Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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Then all was still again. Silence resumed its reign, and if there had
been a mortal ear to drink in that sudden sound, the mind might well
have doubted if fancy had not more to do with the matter than reality.

From out a portion of the ruins that was enveloped in the deepest gloom,
there now glides a figure. It is of gigantic height, and it moves along
with a slow and measured tread. An ample mantle envelopes the form,
which might well have been taken for the spirit of one of the monks who,
centuries since, had made that place their home.

It walked the whole length of the ample hall we have alluded to, and
then, at the window from which had streamed the long flood of many
coloured light, it paused.

For more than ten minutes this mysterious looking figure there stood.

At length there passed something on the outside of the window, that
looked like the shadow of a human form.

Then the tall, mysterious, apparition-looking man turned, and sought a
side entrance to the hall.

Then he paused, and, in about a minute, he was joined by another who
must have been he who had so recently passed the stained glass window on
the outer side.

There was a friendly salutation between these two beings, and they
walked to the centre of the hall, where they remained for some time in
animated conversation.

From the gestures they used, it was evident that the subject of their
discourse was one of deep and absorbing interest to both. It was one,
too, upon which, after a time, they seemed a little to differ, and more
than once they each assumed attitudes of mutual defiance.

This continued until the sun had so completely sunk, that twilight was
beginning sensibly to wane, and then gradually the two men appeared to
have come to a better understanding, and whatever might be the subject
of their discourse, there was some positive result evidently arrived at
now.

They spoke in lower tones. They used less animated gestures than before;
and, after a time, they both walked slowly down the hull towards the
dark spot from whence the first tall figure had so mysteriously emerged.

* * * * *

There it a dungeon--damp and full of the most unwholesome
exhalations--deep under ground it seems, and, in its excavations, it
would appear as if some small land springs had been liberated, for the
earthen floor was one continued extent of moisture.

From the roof, too, came perpetually the dripping of water, which fell
with sullen, startling splashes in the pool below.

At one end, and near to the roof,--so near that to reach it, without the
most efficient means from the inside, was a matter of positive
impossibility--is a small iron grating, and not much larger than might
be entirely obscured by any human face that might be close to it from
the outside of the dungeon.

That dreadful abode is tenanted. In one corner, on a heap of straw,
which appears freshly to have been cast into the place, lies a hopeless
prisoner.

It is no great stretch of fancy to suppose, that it is from his lips
came the sound of terror and of woe that had disturbed the repose of
that lonely spot.

The prisoner is lying on his back; a rude bandage round his head, on
which were numerous spots of blood, would seem to indicate that he had
suffered personal injury in some recent struggle. His eyes were open.
They were fixed desparingly, perhaps unconsciously, upon that small
grating which looked into the upper world.

That grating slants upwards, and looks to the west, so that any one
confined in that dreary dungeon might be tantalized, on a sweet summer's
day, by seeing the sweet blue sky, and occasionally the white clouds
flitting by in that freedom which he cannot hope for.

The carol of a bird, too, might reach him there. Alas! sad remembrance
of life, and joy, and liberty.

But now all is deepening gloom. The prisoner sees nothing--hears
nothing; and the sky is not quite dark. That small grating looks like a
strange light-patch in the dungeon wall.

Hark! some footstep sounds upon his ear. The creaking of a door
follows--a gleam of light shines into the dungeon, and the tall
mysterious-looking figure in the cloak stands before the occupant of
that wretched place.

Then comes in the other man, and he carries in his hand writing
materials. He stoops to the stone couch on which the prisoner lies, and
offers him a pen, as he raises him partially from the miserable damp
pallet.

But there is no speculation in the eyes of that oppressed man. In vain
the pen is repeatedly placed in his grasp, and a document of some
length, written on parchment, spread out before him to sign. In vain is
he held up now by both the men, who have thus mysteriously sought him in
his dungeon; he has not power to do as they would wish him. The pen
falls from his nerveless grasp, and, with a deep sigh, when they cease
to hold him up, he falls heavily back upon the stone couch.

Then the two men looked at each other for about a minute silently; after
which he who was the shorter of the two raised one hand, and, in a voice
of such concentrated hatred and passion as was horrible to hear, he
said,--

"D--n!"

