Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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They had barely any conversation, simply a civil word when they first
met, and so forth; but there was little or no conversation of any kind
between them.

The stranger slept upon deck, and lived upon deck entirely; he never
once went below after we saw him, and his own account of being below so
long.

This was very well, but the night-watch did not enjoy his society, and
would have willingly dispensed with it at that hour so particularly
lonely and dejected upon the broad ocean, and perhaps a thousand miles
away from the nearest point of land.

At this dread and lonely hour, when no sound reaches the ear and
disturbs the wrapt stillness of the night, save the whistling of the
wind through the cordage, or an occasional dash of water against the
vessel's side, the thoughts of the sailor are fixed on far distant
objects--his own native land and the friends and loved ones he has left
behind him.

He then thinks of the wilderness before, behind, and around him; of the
immense body of water, almost in places bottomless; gazing upon such a
scene, and with thoughts as strange and indefinite as the very
boundless expanse before him, it is no wonder if he should become
superstitious; the time and place would, indeed unbidden, conjure up
thoughts and feelings of a fearful character and intensity.

The stranger at such times would occupy his favourite seat on the water
cask, and looking up at the sky and then on the ocean, and between
whiles he would whistle a strange, wild, unknown melody.

The flesh of the sailors used to creep up in knots and bumps when they
heard it; the wind used to whistle as an accompaniment and pronounce
fearful sounds to their ears.

The wind had been highly favourable from the first, and since the
stranger had been discovered it had blown fresh, and we went along at a
rapid rate, stemming the water, and dashing the spray off from the bows,
and cutting the water like a shark.

This was very singular to us, we couldn't understand it, neither could
the captain, and we looked very suspiciously at the stranger, and wished
him at the bottom, for the freshness of the wind now became a gale, and
yet the ship came through the water steadily, and away we went before
the wind, as if the devil drove us; and mind I don't mean to say he
didn't.

The gale increased to a hurricane, and though we had not a stitch of
canvass out, yet we drove before the gale as if we had been shot out of
the mouth of a gun.

The stranger still sat on the water casks, and all night long he kept up
his infernal whistle. Now, sailors don't like to hear any one whistle
when there's such a gale blowing over their heads--it's like asking for
more; but he would persist, and the louder and stronger the wind blew,
the louder he whistled.

At length there came a storm of rain, lightning, and wind. We were
tossed mountains high, and the foam rose over the vessel, and often
entirely over our heads, and the men were lashed to their posts to
prevent being washed away.

But the stranger still lay on the water casks, kicking his heels and
whistling his infernal tune, always the same. He wasn't washed away nor
moved by the action of the water; indeed, we heartily hoped and expected
to see both him and the water cask floated overboard at every minute;
but, as the captain said,--

"Confound the binnacle! the old water tub seems as if it were screwed on
to the deck, and won't move off and he on the top of it."

There was a strong inclination to throw him overboard, and the men
conversed in low whispers, and came round the captain, saying,--

"We have come, captain, to ask you what you think of this strange man
who has come so mysteriously on board?"

"I can't tell what to think, lads; he's past thinking about--he's
something above my comprehension altogether, I promise you."

"Well, then, we are thinking much of the same thing, captain."

"What do you mean?"

"That he ain't exactly one of our sort."

"No, he's no sailor, certainly; and yet, for a land lubber, he's about
as rum a customer as ever I met with."

"So he is, sir."

"He stands salt water well; and I must say that I couldn't lay a top of
those water casks in that style very well."

"Nor nobody amongst us, sir."

"Well, then, he's in nobody's way, it he?--nobody wants to take his
berth, I suppose?"

The men looked at each other somewhat blank; they didn't understand the
meaning at all--far from it; and the idea of any one's wanting to take
the stranger's place on the water casks was so outrageously ludicrous,
that at any other time they would have considered it a devilish good
joke and have never ceased laughing at it.

He paused some minutes, and then one of them said,--

"It isn't that we envy him his berth, captain, 'cause nobody else could
live there for a moment. Any one amongst us that had been there would
have been washed overboard a thousand times over."

"So they would," said the captain.

"Well, sir, he's more than us."

"Very likely; but how can I help that?"

