Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE STRANGE INTERVIEW.--THE CHASE THROUGH THE HALL.

[Illustration]

It was with the most melancholy aspect that anything human could well
bear, that Sir Francis Varney took his lonely walk, although perhaps in
saying so much, probably we are instituting a comparison which
circumstances scarcely empower us to do; for who shall say that that
singular man, around whom a very atmosphere of mystery seemed to be
perpetually increasing, was human?

Averse as we are to believe in the supernatural, or even to invest
humanity with any preternatural powers, the more than singular facts and
circumstances surrounding the existence and the acts of that man bring
to the mind a kind of shuddering conviction, that if he be indeed really
mortal he still must possess some powers beyond ordinary mortality, and
be walking the earth for some unhallowed purposes, such as ordinary men
with the ordinary attributes of human nature can scarcely guess at.

Silently and alone he took his way through that beautiful tract of
country, comprehending such picturesque charms of hill and dale which
lay between his home and Bannerworth Hall. He was evidently intent upon
reaching the latter place by the shortest possible route, and in the
darkness of that night, for the moon had not yet risen, he showed no
slight acquaintance with the intricacies of that locality, that he was
at all enabled to pursue so undeviatingly a tract as that which he took.

He muttered frequently to himself low, indistinct words as he went, and
chiefly did they seem to have reference to that strange interview he had
so recently had with one who, from some combination of circumstances
scarcely to be guessed at, evidently exercised a powerful control over
him, and was enabled to make a demand upon his pecuniary resources of
rather startling magnitude.

And yet, from a stray word or two, which were pronounced more
distinctly, he did not seem to be thinking in anger over that interview;
but it would appear that it rather had recalled to his remembrance
circumstances of a painful and a degrading nature, which time had not
been able entirely to obliterate from his recollection.

"Yes, yes," he said, as he paused upon the margin of the wood, to the
confines of which he, or what seemed to be he, had once been chased by
Marchdale and the Bannerworths--"yes, the very sight of that man recalls
all the frightful pageantry of a horrible tragedy, which I can
never--never forget. Never can it escape my memory, as a horrible, a
terrific fact; but it is the sight of this man alone that can recall all
its fearful minutiae to my mind, and paint to my imagination, in the
most vivid colours, every, the least particular connected with that time
of agony. These periodical visits much affect me. For months I dread
them, and for months I am but slowly recovering from the shocks they
give me. 'But once more,' he says--'but once more,' and then we shall
not meet again. Well, well; perchance before that time arrives, I may be
able to possess myself of those resources which will enable me to
forestall his visit, and so at least free myself from the pang of
expecting him."

He paused at the margin of the wood, and glanced in the direction of
Bannerworth Hall. By the dim light which yet showed from out the light
sky, he could discern the ancient gable ends, and turret-like windows;
he could see the well laid out gardens, and the grove of stately firs
that shaded it from the northern blasts, and, as he gazed, a strong
emotion seemed to come over him, such as no one could have supposed
would for one moment have possessed the frame of one so apparently
unconnected with all human sympathies.

"I know this spot well," he said, "and my appearance here on that
eventful occasion, when the dread of my approach induced a crime only
second to murder itself, was on such a night as this, when all was so
still and calm around, and when he who, at the merest shadow of my
presence, rather chose to rush on death than be assured it was myself.
Curses on the circumstances that so foiled me! I should have been most
wealthy. I should have possessed the means of commanding the adulation
of those who now hold me but cheaply; but still the time may come. I
have a hope yet, and that greatness which I have ever panted for, that
magician-like power over my kind, which the possession of ample means
alone can give, may yet be mine."

Wrapping his cloak more closely around him, he strode forward with that
long, noiseless step which was peculiar to him. Mechanically he appeared
to avoid those obstacles of hedge and ditch which impeded his pathway.
Surely be had come that road often, or he would not so easily have
pursued his way. And now he stood by the edge of a plantation which in
some measure protected from trespassers the more private gardens of the
Hall, and there he paused, as if a feeling of irresolution had come over
him, or it might be, as indeed it seemed from his subsequent conduct,
that he had come without any fixed intention, or if with a fixed
intention, without any regular plan of carrying it into effect.