The reply of the other was a laugh; and then he took the light from the
floor, and motioned the one who seemed so little able to control his
feelings of bitterness and disappointment to leave the place with him.

With a haste and vehemence, then, which showed how much angered he was,
the shorter man of the two now rolled up the parchment, and placed it in
a breast-pocket of his coat.

He cast a withering look of intense hatred on the form of the
nearly-unconscious prisoner, and then prepared to follow the other.

But when they reached the door of the dungeon, the taller man of the two
paused, and appeared for a moment or two to be in deep thought; after
which he handed the lamp he carried to his companion, and approached the
pallet of the prisoner.

He took from his pocket a small bottle, and, raising the head of the
feeble and wounded man, he poured some portion of the contents into his
mouth, and watched him swallow it.

The other looked on in silence, and then they both slowly left the
dreary dungeon.

* * *

The wind rose, and the night had deepened into the utmost darkness. The
blackness of a night, unillumined by the moon, which would not now rise
for some hours, was upon the ancient ruins. All was calm and still, and
no one would have supposed that aught human was within those ancient,
dreary looking walls.

Time will show who it was who lay in that unwholesome dungeon, as well
as who were they who visited him so mysteriously, and retired again with
feelings of such evident disappointment with the document it seemed of
such importance, at least to one of them, to get that unconscious man to
sign.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE VISIT OF FLORA TO THE VAMPYRE.--THE OFFER.--THE SOLEMN ASSEVERATION.

[Illustration]

Admiral Bell had, of course, nothing particular to communicate to Flora
in the walk he induced her to take with him in the gardens of
Bannerworth Hall, but he could talk to her upon a subject which was sure
to be a welcome one, namely, of Charles Holland.

And not only could he talk to her of Charles, but he was willing to talk
of him in the style of enthusiastic commendation which assimilated best
with her own feelings. No one but the honest old admiral, who was as
violent in his likes and his dislikes as any one could possibly be,
could just then have conversed with Flora Bannerworth to her
satisfaction of Charles Holland.

He expressed no doubts whatever concerning Charles's faith, and to his
mind, now that he had got that opinion firmly fixed in his mind,
everybody that held a contrary one he at once denounced as a fool or a
rogue.

"Never you mind, Miss Flora," he said; "you will find, I dare say, that
all will come right eventually. D--n me! the only thing that provokes me
in the whole business is, that I should have been such an old fool as
for a moment to doubt Charles."

"You should have known him better, sir."

"I should, my dear, but I was taken by surprise, you see, and that was
wrong, too, for a man who has held a responsible command."

"But the circumstances, dear sir, were of a nature to take every one by
surprise."

"They were, they were. But now, candidly speaking, and I know I can
speak candidly to you; do you really think this Varney is the vampyre?"

"I do."

"You do? Well, then, somebody must tackle him, that's quite clear; we
can't put up with his fancies always."

"What can be done?"

"Ah, that I don't know, but something must be done, you know. He wants
this place; Heaven only knows why or wherefore he has taken such a fancy
to it; but he has done so, that is quite clear. If it had a good sea
view, I should not be so much surprised; but there's nothing of the
sort, so it's no way at all better than any other shore-going stupid
sort of house, that you can see nothing but land from."

"Oh, if my brother would but make some compromise with him to restore
Charles to us and take the house, we might yet be happy."

"D--n it! then you still think that he has a hand in spiriting away
Charles?"

"Who else could do so?"

"I'll be hanged if I know. I do feel tolerably sure, and I have good
deal of reliance upon your opinion, my dear; I say, I do feel tolerably
sure: but, if I was d----d sure, now, I'd soon have it out of him."

"For my sake, Admiral Bell, I wish now to extract one promise from you."

"Say your say, my dear, and I'll promise you."

"You will not then expose yourself to the danger of any personal
conflict with that most dreadful man, whose powers of mischief we do not
know, and therefore cannot well meet or appreciate."

"Whew! is that what you mean?"

"Yes; you will, I am sure, promise me so much."

"Why, my dear, you see the case is this. In affairs of fighting, the
less ladies interfere the better."

"Nay, why so?"

"Because--because, you see, a lady has no reputation for courage to keep
up. Indeed, it's rather the other way, for we dislike a bold woman as
much as we hold in contempt a cowardly man."

