beaten, as from a conviction that it could be the
more effectually, at some other and far more eligible opportunity,
renewed.

Varney now addressed Henry, saying,--

"I presume the subject of our conference, when you did me the honour of
a call, is no secret to any one here?"

"None whatever," said Henry.

"Then, perhaps, I am too early in asking you if you have made up your
mind?"

"I have scarcely, certainly, had time to think."

"My dear sir, do not let me hurry you; I much regret, indeed, the
intrusion."

"You seem anxious to possess the Hall," remarked Mr. Marchdale, to
Varney.

"I am."

"Is it new to you?"

"Not quite. I have some boyish recollections connected with this
neighbourhood, among which Bannerworth Hall stands sufficiently
prominent."

"May I ask how long ago that was?" said Charles Howard, rather abruptly.

"I do not recollect, my enthusiastic young friend," said Varney. "How
old are you?"

"Just about twenty-one."

"You are, then, for your age, quite a model of discretion."

It would have been difficult for the most accurate observer of human
nature to have decided whether this was said truthfully or ironically,
so Charles made no reply to it whatever.

"I trust," said Henry, "we shall induce you, as this is your first
visit, Sir Francis Varney, to the Hall, to partake of some thing."

"Well, well, a cup of wine--"

"Is at your service."

Henry now led the way to a small parlour, which, although by no means
one of the showiest rooms of the house, was, from the care and exquisite
carving with which it abounded, much more to the taste of any who
possessed an accurate judgment in such works of art.

Then wine was ordered, and Charles took an opportunity of whispering to
Henry,--

"Notice well if he drinks."

"I will."

"Do you see that beneath his coat there is a raised place, as if his arm
was bound up?"

"I do."

"There, then, was where the bullet from the pistol fired by Flora, when
we were at the church, hit him."

"Hush! for God's sake, hush! you are getting into a dreadful state of
excitement, Charles; hush! hush!"

"And can you blame--"

"No, no; but what can we do?"

"You are right. Nothing can we do at present. We have a clue now, and be
it our mutual inclination, as well as duty, to follow it. Oh, you shall
see how calm I will be!"

"For Heaven's sake, be so. I have noted that his eyes flash upon yours
with no friendly feeling."

"His friendship were a curse."

"Hush! he drinks!"

"Watch him."

"I will."

"Gentlemen all," said Sir Francis Varney, in such soft, dulcet tones,
that it was quite a fascination to hear him speak; "gentlemen all, being
as I am, much delighted with your company, do not accuse me of
presumption, if I drink now, poor drinker as I am, to our future merry
meetings."

He raised the wine to his lips, and seemed to drink, after which he
replaced the glass upon the table.

Charles glanced at it, it was still full.

"You have not drank, Sir Francis Varney," he said.

"Pardon me, enthusiastic young sir," said Varney, "perhaps you will have
the liberality to allow me to take my wine how I please and when I
please."

"Your glass is full."

"Well, sir?"

"Will you drink it?"

"Not at any man's bidding, most certainly. If the fair Flora Bannerworth
would grace the board with her sweet presence, methinks I could then
drink on, on, on."

"Hark you, sir," cried Charles, "I can bear no more of this. We have had
in this house most horrible and damning evidence that there are such
things as vampyres."

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