Did he again dream of intruding into any of the chambers of that
mansion, with the ghastly aspect of that terrible creation with which,
in the minds of its inhabitants, he seemed to be but too closely
identified? He was pale, attenuated, and trembled. Could it be that so
soon it had become necessary to renew the life-blood in his veins in the
awful manner which it is supposed the vampyre brood are compelled to
protract their miserable existence?

It might be so, and that he was even now reflecting upon how once more
he could kindle the fire of madness in the brain of that beautiful girl,
who he had already made so irretrievably wretched.

He leant against an aged tree, and his strange, lustrous-looking eyes
seemed to collect every wandering scintillation of light that was
around, and to shine with preternatural intensity.

"I must, I will," he said, "be master of Bannerworth Hall. It must come
to that. I have set an existence upon its possession, and I will have
it; and then, if with my own hands I displace it brick by brick and
stone by stone, I will discover that hidden secret which no one but
myself now dreams of. It shall be done by force or fraud, by love or by
despair, I care not which; the end shall sanctify all means. Ay, even if
I wade through blood to my desire, I say it shall be done."

There was a holy and a still calmness about the night much at variance
with the storm of angry passion that appeared to be momentarily
gathering power in the breast of that fearful man. Not the least sound
came from Bannerworth Hall, and it was only occasionally that from afar
off on the night air there came the bark of some watchdog, or the low of
distant cattle. All else was mute save when the deep sepulchral tones of
that man, if man he was, gave an impulse to the soft air around him.

With a strolling movement as if he were careless if he proceeded in that
direction or not, he still went onward toward the house, and now he
stood by that little summer-house once so sweet and so dear a retreat,
in which the heart-stricken Flora had held her interview with him whom
she loved with a devotion unknown to meaner minds.

This spot scarcely commanded any view of the house, for so enclosed was
it among evergreens and blooming flowers, that it seemed like a very
wilderness of nature, upon which, with liberal hand, she had showered
down in wild luxuriance her wildest floral beauties.

In and around that spot the night air was loaded with sweets. The
mingled perfume of many flowers made that place seem a very paradise.
But oh, how sadly at variance with that beauty and contentedness of
nature was he who stood amidst such beauty! All incapable as he was of
appreciating its tenderness, or of gathering the faintest moral from its
glory.

"Why am I here?" he said. "Here, without fixed design or stability of
purpose, like some miser who has hidden his own hoards so deeply within
the bowels of the earth he cannot hope that he shall ever again be able
to bring them to the light of day. I hover around this spot which I
feel--which I know--contains my treasure, though I cannot lay my hands
upon it, or exult in its glistening beauty."

Even as he spoke he cowered down like some guilty thing, for he heard a
faint footstep upon the garden path. So light, so fragile was the step,
that, in the light of day, the very hum of summer insects would have
drowned the noise; but he heard it, that man of crime--of unholy and
awful impulses. He heard it, and he shrunk down among the shrubs and
flowers till he was hidden completely from observation amid a world of
fragrant essences.

Was it some one stealthily in that place even as he was, unwelcome or
unknown? or was it one who had observed him intrude upon the privacy of
those now unhappy precincts, and who was coming to deal upon him that
death which, vampyre though he might be, he was yet susceptible of from
mortal hands?

The footstep advanced, and lower down he shrunk until his coward-heart
beat against the very earth itself. He knew that he was unarmed, a
circumstance rare with him, and only to be accounted for by the
disturbance of his mind consequent upon the visit of that strange man to
his house, whose presence had awakened so many conflicting emotions.

Nearer and nearer still came that light footstep, and his deep-seated
fears would not let him perceive that it was not the step of caution or
of treachery, but owed its lightness to the natural grace and freedom of
movement of its owner.

The moon must have arisen, although obscured by clouds, through which it
cast but a dim radiance, for the night had certainly grown lighter; so
that although there were no strong shadows cast, a more diffused
brightness was about all things, and their outlines looked not so
dancing, and confused the one with the other.

He strained his eyes in the direction whence the sounds proceeded, and
then his fears for his personal safety vanished, for he saw it was a
female form that was slowly advancing towards him.

