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Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

T >> Thomas Preskett Prest >> Varney the Vampire




"All is still now."

"Yes; but unless I was dreaming there was a scream."

"We could not both dream there was. Where did you think it came from?"

"It burst so suddenly upon my ears that I cannot say."

There was a tap now at the door of the room where these young men were,
and a female voice said,--

"For God's sake, get up!"

"We are up," said both the young men, appearing.

"Did you hear anything?"

"Yes, a scream."

"Oh, search the house--search the house; where did it come from--can you
tell?"

"Indeed we cannot, mother."

Another person now joined the party. He was a man of middle age, and, as
he came up to them, he said,--

"Good God! what is the matter?"

Scarcely had the words passed his lips, than such a rapid succession of
shrieks came upon their ears, that they felt absolutely stunned by them.
The elderly lady, whom one of the young men had called mother, fainted,
and would have fallen to the floor of the corridor in which they all
stood, had she not been promptly supported by the last comer, who
himself staggered, as those piercing cries came upon the night air. He,
however, was the first to recover, for the young men seemed paralysed.

"Henry," he cried, "for God's sake support your mother. Can you doubt
that these cries come from Flora's room?"

The young man mechanically supported his mother, and then the man who
had just spoken darted back to his own bed-room, from whence he returned
in a moment with a pair of pistols, and shouting,--

"Follow me, who can!" he bounded across the corridor in the direction of
the antique apartment, from whence the cries proceeded, but which were
now hushed.

That house was built for strength, and the doors were all of oak, and of
considerable thickness. Unhappily, they had fastenings within, so that
when the man reached the chamber of her who so much required help, he
was helpless, for the door was fast.

"Flora! Flora!" he cried; "Flora, speak!"

All was still.

"Good God!" he added; "we must force the door."

"I hear a strange noise within," said the young man, who trembled
violently.

"And so do I. What does it sound like?"

"I scarcely know; but it nearest resembles some animal eating, or
sucking some liquid."

"What on earth can it be? Have you no weapon that will force the door? I
shall go mad if I am kept here."

"I have," said the young man. "Wait here a moment."

He ran down the staircase, and presently returned with a small, but
powerful, iron crow-bar.

"This will do," he said.

"It will, it will.--Give it to me."

"Has she not spoken?"

"Not a word. My mind misgives me that something very dreadful must have
happened to her."

"And that odd noise!"

"Still goes on. Somehow, it curdles the very blood in my veins to hear
it."

The man took the crow-bar, and with some difficulty succeeded in
introducing it between the door and the side of the wall--still it
required great strength to move it, but it did move, with a harsh,
crackling sound.

"Push it!" cried he who was using the bar, "push the door at the same
time."

The younger man did so. For a few moments the massive door resisted.
Then, suddenly, something gave way with a loud snap--it was a part of
the lock,--and the door at once swung wide open.

How true it is that we measure time by the events which happen within a
given space of it, rather than by its actual duration.

To those who were engaged in forcing open the door of the antique
chamber, where slept the young girl whom they named Flora, each moment
was swelled into an hour of agony; but, in reality, from the first
moment of the alarm to that when the loud cracking noise heralded the
destruction of the fastenings of the door, there had elapsed but very
few minutes indeed.

"It opens--it opens," cried the young man.

"Another moment," said the stranger, as he still plied the
crowbar--"another moment, and we shall have free ingress to the chamber.
Be patient."

This stranger's name was Marchdale; and even as he spoke, he succeeded
in throwing the massive door wide open, and clearing the passage to the
chamber.

To rush in with a light in his hand was the work of a moment to the
young man named Henry; but the very rapid progress he made into the
apartment prevented him from observing accurately what it contained, for
the wind that came in from the open window caught the flame of the
candle, and although it did not actually extinguish it, it blew it so
much on one side, that it was comparatively useless as a light.

"Flora--Flora!" he cried.

Then with a sudden bound something dashed from off the bed. The
concussion against him was so sudden and so utterly unexpected, as well
as so tremendously violent, that he was thrown down, and, in his fall,
the light was fairly extinguished.

All was darkness, save a dull, reddish kind of light that now and then,
from the nearly consumed mill in the immediate vicinity, came into the
room. But by that light, dim, uncertain, and flickering as it was, some
one was seen to make for the window.

