Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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"That wish," said Flora, "shall be father to the deed. Heaven has
boundless mercy yet."

"For thy sweet sake, I will believe so much, Flora Bannerworth; it is a
condition with my hateful race, that if we can find one human heart to
love us, we are free. If, in the face of Heaven, you will consent to be
mine, you will snatch me from a continuance of my frightful doom, and
for your pure sake, and on your merits, shall I yet know heavenly
happiness. Will you be mine?"

A cloud swept from off the face of the moon, and a slant ray fell upon
the hideous features of the vampire. He looked as if just rescued from
some charnel-house, and endowed for a space with vitality to destroy all
beauty and harmony in nature, and drive some benighted soul to madness.

"No, no, no!" shrieked Flora, "never!"

"Enough," said Varney, "I am answered. It was a bad proposal. I am a
vampyre still."

"Spare me! spare me!"

"Blood!"

Flora sank upon her knees, and uplifted her hands to heaven. "Mercy,
mercy!" she said.

"Blood!" said Varney, and she saw his hideous, fang-like teeth. "Blood!
Flora Bannerworth, the vampyre's motto. I have asked you to love me, and
you will not--the penalty be yours."

"No, no!" said Flora. "Can it be possible that even you, who have
already spoken with judgment and precision, can be so unjust? you must
feel that, in all respects, I have been a victim, most gratuitously--a
sufferer, while there existed no just cause that I should suffer; one
who has been tortured, not from personal fault, selfishness, lapse of
integrity, or honourable feelings, but because you have found it
necessary, for the prolongation of your terrific existence, to attack me
as you have done. By what plea of honour, honesty, or justice, can I be
blamed for not embracing an alternative which is beyond all human
control?--I cannot love you."

"Then be content to suffer. Flora Bannerworth, will you not, even for a
time, to save yourself and to save me, become mine?"

"Horrible proposition!"

"Then am I doomed yet, perhaps, for many a cycle of years, to spread
misery and desolation around me; and yet I love you with a feeling which
has in it more of gratefulness and unselfishness than ever yet found a
home within my breast. I would fain have you, although you cannot save
me; there may yet be a chance, which shall enable you to escape from the
persecution of my presence."

"Oh! glorious chance!" said Flora. "Which way can it come? tell me how I
may embrace it, and such grateful feelings as a heart-stricken mourner
can offer to him who has rescued her from her deep affliction, shall yet
be yours."

"Hear me, then, Flora Bannerworth, while I state to you some particulars
of mysterious existence, of such beings as myself, which never yet have
been breathed to mortal ears."

Flora looked intently at him, and listened, while, with a serious
earnestness of manner, he detailed to her something of the physiology of
the singular class of beings which the concurrence of all circumstances
tended to make him appear.

"Flora," he said, "it is not that I am so enamoured of an existence to
be prolonged only by such frightful means, which induces me to become a
terror to you or to others. Believe me, that if my victims, those whom
my insatiable thirst for blood make wretched, suffer much, I, the
vampyre, am not without my moments of unutterable agony. But it is a
mysterious law of our nature, that as the period approaches when the
exhausted energies of life require a new support from the warm, gushing
fountain of another's veins, the strong desire to live grows upon us,
until, in a paroxysm of wild insanity, which will recognise no
obstacles, human or divine, we seek a victim."

"A fearful state!" said Flora.

"It is so; and, when the dreadful repast is over, then again the pulse
beats healthfully, and the wasted energies of a strange kind of vitality
are restored to us, we become calm again, but with that calmness comes
all the horror, all the agony of reflection, and we suffer far more than
tongue can tell."

"You have my pity," said Flora; "even you have my pity."

"I might well demand it, if such a feeling held a place within your
breast. I might well demand your pity, Flora Bannerworth, for never
crawled an abject wretch upon the earth's rotundity, so pitiable as I."

"Go on, go on."

"I will, and with such brief conclusions as I may. Having once attacked
any human being, we feel a strange, but terribly impulsive desire again
to seek that person for more blood. But I love you, Flora; the small
amount of sensibility that still lingers about my preternatural
existence, acknowledges in you a pure and better spirit. I would fain
save you."

"Oh! tell me how I may escape the terrible infliction."

"That can only be done by flight. Leave this place, I implore you! leave
it as quickly as the movement may be made. Linger not--cast not one
regretful look behind you on your ancient home. I shall remain in this
locality for years. Let me lose sight of you, I will not pursue you;
but, by force of circumstances, I am myself compelled to linger here.
Flight is the only means by which you may avoid a doom as terrific as
that which I endure."