His first impulse was to rise, for with the transient glimpse he got of
it, he knew that it must be Flora Bannerworth; but a second thought,
probably one of intense curiosity to know what could possibly have
brought her to such a spot at such a time, restrained him, and he was
quiet. But if the surprise of Sir Francis Varney was great to see Flora
Bannerworth at such a time in such a place, we have no doubt, that with
the knowledge which our readers have of her, their astonishment would
more than fully equal his; and when we come to consider, that since that
eventful period when the sanctity of her chamber had been so violated by
that fearful midnight visitant, it must appear somewhat strange that she
could gather courage sufficient to wander forth alone at such an hour.

Had she no dread of meeting that unearthly being? Did the possibility
that she might fall into his ruthless grasp, not come across her mind
with a shuddering consciousness of its probability? Had she no
reflection that each step she took, was taking her further and further
from those who would aid her in all extremities? It would seem not, for
she walked onward, unheeding, and apparently unthinking of the presence,
possible or probable, of that bane of her existence.

But let us look at her again. How strange and spectral-like she moves
along; there seems no speculation in her countenance, but with a strange
and gliding step, she walks like some dim shadow of the past in that
ancient garden. She is very pale, and on her brow there is the stamp of
suffering; her dress is a morning robe, she holds it lightly round her,
and thus she moves forward towards that summer-house which probably to
her was sanctified by having witnessed those vows of pure affection,
which came from the lips of Charles Holland, about whose fate there now
hung so great a mystery.

Has madness really seized upon the brain of that beautiful girl? Has the
strong intellect really sunk beneath the oppressions to which it has
been subjected? Does she now walk forth with a disordered intellect, the
queen of some fantastic realm, viewing the material world with eyes that
are not of earth; shunning perhaps that which she should have sought,
and, perchance, in her frenzy, seeking that which in a happier frame of
mind she would have shunned.

[Illustration]

Such might have been the impression of any one who had looked upon her
for a moment, and who knew the disastrous scenes through which she had
so recently passed; but we can spare our readers the pangs of such a
supposition. We have bespoken their love for Flora Bannerworth, and we
are certain that she has it; therefore would we spare them, even for a
few brief moments, from imagining that cruel destiny had done its worst,
and that the fine and beautiful spirit we have so much commended had
lost its power of rational reflection. No; thank Heaven, such is not the
case. Flora Bannerworth is not mad, but under the strong influence of
some eccentric dream, which has pictured to her mind images which have
no home but in the airy realms of imagination. She has wandered forth
from her chamber to that sacred spot where she had met him she loved,
and heard the noblest declaration of truth and constancy that ever
flowed from human lips.

Yes, she is sleeping; but, with a precision such as the somnambulist so
strangely exerts, she trod the well-known paths slowly, but surely,
toward that summer's bower, where her dreams had not told her lay
crouching that most hideous spectre of her imagination, Sir Francis
Varney. He who stood between her and her heart's best joy; he who had
destroyed all hope of happiness, and who had converted her dearest
affections into only so many causes of greater disquietude than the
blessings they should have been to her.

Oh! could she have imagined but for one moment that he was there, with
what an eagerness of terror would she have flown back again to the
shelter of those walls, where at least was to be found some protection
from the fearful vampyre's embrace, and where she would be within hail
of friendly hearts, who would stand boldly between her and every thought
of harm.

But she knew it not, and onwards she went until the very hem of her
garment touched the face of Sir Francis Varney.

And he was terrified--he dared not move--he dared not speak! The idea
that she had died, and that this was her spirit, come to wreak some
terrible vengeance upon him, for a time possessed him, and so paralysed
with fear was he, that he could neither move nor speak.

It had been well if, during that trance of indecision in which his
coward heart placed him, Flora had left the place, and again sought her
home; but unhappily such an impulse came not over her; she sat upon that
rustic seat, where she had reposed when Charles had clasped her to his
heart, and through her very dream the remembrance of that pure affection
came across her, and in the tenderest and most melodious accents, she
said,--

"Charles! Charles! and do you love me still? No--no; you have not
forsaken me. Save me, save me from the vampyre!"

She shuddered, and Sir Francis Varney heard her weeping.