Henry, although nearly stunned by his fall, saw a figure, gigantic in
height, which nearly reached from the floor to the ceiling. The other
young man, George, saw it, and Mr. Marchdale likewise saw it, as did the
lady who had spoken to the two young men in the corridor when first the
screams of the young girl awakened alarm in the breasts of all the
inhabitants of that house.

The figure was about to pass out at the window which led to a kind of
balcony, from whence there was an easy descent to a garden.

Before it passed out they each and all caught a glance of the side-face,
and they saw that the lower part of it and the lips were dabbled in
blood. They saw, too, one of those fearful-looking, shining, metallic
eyes which presented so terrible an appearance of unearthly ferocity.

No wonder that for a moment a panic seized them all, which paralysed any
exertions they might otherwise have made to detain that hideous form.

But Mr. Marchdale was a man of mature years; he had seen much of life,
both in this and in foreign lands; and he, although astonished to the
extent of being frightened, was much more likely to recover sooner than
his younger companions, which, indeed, he did, and acted promptly
enough.

"Don't rise, Henry," he cried. "Lie still."

Almost at the moment he uttered these words, he fired at the figure,
which then occupied the window, as if it were a gigantic figure set in a
frame.

The report was tremendous in that chamber, for the pistol was no toy
weapon, but one made for actual service, and of sufficient length and
bore of barrel to carry destruction along with the bullets that came
from it.

"If that has missed its aim," said Mr. Marchdale, "I'll never pull a
trigger again."

As he spoke he dashed forward, and made a clutch at the figure he felt
convinced he had shot.

The tall form turned upon him, and when he got a full view of the face,
which he did at that moment, from the opportune circumstance of the lady
returning at the instant with a light she had been to her own chamber to
procure, even he, Marchdale, with all his courage, and that was great,
and all his nervous energy, recoiled a step or two, and uttered the
exclamation of, "Great God!"

That face was one never to be forgotten. It was hideously flushed with
colour--the colour of fresh blood; the eyes had a savage and remarkable
lustre; whereas, before, they had looked like polished tin--they now
wore a ten times brighter aspect, and flashes of light seemed to dart
from them. The mouth was open, as if, from the natural formation of the
countenance, the lips receded much from the large canine looking teeth.

A strange howling noise came from the throat of this monstrous figure,
and it seemed upon the point of rushing upon Mr. Marchdale. Suddenly,
then, as if some impulse had seized upon it, it uttered a wild and
terrible shrieking kind of laugh; and then turning, dashed through the
window, and in one instant disappeared from before the eyes of those who
felt nearly annihilated by its fearful presence.

"God help us!" ejaculated Henry.

Mr. Marchdale drew a long breath, and then, giving a stamp on the floor,
as if to recover himself from the state of agitation into which even he
was thrown, he cried,--

"Be it what or who it may, I'll follow it"

"No--no--do not," cried the lady.

"I must, I will. Let who will come with me--I follow that dreadful
form."

As he spoke, he took the road it took, and dashed through the window
into the balcony.

"And we, too, George," exclaimed Henry; "we will follow Mr. Marchdale.
This dreadful affair concerns us more nearly than it does him."

The lady who was the mother of these young men, and of the beautiful
girl who had been so awfully visited, screamed aloud, and implored of
them to stay. But the voice of Mr. Marchdale was heard exclaiming
aloud,--

"I see it--I see it; it makes for the wall."

They hesitated no longer, but at once rushed into the balcony, and from
thence dropped into the garden.

The mother approached the bed-side of the insensible, perhaps the
murdered girl; she saw her, to all appearance, weltering in blood, and,
overcome by her emotions, she fainted on the floor of the room.

When the two young men reached the garden, they found it much lighter
than might have been fairly expected; for not only was the morning
rapidly approaching, but the mill was still burning, and those mingled
lights made almost every object plainly visible, except when deep
shadows were thrown from some gigantic trees that had stood for
centuries in that sweetly wooded spot. They heard the voice of Mr.
Marchdale, as he cried,--

"There--there--towards the wall. There--there--God! how it bounds
along."

The young men hastily dashed through a thicket in the direction from
whence his voice sounded, and then they found him looking wild and
terrified, and with something in his hand which looked like a portion of
clothing.

"Which way, which way?" they both cried in a breath.

He leant heavily on the arm of George, as he pointed along a vista of
trees, and said in a low voice,--

"God help us all. It is not human. Look there--look there--do you not
see it?"

They looked in the direction he indicated. At the end of this vista was
the wall of the garden. At that point it was full twelve feet in height,
and as they looked, they saw the hideous, monstrous form they had traced
from the chamber of their sister, making frantic efforts to clear the
obstacle.