"But if you grant to us females that in consequence of our affections,
we are not courageous, you must likewise grant how much we are doomed to
suffer from the dangers of those whom we esteem."

"You would be the last person in the world to esteem a coward."

"Certainly. But there is more true courage often in not fighting than in
entering into a contest."

"You are right enough there, my dear."

"Under ordinary circumstances, I should not oppose your carrying out the
dictates of your honour, but now, let me entreat you not to meet this
dreadful man, if man he can be called, when you know not how unfair the
contest may be."

"Unfair?"

"Yes. May he not have some means of preventing you from injuring him,
and of overcoming you, which no mortal possesses?"

"He may."

"Then the supposition of such a case ought to be sufficient ground for
at once inducing you to abandon all idea of meeting with him."

"My dear, I'll consider of this matter."

"Do so."

"There is another thing, however, which now you will permit me to ask of
you as a favour."

"It is granted ere it is spoken."

"Very good. Now you must not be offended with what I am going to say,
because, however it may touch that very proper pride which you, and such
as you, are always sure to possess, you are fortunately at all times
able to call sufficient judgment to your aid to enable you to see what
is really offensive and what is not."

"You alarm me by such a preface."

"Do I? then here goes at once. Your brother Henry, poor fellow, has
enough to do, has he not, to make all ends meet."

A flush of excitement came over Flora's cheek as the old admiral thus
bluntly broached a subject of which she already knew the bitterness to
such a spirit as her brother's.

"You are silent," continued the old man; "by that I guess I am not wrong
in my I supposition; indeed it is hardly a supposition at all, for
Master Charles told me as much, and no doubt he had it from a correct
quarter."

"I cannot deny it, sir."

"Then don't. It ain't worth denying, my dear. Poverty is no crime, but,
like being born a Frenchman, it's a d----d misfortune."

Flora could scarcely refuse a smile, as the nationality of the old
admiral peeped out even in the midst of his most liberal and best
feelings.

"Well," he continued, "I don't intend that he shall have so much trouble
as he has had. The enemies of his king and his country shall free him
from his embarrassments."

"The enemies?"

"Yes; who else?"

"You speak in riddles, sir."

"Do I? Then I'll soon make the riddles plain. When I went to sea I was
worth nothing--as poor as a ship's cat after the crew had been paid off
for a month. Well, I began fighting away as hard and fast as I could,
and the more I fought, and the more hard knocks I gave and took, the
more money I got."

"Indeed."

"Yes; prize after prize we hauled into port, and at last the French
vessels wouldn't come out of their harbours."

"What did you do then?"

"What did we do then? Why what was the most natural thing in the whole
world for us to do, we did."

"I cannot guess."

"Well, I am surprised at that. Try again."

"Oh, yes; I can guess now. How could I have been so dull? You went and
took them out."

"To be sure we did--to be sure we did, my dear; that's how we managed
them. And, do you see, at the end of the war I found myself with lots of
prize money, all wrung from old England's enemies, and I intend that
some of it shall find it's way to your brother's pocket; and you see
that will bear out just what I said, that the enemies of his king and
his country shall free him from his difficulties--don't you see?"

"I see your noble generosity, admiral."

"Noble fiddlestick! Now I have mentioned this matter to you, my dear,
and I don't so much mind talking to you about such matters as I should
to your brother, I want you to do me the favour of managing it all for
me."

"How, sir?"

"Why, just this way. You must find out how much money will free your
brother just now from a parcel of botherations that beset him, and then
I will give it to you, and you can hand it to him, you see, so I need
not say anything about it; and if he speaks to me on the subject at all,
I can put him down at once by saying, 'avast there, it's no business of
mine.'"

"And can you, dear admiral, imagine that I could conceal the generous
source from where so much assistance came?"

"Of course; it will come from you. I take a fancy to make you a present
of a sum of money; you do with it what you please--it's yours, and I
have no right and no inclination to ask you what use you put it to."

Tears gushed from the eyes of Flora as she tried to utter some word, but
could not. The admiral swore rather fearfully, and pretended to wonder
much what on earth she could be crying for. At length, after the first
gush of feeling was over, she said,--

"I cannot accept of so much generosity, sir--I dare not"

"Dare not!"