"We think he's the main cause of all this racket in the heavens--the
storm and hurricane; and that, in short, if he remains much longer we
shall all sink."

"I am sorry for it. I don't think we are in any danger, and had the
strange being any power to prevent it, he would assuredly do so, lest he
got drowned."

"But we think if he were thrown overboard all would be well."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, captain, you may depend upon it he's the cause of all the
mischief. Throw him overboard and that's all we want."

"I shall not throw him overboard, even if I could do such a thing; and I
am by no means sure of anything of the kind."

"We do not ask it, sir."

"What do you desire?"

"Leave to throw him overboard--it is to save our own lives."

"I can't let you do any such thing; he's in nobody's way."

"But he's always a whistling. Only hark now, and in such a hurricane as
this, it is dreadful to think of it. What else can we do, sir?--he's not
human."

At this moment, the stranger's whistling came clear upon their ears;
there was the same wild, unearthly notes as before, but the cadences
were stronger, and there was a supernatural clearness in all the tones.

"There now," said another, "he's kicking the water cask with his heels."

"Confound the binnacle!" said the captain; "it sounds like short peals
of thunder. Go and talk to him, lads."

"And if that won't do, sir, may we--"

"Don't ask me any questions. I don't think a score of the best men that
were ever born could move him."

"I don't mind trying," said one.

Upon this the whole of the men moved to the spot where the water casks
were standing and the stranger lay.

There was he, whistling like fury, and, at the same time, beating his
heels to the tune against the empty casks. We came up to him, and he
took no notice of us at all, but kept on in the same way.

"Hilloa!" shouted one.

"Hilloa!" shouted another.

No notice, however, was taken of us, and one of our number, a big,
herculean fellow, an Irishman, seized him by the leg, either to make him
get up, or, as we thought, to give him a lift over our heads into the
sea.

However, he had scarcely got his fingers round the calf of the leg, when
the stranger pinched his leg so tight against the water cask, that he
could not move, and was as effectually pinned as if he had been nailed
there. The stranger, after he had finished a bar of the music, rose
gradually to a sitting posture, and without the aid of his hands, and
looking the unlucky fellow in the face, he said,--

"Well, what do you want?"

"My hand," said the fellow.

"Take it then," he said.

He did take it, and we saw that there was blood on it.

The stranger stretched out his left hand, and taking him by the breech,
he lifted him, without any effort, upon the water-cask beside him.

We all stared at this, and couldn't help it; and we were quite convinced
we could not throw him overboard, but he would probably have no
difficulty in throwing us overboard.

"Well, what do you want?" he again exclaimed to us all.

We looked at one another, and had scarce courage to speak; at length I
said,--

"We wish you to leave off whistling."

"Leave off whistling!" he said. "And why should I do anything of the
kind?"

"Because it brings the wind."

"Ha! ha! why, that's the very reason I am whistling, to bring the wind."

"But we don't want so much."

"Pho! pho! you don't know what's good for you--it's a beautiful breeze,
and not a bit too stiff."

"It's a hurricane."

"Nonsense."

"But it is."

"Now you see how I'll prove you are wrong in a minute. You see my hair,
don't you?" he said, after he took off his cap. "Very well, look now."

He got up on the water-cask, and stood bolt upright; and running his
fingers through his hair, made it all stand straight on end.

"Confound the binnacle!" said the captain, "if ever I saw the like."

"There," said the stranger, triumphantly, "don't tell me there's any
wind to signify; don't you see, it doesn't even move one of my grey
hairs; and if it blew as hard as you say, I am certain it would move a
hair."

"Confound the binnacle!" muttered the captain as he walked away. "D--n
the cabouse, if he ain't older than I am--he's too many for me and
everybody else."

"Are you satisfied?"

What could we say?--we turned away and left the place, and stood at our
quarters--there was no help for it--we were impelled to grin and abide
by it.

[Illustration]

As soon as we had left the place he put his cap on again and sat down on
the water-casks, and then took leave of his prisoner, whom he set free,
and there lay at full length on his back, with his legs hanging down.
Once more he began to whistle most furiously, and beat time with his
feet.

For full three weeks did he continue at this game night and day, without
any interruption, save such as he required to consume enough coffee
royal, junk, and biscuit, as would have served three hearty men.