Then they saw it bound from the ground to the top of the wall, which it
very nearly reached, and then each time it fell back again into the
garden with such a dull, heavy sound, that the earth seemed to shake
again with the concussion. They trembled--well indeed they might, and
for some minutes they watched the figure making its fruitless efforts to
leave the place.

"What--what is it?" whispered Henry, in hoarse accents. "God, what can
it possibly be?"

"I know not," replied Mr. Marchdale. "I did seize it. It was cold and
clammy like a corpse. It cannot be human."

"Not human?"

"Look at it now. It will surely escape now."

"No, no--we will not be terrified thus--there is Heaven above us. Come
on, and, for dear Flora's sake, let us make an effort yet to seize this
bold intruder."

"Take this pistol," said Marchdale. "It is the fellow of the one I
fired. Try its efficacy."

"He will be gone," exclaimed Henry, as at this moment, after many
repeated attempts and fearful falls, the figure reached the top of the
wall, and then hung by its long arms a moment or two, previous to
dragging itself completely up.

The idea of the appearance, be it what it might, entirely escaping,
seemed to nerve again Mr. Marchdale, and he, as well as the two young
men, ran forward towards the wall. They got so close to the figure
before it sprang down on the outer side of the wall, that to miss
killing it with the bullet from the pistol was a matter of utter
impossibility, unless wilfully.

Henry had the weapon, and he pointed it full at the tall form with a
steady aim. He pulled the trigger--the explosion followed, and that the
bullet did its office there could be no manner of doubt, for the figure
gave a howling shriek, and fell headlong from the wall on the outside.

"I have shot him," cried Henry, "I have shot him."




CHAPTER III.

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE BODY.--FLORA'S RECOVERY AND MADNESS.--THE OFFER
OF ASSISTANCE FROM SIR FRANCIS VARNEY.


[Illustration]

"He is human!" cried Henry; "I have surely killed him."

"It would seem so," said Mr. Marchdale. "Let us now hurry round to the
outside of the wall, and see where he lies."

This was at once agreed to, and the whole three of them made what
expedition they could towards a gate which led into a paddock, across
which they hurried, and soon found themselves clear of the garden wall,
so that they could make way towards where they fully expected to find
the body of him who had worn so unearthly an aspect, but who it would be
an excessive relief to find was human.

So hurried was the progress they made, that it was scarcely possible to
exchange many words as they went; a kind of breathless anxiety was upon
them, and in the speed they disregarded every obstacle, which would, at
any other time, have probably prevented them from taking the direct road
they sought.

It was difficult on the outside of the wall to say exactly which was the
precise spot which it might be supposed the body had fallen on; but, by
following the wall in its entire length, surely they would come upon it.

They did so; but, to their surprise, they got from its commencement to
its further extremity without finding any dead body, or even any
symptoms of one having lain there.

At some parts close to the wall there grew a kind of heath, and,
consequently, the traces of blood would be lost among it, if it so
happened that at the precise spot at which the strange being had seemed
to topple over, such vegetation had existed. This was to be ascertained;
but now, after traversing the whole length of the wall twice, they came
to a halt, and looked wonderingly in each other's faces.

"There is nothing here," said Harry.

"Nothing," added his brother.

"It could not have been a delusion," at length said Mr. Marchdale, with
a shudder.

"A delusion?" exclaimed the brother! "That is not possible; we all saw
it."

"Then what terrible explanation can we give?"

"By heavens! I know not," exclaimed Henry. "This adventure surpasses all
belief, and but for the great interest we have in it, I should regard it
with a world of curiosity."

"It is too dreadful," said George; "for God's sake, Henry, let us return
to ascertain if poor Flora is killed."

"My senses," said Henry, "were all so much absorbed in gazing at that
horrible form, that I never once looked towards her further than to see
that she was, to appearance, dead. God help her! poor--poor, beautiful
Flora. This is, indeed, a sad, sad fate for you to come to.
Flora--Flora--"

"Do not weep, Henry," said George. "Rather let us now hasten home, where
we may find that tears are premature. She may yet be living and restored
to us."

"And," said Mr. Marchdale, "she may be able to give us some account of
this dreadful visitation."

"True--true," exclaimed Henry; "we will hasten home."

They now turned their steps homeward, and as they went they much blamed
themselves for all leaving home together, and with terror pictured what
might occur in their absence to those who were now totally unprotected.