"Fool that I am," he muttered, "to be so terrified. She sleeps. This is
one of the phases which a disordered imagination oft puts on. She
sleeps, and perchance this may be an opportunity of further increasing
the dread of my visitation, which shall make Bannerworth Hall far too
terrible a dwelling-place for her; and well I know, if she goes, they
will all go. It will become a deserted house, and that is what I want. A
house, too, with such an evil reputation, that none but myself, who have
created that reputation, will venture within its walls:--a house, which
superstition will point out as the abode of evil spirits;--a house, as
it were, by general opinion, ceded to the vampyre. Yes, it shall be my
own; fit dwelling-place for a while for me. I have sworn it shall be
mine, and I will keep my oath, little such as I have to do with vows."

He rose, and moved slowly to the narrow entrance of the summer-house; a
movement he could make, without at all disturbing Flora, for the rustic
seat, on which she sat, was at its further extremity. And there he
stood, the upper part of his gaunt and hideous form clearly defined upon
the now much lighter sky, so that if Flora Bannerworth had not been in
that trance of sleep in which she really was, one glance upward would
let her see the hideous companion she had, in that once much-loved
spot--a spot hitherto sacred to the best and noblest feelings, but now
doomed for ever to be associated with that terrific spectre of despair.

But she was in no state to see so terrible a sight. Her hands were over
her face, and she was weeping still.

"Surely, he loves me," she whispered; "he has said he loved me, and he
does not speak in vain. He loves me still, and I shall again look upon
his face, a Heaven to me! Charles! Charles! you will come again? Surely,
they sin against the divinity of love, who would tell me that you love
me not!"

"Ha!" muttered Varney, "this passion is her first, and takes a strong
hold on her young heart--she loves him--but what are human affections to
me? I have no right to count myself in the great muster-roll of
humanity. I look not like an inhabitant of the earth, and yet am on it.
I love no one, expect no love from any one, but I will make humanity a
slave to me; and the lip-service of them who hate me in their hearts,
shall be as pleasant jingling music to my ear, as if it were quite
sincere! I will speak to this girl; she is not mad--perchance she may
be."

There was a diabolical look of concentrated hatred upon Varney's face,
as he now advanced two paces towards the beautiful Flora.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE THREAT.--ITS CONSEQUENCES.--THE RESCUE, AND SIR FRANCIS VARNEY'S
DANGER.

[Illustration]

Sir Francis Varney now paused again, and he seemed for a few moments to
gloat over the helpless condition of her whom he had so determined to
make his victim; there was no look of pity in his face, no one touch of
human kindness could be found in the whole expression of those
diabolical features; and if he delayed making the attempt to strike
terror into the heart of that unhappy, but beautiful being, it could not
be from any relenting feeling, but simply, that he wished for a few
moments to indulge his imagination with the idea of perfecting his
villany more effectually.

Alas! and they who would have flown to her rescue,--they, who for her
would have chanced all accidents, ay, even life itself, were sleeping,
and knew not of the loved one's danger. She was alone, and far enough
from the house, to be driven to that tottering verge where sanity ends,
and the dream of madness, with all its terrors, commences.

But still she slept--if that half-waking sleep could indeed be
considered as any thing akin to ordinary slumber--still she slept, and
called mournfully upon her lover's name; and in tender, beseeching
accents, that should have melted even the stubbornest hearts, did she
express her soul's conviction that he loved her still.

The very repetition of the name of Charles Holland seemed to be galling
to Sir Francis Varney. He made a gesture of impatience, as she again
uttered it, and then, stepping forward, he stood within a pace of where
she sat, and in a fearfully distinct voice he said,--

"Flora Bannerworth, awake! awake! and look upon me, although the sight
blast and drive you to despair. Awake! awake!"

It was not the sound of the voice which aroused her from that strange
slumber. It is said that those who sleep in that eccentric manner, are
insensible to sounds, but that the lightest touch will arouse them in an
instant; and so it was in this case, for Sir Francis Varney, as he
spoke, laid upon the hand of Flora two of his cold, corpse-like looking
fingers. A shriek burst from her lips, and although the confusion of her
memory and conceptions was immense, yet she was awake, and the
somnambulistic trance had left her.

"Help, help!" she cried. "Gracious Heavens! Where am I?"