Well, about that time, one night the whistling ceased and he began to
sing--oh! it was singing--such a voice! Gog and Magog in Guildhall,
London, when they spoke were nothing to him--it was awful; but the wind
calmed down to a fresh and stiff breeze. He continued at this game for
three whole days and nights, and on the fourth it ceased, and when we
went to take his coffee royal to him he was gone.

We hunted about everywhere, but he was entirely gone, and in three weeks
after we safely cast anchor, having performed our voyage in a good month
under the usual time; and had it been an old vessel she would have
leaked and stinted like a tub from the straining; however, we were glad
enough to get in, and were curiously inquisitive as to what was put in
our vessel to come back with, for as the captain said,--

"Confound the binnacle! I'll have no more contraband articles if I can
help it."

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE MEETING BY MOONLIGHT IN THE PARK.--THE TURRET WINDOW IN THE
HALL.--THE LETTERS.

[Illustration]

The old admiral showed such a strong disposition to take offence at
Charles if he should presume, for a moment, to doubt the truth of the
narrative that was thus communicated to him, that the latter would not
anger him by so doing, but confined his observations upon it to saying
that he considered it was very wonderful, and very extraordinary, and so
on, which very well satisfied the old man.

The day was now, however, getting far advanced, and Charles Holland
began to think of his engagement with the vampyre. He read and read the
letter over and over again, but he could not come to a correct
conclusion as to whether it intended to imply that he, Sir Francis
Varney, would wish to fight him at the hour and place mentioned, or
merely give him a meeting as a preliminary step.

He was rather, on the whole, inclined to think that some explanation
would be offered by Varney, but at all events he persevered in his
determination of going well armed, lest anything in the shape of
treachery should be intended.

As nothing of any importance occurred now in the interval of time till
nearly midnight, we will at once step to that time, and our readers will
suppose it to be a quarter to twelve o'clock at night, and young Charles
Holland on the point of leaving the house, to keep his appointment by
the pollard oak, with the mysterious Sir Francis Varney.

He placed his loaded pistols conveniently in his pocket, so that at a
moment's notice he could lay hands on them, and then wrapping himself up
in a travelling cloak he had brought with him to Bannerworth Hall, he
prepared to leave his chamber.

The moon still shone, although now somewhat on the wane, and although
there were certainly many clouds in the sky they were but of a light
fleecy character, and very little interrupted the rays of light that
came from the nearly full disc of the moon.

From his window he could not perceive the spot in the park where he was
to meet Varney, because the room in which he was occupied not a
sufficiently high place in the house to enable him to look over a belt
of trees that stopped the view. From almost any of the upper windows the
pollard oak could be seen.

It so happened now that the admiral had been placed in a room
immediately above the one occupied by his nephew, and, as his mind was
full of how he should manage with regard to arranging the preliminaries
of the duel between Charles and Varney on the morrow, he found it
difficult to sleep; and after remaining in bed about twenty minutes, and
finding that each moment he was only getting more and more restless, he
adopted a course which he always did under such circumstances.

He rose and dressed himself again, intending to sit up for an hour and
then turn into bed and try a second time to get to sleep. But he had no
means of getting a light, so he drew the heavy curtain from before the
window, and let in as much of the moonlight as he could.

This window commanded a most beautiful and extensive view, for from it
the eye could carry completely over the tops of the tallest trees, so
that there was no interruption whatever to the prospect, which was as
extensive as it was delightful.

Even the admiral, who never would confess to seeing much beauty in
scenery where water formed not a large portion of it, could not resist
opening his window and looking out, with a considerable degree of
admiration, upon wood and dale, as they were illuminated by the moon's
rays, softened, and rendered, if anything, more beautiful by the light
vapours, through which they had to struggle to make their way.

Charles Holland, in order to avoid the likelihood of meeting with any
one who would question him as to where he was going, determined upon
leaving his room by the balcony, which, as we are aware, presented ample
facilities for his so doing.

He cast a glance at the portrait in the panel before he left the
apartment, and then saying,--

"For you, dear Flora, for you I essay this meeting with the fearful
original of that portrait," he immediately opened his window, and
stepped out on to the balcony.