"It was a rash impulse of us all to come in pursuit of this dreadful
figure," remarked Mr. Marchdale; "but do not torment yourself, Henry.
There may be no reason for your fears."

At the pace they went, they very soon reached the ancient house, and
when they came in sight of it, they saw lights flashing from the
windows, and the shadows of faces moving to and fro, indicating that the
whole household was up, and in a state of alarm.

Henry, after some trouble, got the hall door opened by a terrified
servant, who was trembling so much that she could scarcely hold the
light she had with her.

"Speak at once, Martha," said Henry. "Is Flora living?"

"Yes; but--"

"Enough--enough! Thank God she lives; where is she now?"

"In her own room, Master Henry. Oh, dear--oh, dear, what will become of
us all?"

Henry rushed up the staircase, followed by George and Mr. Marchdale, nor
paused he once until he reached the room of his sister.

"Mother," he said, before he crossed the threshold, "are you here?"

"I am, my dear--I am. Come in, pray come in, and speak to poor Flora."

"Come in, Mr. Marchdale," said Henry--"come in; we make no stranger of
you."

They all then entered the room.

Several lights had been now brought into that antique chamber, and, in
addition to the mother of the beautiful girl who had been so fearfully
visited, there were two female domestics, who appeared to be in the
greatest possible fright, for they could render no assistance whatever
to anybody.

The tears were streaming down the mother's face, and the moment she saw
Mr. Marchdale, she clung to his arm, evidently unconscious of what she
was about, and exclaimed,--

"Oh, what is this that has happened--what is this? Tell me, Marchdale!
Robert Marchdale, you whom I have known even from my childhood, you will
not deceive me. Tell me the meaning of all this?"

"I cannot," he said, in a tone of much emotion. "As God is my judge, I
am as much puzzled and amazed at the scene that has taken place here
to-night as you can be."

The mother wrung her hands and wept.

"It was the storm that first awakened me," added Marchdale; "and then I
heard a scream."

The brothers tremblingly approached the bed. Flora was placed in a
sitting, half-reclining posture, propped up by pillows. She was quite
insensible, and her face was fearfully pale; while that she breathed at
all could be but very faintly seen. On some of her clothing, about the
neck, were spots of blood, and she looked more like one who had suffered
some long and grievous illness, than a young girl in the prime of life
and in the most robust health, as she had been on the day previous to
the strange scene we have recorded.

"Does she sleep?" said Henry, as a tear fell from his eyes upon her
pallid cheek.

"No," replied Mr. Marchdale. "This is a swoon, from which we must
recover her."

Active measures were now adopted to restore the languid circulation,
and, after persevering in them for some time, they had the satisfaction
of seeing her open her eyes.

Her first act upon consciousness returning, however, was to utter a loud
shriek, and it was not until Henry implored her to look around her, and
see that she was surrounded by none but friendly faces, that she would
venture again to open her eyes, and look timidly from one to the other.
Then she shuddered, and burst into tears as she said,--

"Oh, Heaven, have mercy upon me--Heaven, have mercy upon me, and save me
from that dreadful form."

"There is no one here, Flora," said Mr. Marchdale, "but those who love
you, and who, in defence of you, if needs were would lay down their
lives."

"Oh, God! Oh, God!"

"You have been terrified. But tell us distinctly what has happened? You
are quite safe now."

[Illustration]

She trembled so violently that Mr. Marchdale recommended that some
stimulant should be given to her, and she was persuaded, although not
without considerable difficulty, to swallow a small portion of some wine
from a cup. There could be no doubt but that the stimulating effect of
the wine was beneficial, for a slight accession of colour visited her
cheeks, and she spoke in a firmer tone as she said,--

"Do not leave me. Oh, do not leave me, any of you. I shall die if left
alone now. Oh, save me--save me. That horrible form! That fearful face!"

"Tell us how it happened, dear Flora?" said Henry.

"Or would you rather endeavour to get some sleep first?" suggested Mr.
Marchdale.

"No--no--no," she said, "I do not think I shall ever sleep again."

"Say not so; you will be more composed in a few hours, and then you can
tell us what has occurred."

"I will tell you now. I will tell you now."

She placed her hands over her face for a moment, as if to collect her
scattered, thoughts, and then she added,--

"I was awakened by the storm, and I saw that terrible apparition at the
window. I think I screamed, but I could not fly. Oh, God! I could not
fly. It came--it seized me by the hair. I know no more. I know no more."