Varney spoke not, but he spread out his long, thin arms in such a manner
that he seemed almost to encircle her, while he touched her not, so that
escape became a matter of impossibility, and to attempt to do so, must
have been to have thrown herself into his hideous embrace.

She could obtain but a single view of the face and figure of him who
opposed her progress, but, slight as that view was, it more than
sufficed. The very extremity of fear came across her, and she sat like
one paralysed; the only evidence of existence she gave consisting in the
words,--

"The vampyre--the vampyre!"

"Yes," said Varney, "the vampyre. You know me, Flora
Bannerworth--Varney, the vampyre; your midnight guest at that feast of
blood. I am the vampyre. Look upon me well; shrink not from my gaze. You
will do well not to shun me, but to speak to me in such a shape that I
may learn to love you."

Flora shook as in a convulsion, and she looked as white as any marble
statue.

"This is horrible!" she said. "Why does not Heaven grant me the death I
pray for?"

"Hold!" said Varney. "Dress not up in the false colours of the
imagination that which in itself is sufficiently terrific to need none
of the allurements of romance. Flora Bannerworth, you are
persecuted--persecuted by me, the vampyre. It is my fate to persecute
you; for there are laws to the invisible as well as the visible creation
that force even such a being as I am to play my part in the great drama
of existence. I am a vampyre; the sustenance that supports this frame
must be drawn from the life-blood of others."

"Oh, horror--horror!"

"But most I do affect the young and beautiful. It is from the veins of
such as thou art, Flora Bannerworth, that I would seek the sustenance
I'm compelled to obtain for my own exhausted energies. But never yet, in
all my long career--a career extending over centuries of time--never yet
have I felt the soft sensation of human pity till I looked on thee,
exquisite piece of excellence. Even at the moment when the reviving
fluid from the gushing fountain of your veins was warming at my heart, I
pitied and I loved you. Oh, Flora! even I can now feel the pang of being
what I am!"

There was a something in the tone, a touch of sadness in the manner, and
a deep sincerity in these words, that in some measure disabused Flora of
her fears. She sobbed hysterically, and a gush of tears came to her
relief, as, in almost inarticulate accents, she said,--

"May the great God forgive even you!"

"I have need of such a prayer," exclaimed Varney--"Heaven knows I have
need of such a prayer. May it ascend on the wings of the night air to
the throne of Heaven. May it be softly whispered by ministering angels
to the ear of Divinity. God knows I have need of such a prayer!"

"To hear you speak in such a strain," said Flora, "calms the excited
fancy, and strips even your horrible presence of some of its maddening
influence."

"Hush," said the vampire, "you must hear more--you must know more ere
you speak of the matters that have of late exercised an influence of
terror over you."

"But how came I here?" said Flora, "tell me that. By what more than
earthly power have you brought me to this spot? If I am to listen to
you, why should it not be at some more likely time and place?"

"I have powers," said Varney, assuming from Flora's words, that she
would believe such arrogance--"I have powers which suffice to bend many
purposes to my will--powers incidental to my position, and therefore is
it I have brought you here to listen to that which should make you
happier than you are."

"I will attend," said Flora. "I do not shudder now; there's an icy
coldness through my veins, but it is the night air--speak, I will attend
you."

"I will. Flora Bannerworth, I am one who has witnessed time's mutations
on man and on his works, and I have pitied neither; I have seen the fall
of empires, and sighed not that high reaching ambition was toppled to
the dust. I have seen the grave close over the young and the
beautiful--those whom I have doomed by my insatiable thirst for human
blood to death, long ere the usual span of life was past, but I never
loved till now."

"Can such a being as you," said Flora "be susceptible of such an earthly
passion?"

"And wherefore not?"

"Love is either too much of heaven, or too much of earth to find a home
with thee."

"No, Flora, no! it may be that the feeling is born of pity. I will save
you--I will save you from a continuance of the horrors that are
assailing you."

"Oh! then may Heaven have mercy in your hour of need!"

"Amen!"

"May you even yet know peace and joy above."

"It is a faint and straggling hope--but if achieved, it will be through
the interposition of such a spirit as thine, Flora, which has already
exercised so benign an influence upon my tortured soul, as to produce
the wish within my heart, to do a least one unselfish action."