"No; I should think meanly of myself were I to take advantage of the
boundless munificence of your nature."

"Take advantage! I should like to see anybody take advantage of me,
that's all."

"I ought not to take the money of you. I will speak to my brother, and
well I know how much he will appreciate the noble, generous offer, my
dear sir."

"Well, settle it your own way, only remember I have a right to do what I
like with my own money."

"Undoubtedly."

"Very good. Then as that is undoubted, whatever I lend to him, mind I
give to you, so it's as broad as it's long, as the Dutchman said, when
he looked at the new ship that was built for him, and you may as well
take it yourself you see, and make no more fuss about it."

"I will consider," said Flora, with much emotion--"between this time and
the same hour to-morrow I will consider, sir, and if you can find any
words more expressive of heartfelt gratitude than others, pray imagine
that I have used them with reference to my own feelings towards you for
such an unexampled offer of friendship."

"Oh, bother--stuff."

The admiral now at once changed the subject, and began to talk of
Charles--a most grateful theme to Flora, as may well be supposed. He
related to her many little particulars connected with him which all
tended to place his character in a most amiable light, and as her ears
drank in the words of commendation of him she loved, what sweeter music
could there be to her than the voice of that old weather-beaten
rough-spoken man.

"The idea," he added, to a warm eulogium he had uttered concerning
Charles--"the idea that he could write those letters my dear, is quite
absurd."

"It is, indeed. Oh, that we could know what had become of him!"

"We shall know. I don't think but what he's alive. Something seems to
assure me that we shall some of these days look upon his face again."

"I am rejoiced to hear you say so."

"We will stir heaven and earth to find him. If he were killed, do you
see, there would have been some traces of him now at hand; besides, he
would have been left lying where the rascals attacked him."

Flora shuddered.

"But don't you fret yourself. You may depend that the sweet little
cherub that sits up aloft has looked after him."

"I will hope so."

"And now, my dear, Master Henry will soon be home, I am thinking, and as
he has quite enough disagreeables on his own mind to be able to spare a
few of them, you will take the earliest opportunity, I am sure, of
acquainting him with the little matter we have been talking about, and
let me know what he says."

"I will--I will."

"That's right. Now, go in doors, for there's a cold air blowing here,
and you are a delicate plant rather just now--go in and make yourself
comfortable and easy. The worst storm must blow over at last."

CHAPTER XXXI.

SIR FRANCIS VARNEY AND HIS MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.--THE STRANGE CONFERENCE.

Sir Francis Varney is in what he calls his own apartment. It is night,
and a dim and uncertain light from a candle which has been long
neglected, only serves to render obscurity more perplexing. The room is
a costly one. One replete with all the appliances of refinement and
luxury which the spirit and the genius of the age could possibly supply
him with, but there is upon his brow the marks of corroding care, and
little does that most mysterious being seem to care for all the rich
furnishing of that apartment in which he sits.

His cadaverous-looking face is even paler and more death-like-looking
than usual; and, if it can be conceived possible that such an one can
feel largely interested in human affairs, to look at him, we could well
suppose that some interest of no common magnitude was at stake.

Occasionally, too, he muttered some unconnected words, no doubt mentally
filling up the gaps, which rendered the sentences incomplete, and being
unconscious, perhaps, that he was giving audible utterance to any of his
dark and secret meditations.

At length he rose, and with an anxious expression of countenance, he
went to the window, and looked out into the darkness of the night. All
was still, and not an object was visible. It was that pitchy darkness
without, which, for some hours, when the moon is late in lending her
reflected beams, comes over the earth's surface.

"It is near the hour," he muttered. "It is now very near the hour;
surely he will come, and yet I know not why I should fear him, although
I seem to tremble at the thought of his approach. He will surely come.
Once a year--only once does he visit me, and then 'tis but to take the
price which he has compelled me to pay for that existence, which but for
him had been long since terminated. Sometimes I devoutly wish it were."

With a shudder he returned to the seat he had so recently left, and
there for some time he appeared to meditate in silence.

Suddenly now, a clock, which was in the hall of that mansion he had
purchased, sounded the hour loudly.