She passed her hand across her neck several times, and Mr. Marchdale
said, in an anxious voice,--

"You seem, Flora, to have hurt your neck--there is a wound."

"A wound!" said the mother, and she brought a light close to the bed,
where all saw on the side of Flora's neck a small punctured wound; or,
rather two, for there was one a little distance from the other.

It was from these wounds the blood had come which was observable upon
her night clothing.

"How came these wounds?" said Henry.

"I do not know," she replied. "I feel very faint and weak, as if I had
almost bled to death."

"You cannot have done so, dear Flora, for there are not above
half-a-dozen spots of blood to be seen at all."

Mr. Marchdale leaned against the carved head of the bed for support, and
he uttered a deep groan. All eyes were turned upon him, and Henry said,
in a voice of the most anxious inquiry,--

"You have something to say, Mr. Marchdale, which will throw some light
upon this affair."

"No, no, no, nothing!" cried Mr. Marchdale, rousing himself at once from
the appearance of depression that had come over him. "I have nothing to
say, but that I think Flora had better get some sleep if she can."

"No sleep-no sleep for me," again screamed Flora. "Dare I be alone to
sleep?"

"But you shall not be alone, dear Flora," said Henry. "I will sit by
your bedside and watch you."

She took his hand in both hers, and while the tears chased each other
down her cheeks, she said,--

"Promise me, Henry, by all your hopes of Heaven, you will not leave me."

"I promise!"

She gently laid herself down, with a deep sigh, and closed her eyes.

"She is weak, and will sleep long," said Mr. Marchdale.

"You sigh," said Henry. "Some fearful thoughts, I feel certain, oppress
your heart."

"Hush-hush!" said Mr. Marchdale, as he pointed to Flora. "Hush! not
here--not here."

"I understand," said Henry.

"Let her sleep."

There was a silence of some few minutes duration. Flora had dropped into
a deep slumber. That silence was first broken by George, who said,--

"Mr. Marchdale, look at that portrait."

He pointed to the portrait in the frame to which we have alluded, and
the moment Marchdale looked at it he sunk into a chair as he
exclaimed,--

"Gracious Heaven, how like!"

"It is--it is," said Henry. "Those eyes--"

"And see the contour of the countenance, and the strange shape of the
mouth."

"Exact--exact."

"That picture shall be moved from here. The sight of it is at once
sufficient to awaken all her former terrors in poor Flora's brain if she
should chance to awaken and cast her eyes suddenly upon it."

"And is it so like him who came here?" said the mother.

"It is the very man himself," said Mr. Marchdale. "I have not been in
this house long enough to ask any of you whose portrait that may be?"

"It is," said Henry, "the portrait of Sir Runnagate Bannerworth, an
ancestor of ours, who first, by his vices, gave the great blow to the
family prosperity."

"Indeed. How long ago?"

"About ninety years."

"Ninety years. 'Tis a long while--ninety years."

"You muse upon it."

"No, no. I do wish, and yet I dread--"

"What?"

"To say something to you all. But not here--not here. We will hold a
consultation on this matter to-morrow. Not now--not now."

"The daylight is coming quickly on," said Henry; "I shall keep my sacred
promise of not moving from this room until Flora awakens; but there can
be no occasion for the detention of any of you. One is sufficient here.
Go all of you, and endeavour to procure what rest you can."

"I will fetch you my powder-flask and bullets," said Mr. Marchdale; "and
you can, if you please, reload the pistols. In about two hours more it
will be broad daylight."

This arrangement was adopted. Henry did reload the pistols, and placed
them on a table by the side of the bed, ready for immediate action, and
then, as Flora was sleeping soundly, all left the room but himself.

Mrs. Bannerworth was the last to do so. She would have remained, but for
the earnest solicitation of Henry, that she would endeavour to get some
sleep to make up for her broken night's repose, and she was indeed so
broken down by her alarm on Flora's account, that she had not power to
resist, but with tears flowing from her eyes, she sought her own
chamber.

And now the calmness of the night resumed its sway in that evil-fated
mansion; and although no one really slept but Flora, all were still.
Busy thought kept every one else wakeful. It was a mockery to lie down
at all, and Henry, full of strange and painful feelings as he was,
preferred his present position to the anxiety and apprehension on
Flora's account which he knew he should feel if she were not within the
sphere of his own observation, and she slept as soundly as some gentle
infant tired of its playmates and its sports.

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