Young and active as was Charles Holland, to descend from that balcony
presented to him no difficulty whatever, and he was, in a very few
moments, safe in the garden of Bannerworth Hall.

He never thought, for a moment, to look up, or he would, in an instant,
have seen the white head of his old uncle, as it was projected over the
sill of the window of his chamber.

The drop of Charles from the balcony of his window, just made sufficient
noise to attract the admiral's attention, and, then, before he could
think of making any alarm, he saw Charles walking hastily across a grass
plot, which was sufficiently in the light of the moon to enable the
admiral at once to recognise him, and leave no sort of doubt as to his
positive identity.

Of course, upon discovering that it was Charles, the necessity for
making an alarm no longer existed, and, indeed, not knowing what it was
that had induced him to leave his chamber, a moment's reflection
suggested to him the propriety of not even calling to Charles, lest he
should defeat some discovery which he might be about to make.

"He has heard something, or seen something," thought the admiral, "and
is gone to find out what it is. I only wish I was with him; but up here
I can do nothing at all, that's quite clear."

Charles, he saw, walked very rapidly, and like a man who has some fixed
destination which he wishes to reach as quickly as possible.

When he dived among the trees which skirted one side of the flower
gardens, the admiral was more puzzled than ever, and he said--

"Now where on earth is he off to? He is fully dressed, and has his cloak
about him."

After a few moments' reflection he decided that, having seen something
suspicious, Charles must have got up, and dressed himself, to fathom it.

The moment this idea became fairly impressed upon his mind, he left his
bedroom, and descended to where one of the brothers he knew was sitting
up, keeping watch during the night. It was Henry who was so on guard;
and when the admiral came into the room, he uttered an expression of
surprise to find him up, for it was now some time past twelve o'clock.

"I have come to tell you that Charles has left the house," said the
admiral.

"Left the house?"

"Yes; I saw him just now go across the garden."

"And you are sure it was he?"

"Quite sure. I saw him by the moonlight cross the green plot."

"Then you may depend he has seen or heard something, and gone alone to
find out what it is rather than give any alarm."

"That is just what I think."

"It must be so. I will follow him, if you can show me exactly which way
he went."

"That I can easily. And in case I should have made any mistake, which it
is not at all likely, we can go to his room first and see if it is
empty."

"A good thought, certainly; that will at once put an end to all doubt
upon the question."

They both immediately proceeded to Charles's room, and then the
admiral's accuracy of identification of his nephew was immediately
proved by finding that Charles was not there, and that the window was
wide open.

"You see I am right," said the admiral.

"You are," cried Henry; "but what have we here?"

"Where?"

"Here on the dressing-table. Here are no less than three letters, all
laid as it on purpose to catch the eye of the first one who might enter
the room."

"Indeed!"

"You perceive them?"

Henry held them to the light, and after a moment's inspection of them,
he said, in a voice of much surprise,--

"Good God! what is the meaning of this?"

"The meaning of what?"

"The letters are addressed to parties in the house here. Do you not
see?"

"To whom?"

"One to Admiral Bell--"

"The deuce!"

"Another to me, and the third to my sister Flora. There is some new
mystery here."

The admiral looked at the superscription of one of the letters which was
handed to him in silent amazement. Then he cried,--

"Set down the light, and let us read them."

Henry did so, and then they simultaneously opened the epistles which
were severally addressed to them. There was a silence, as of the very
grave, for some moments, and then the old admiral staggered to a seat,
as he exclaimed,--

"Am I dreaming--am I dreaming?"

"Is this possible?" said Henry, in a voice of deep emotion, as he
allowed the note addressed to him to drop on to the floor.

"D--n it, what does yours say?" cried the old admiral, in a louder tone.

"Read it--what says yours?"

"Read it--I'm amazed."

The letters were exchanged, and read by each with the same breathless
attention they had bestowed upon their own; after which, they both
looked at each other in silence, pictures of amazement, and the most
absolute state of bewilderment.

Not to keep our readers in suspense, we at once transcribe each of these
letters.

The one to the admiral contained these words,--

"MY DEAR UNCLE,

"Of course you will perceive the prudence of keeping this letter
to yourself, but the fact is, I have now made up my mind to leave
Bannerworth Hall.