"The time has come," said Sir Francis. "The time has come. He will
surely soon be here. Hark! hark!"

Slowly and distinctly he counted the strokes of the clock, and, when
they had ceased, he exclaimed, with sudden surprise--

"Eleven! But eleven! How have I been deceived. I thought the hour of
midnight was at hand."

He hastily consulted the watch he wore, and then he indeed found, that
whatever he had been looking forward to with dread for some time past,
as certain to ensue, at or about twelve o clock, had yet another hour in
which to prey upon his imagination.

"How could I have made so grievous an error?" he exclaimed. "Another
hour of suspense and wonder as to whether that man be among the living
or the dead. I have thought of raising my hand against his life, but
some strange mysterious feeling has always staid me; and I have let him
come and go freely, while an opportunity might well have served me to
put such a design into execution. He is old, too--very old, and yet he
keeps death at a distance. He looked pale, but far from unwell or
failing, when last I saw him. Alas! a whole hour yet to wait. I would
that this interview were over."

That extremely well known and popular disease called the fidgets, now
began, indeed, to torment Sir Francis Varney. He could not sit--he could
not walk, and, somehow or another, he never once seemed to imagine that
from the wine cup he should experience any relief, although, upon a side
table, there stood refreshments of that character. And thus some more
time passed away, and he strove to cheat it of its weariness by thinking
of a variety of subjects; but as the fates would have it, there seemed
not one agreeable reminiscence in the mind of that most inexplicable
man, and the more he plunged into the recesses of memory the more
uneasy, not to say almost terrified, he looked and became. A shuddering
nervousness came across him, and, for a few moments, be sat as if he
were upon the point of fainting. By a vigorous effort, however, he shook
this off, and then placing before him the watch, which now indicated
about the quarter past eleven, he strove with a calmer aspect to wait
the coming of him whose presence, when he did come, would really be a
great terror, since the very thought beforehand produced so much
hesitation and apparent dismay.

In order too, if possible, then to further withdraw himself from a too
painful consideration of those terrors, which in due time the reader
will be acquainted with the cause of, he took up a book, and plunging at
random into its contents, he amused his mind for a time with the
following brief narrative:--

The wind howled round the gable ends of Bridport House in sudden and
furious gusts, while the inmates sat by the fire-side, gazing in silence
upon the blazing embers of the huge fire that shed a red and bright
light all over the immense apartment in which they all sat.

It was an ancient looking place, very large, end capable of containing a
number of guests. Several were present.

An aged couple were seated in tall high straight-backed chairs. They
were the owners of that lordly mansion, and near them sat two young
maidens of surpassing beauty; they were dissimilar, and yet there was a
slight likeness, but of totally different complexions.

The one had tresses of raven black; eyebrows, eyelashes, and eyes were
all of the same hue; she was a beautiful and proud-looking girl, her
complexion clear, with the hue of health upon her cheeks, while a smile
played around her lips. The glance of the eye was sufficient to thrill
through the whole soul.

The other maiden was altogether different; her complexion altogether
fairer--her hair of sunny chestnut, and her beautiful hazel eyes were
shaded by long brown eyelashes, while a playful smile also lit up her
countenance. She was the younger of the two.

The attention of the two young maidens had been directed to the words of
the aged owner of the house, for he had been speaking a few moments
before.

There were several other persons present, and at some little distance
were many of the domestics who were not denied the privilege of warmth
and rest in the presence of their master.

These were not the times, when, if servants sat down, they were deemed
idle; but the daily task done, then the evening hour was spent by the
fire-side.

"The wind howls and moans," said an aged domestic, "in an awful manner.
I never heard the like."

"It seems as though same imprisoned spirit was waiting for the repose
that had been denied on earth," said the old lady as she shifted her
seat and gazed steadily on the fire.

"Ay," said her aged companion, "it is a windy night, and there will be a
storm before long, or I'm mistaken."

"It was just such a night as that my son Henry left his home," said Mrs.
Bradley, "just such another--only it had the addition of sleet and
rain."

The old man sighed at the mention of his son's name, a tear stood in the
eyes of the maidens, while one looked silently at the other, and seemed
to exchange glances.

"I would that I might again see him before my body seeks its final home
in the cold remorseless grave."