"Flora Bannerworth is not now the person she was when first I
knew her and loved her. Such being the case, and she having
altered, not I, she cannot accuse me of fickleness.

"I still love the Flora Bannerworth I first knew, but I cannot
make my wife one who is subject to the visitations of a vampyre.

"I have remained here long enough now to satisfy myself that this
vampyre business is no delusion. I am quite convinced that it is
a positive fact, and that, after death, Flora will herself become
one of the horrible existences known by that name.

"I will communicate to you from the first large city on the
continent whither I am going, at which I make any stay, and in
the meantime, make what excuses you like at Bannerworth Hall,
which I advise you to leave as quickly as you can, and believe me
to be, my dear uncle, yours truly,

"CHARLES HOLLAND."

Henry's letter was this:--

"MY DEAR SIR,

"If you calmly and dispassionately consider the painful and
distressing circumstances in which your family are placed, I am
sure that, far from blaming me for the step which this note will
announce to you I have taken, you will be the first to give me
credit for acting with an amount of prudence and foresight which
was highly necessary under the circumstances.

"If the supposed visits of a vampyre to your sister Flora had
turned out, as first I hoped they would, a delusion and been
in any satisfactory manner explained away I should certainly have
felt pride and pleasure in fulfilling my engagement to that young
lady.

"You must, however, yourself feel that the amount of evidence in
favour of a belief that an actual vampyre has visited Flora,
enforces a conviction of its truth.

"I cannot, therefore, make her my wife under such very singular
circumstances.

"Perhaps you may blame me for not taking at once advantage of the
permission given me to forego my engagement when first I came to
your house; but the fact is, I did not then in the least believe
in the existence of the vampyre, but since a positive conviction
of that most painful fact has now forced itself upon me, I beg to
decline the honour of an alliance which I had at one time looked
forward to with the most considerable satisfaction.

"I shall be on the continent as fast as conveyances can take me,
therefore, should you entertain any romantic notions of calling
me to an account for a course of proceeding I think perfectly and
fully justifiable, you will not find me.

"Accept the assurances of my respect for yourself and pity for
your sister, and believe me to be, my dear sir, your sincere
friend,

"CHARLES HOLLAND."

These two letters might well make the admiral stare at Henry
Bannerworth, and Henry stare at him.

An occurrence so utterly and entirely unexpected by both of them, was
enough to make them doubt the evidence of their own senses. But there
were the letters, as a damning evidence of the outrageous fact, and
Charles Holland was gone.

It was the admiral who first recovered from the stunning effect of the
epistles, and he, with a gesture of perfect fury, exclaimed,--

"The scoundrel--the cold-blooded villain! I renounce him for ever! he is
no nephew of mine; he is some d----d imposter! Nobody with a dash of my
family blood in his veins would have acted so to save himself from a
thousand deaths."

"Who shall we trust now," said Henry, "when those whom we take to our
inmost hearts deceive us thus? This is the greatest shock I have yet
received. If there be a pang greater than another, surely it is to be
found in the faithlessness and heartlessness of one we loved and
trusted."

"He is a scoundrel!" roared the admiral. "D--n him, he'll die on a
dunghill, and that's too good a place for him. I cast him off--I'll find
him out, and old as I am, I'll fight him--I'll wring his neck, the
rascal; and, as for poor dear Miss Flora, God bless her! I'll--I'll
marry her myself, and make her an admiral.--I'll marry her myself. Oh,
that I should be uncle to such a rascal!"

"Calm yourself," said Henry, "no one can blame you."

"Yes, you can; I had no right to be his uncle, and I was an old fool to
love him."

The old man sat down, and his voice became broken with emotion as he
said,--

"Sir, I tell you I would have died willingly rather than this should
have happened. This will kill me now,--I shall die now of shame and
grief."

Tears gushed from the admiral's eyes and the sight of the noble old
man's emotion did much to calm the anger of Henry which, although he
said but little, was boiling at his heart like a volcano.

"Admiral Bell," he said, "you have nothing to do with this business; we
can not blame you for the heartlessness of another. I have but one
favour to ask of you."

"What--what can I do?"

"Say no more about him at all."

"I can't help saying something about him. You ought to turn me out of
the house."