"But tell me," said Flora, after a moment's pause, during which she
appeared to be endeavouring to gather courage to ask some fearful
question; "tell me if it be true that those who have once endured the
terrific attack of a vampyre, become themselves, after death, one of
that dread race?"

"It is by such means," said Varney, "that the frightful brood increases;
but time and circumstances must aid the development of the new and
horrible existence. You, however, are safe."

"Safe! Oh! say that word again."

"Yes, safe; not once or twice will the vampyre's attack have sufficient
influence on your mortal frame, as to induce a susceptibility on your
part to become coexistent with such as he. The attacks must be often
repeated, and the termination of mortal existence must be a consequence
essential, and direct from those attacks, before such a result may be
anticipated."

"Yes, yes; I understand."

"If you were to continue my victim from year to year, the energies of
life would slowly waste away, and, till like some faint taper's gleam,
consuming more sustenance than it received, the veriest accident would
extinguish your existence, and then, Flora Bannerworth, you might become
a vampyre."

"Oh! horrible! most horrible!"

"If by chance, or by design, the least glimpse of the cold moonbeams
rested on your apparently lifeless remains, you would rise again and be
one of us--a terror to yourself and a desolation to all around."

"Oh! I will fly from here," said Flora. "The hope of escape from so
terrific and dreadful a doom shall urge me onward; if flight can save
me--flight from Bannerworth Hall, I will pause not until continents and
oceans divide us."

"It is well. I'm able now thus calmly to reason with you. A few short
months more and I shall feel the languor of death creeping over me, and
then will come that mad excitement of the brain, which, were you hidden
behind triple doors of steel, would tempt me again to seek your
chamber--again to seize you in my full embrace--again to draw from your
veins the means of prolonged life--again to convulse your very soul with
terror."

"I need no incentives," said Flora, with a shudder, "in the shape of
descriptions of the past, to urge me on."

"You will fly from Bannerworth Hall?"

"Yes, yes!" said Flora, "it shall be so; its very chambers now are
hideous with the recollection of scenes enacted in them. I will urge my
brothers, my mother, all to leave, and in some distant clime we will
find security and shelter. There even we will learn to think of you with
more of sorrow than of anger--more pity than reproach--more curiosity
than loathing."

"Be it so," said the vampyre; and he clasped his hands, as if with a
thankfulness that he had done so much towards restoring peace at least
to one, who, in consequence of his acts, had felt such exquisite
despair. "Be it so; and even I will hope that the feelings which have
induced so desolated and so isolated a being as myself to endeavour to
bring peace to one human heart, will plead for me, trumpet-tongued, to
Heaven!"

"It will--it will," said Flora.

"Do you think so?"

"I do; and I will pray that the thought may turn to certainty in such a
cause."

The vampyre appeared to be much affected; and then he added,--

"Flora, you know that this spot has been the scene of a catastrophe
fearful to look back upon, in the annals of your family?"

"It has," said Flora. "I know to what you allude; 'tis a matter of
common knowledge to all--a sad theme to me, and one I would not court."

"Nor would I oppress you with it. Your father, here, on this very spot,
committed that desperate act which brought him uncalled for to the
judgment seat of God. I have a strange, wild curiosity upon such
subjects. Will you, in return for the good that I have tried to do you,
gratify it?"

"I know not what you mean," said Flora.

"To be more explicit, then, do you remember the day on which your father
breathed his last?"

"Too well--too well."

"Did you see him or converse with him shortly before that desperate act
was committed?"

"No; he shut himself up for some time in a solitary chamber."

"Ha! what chamber?"

"The one in which I slept myself on the night--"

"Yes, yes; the one with the portrait--that speaking portrait--the eyes
of which seem to challenge an intruder as he enters the apartment."

"The same."

"For hours shut up there!" added Varney, musingly; "and from thence he
wandered to the garden, where, in this summer-house, he breathed his
last?"

"It was so."

"Then, Flora, ere I bid you adieu--"

These words were scarcely uttered, when there was a quick, hasty
footstep, and Henry Bannerworth appeared behind Varney, in the very
entrance of the summer-house.

"Now," he cried, "for revenge! Now, foul being, blot upon the earth's
surface, horrible imitation of humanity, if mortal arm can do aught
against you, you shall die!"

A shriek came from the lips of Flora, and flinging herself past Varney,
who stepped aside, she clung to her brother, who made an unavailing pass
with his sword at the vampyre. It was a critical moment; and had the
presence of mind of Varney deserted him in the least, unarmed as he was,
he must have fallen beneath the weapon of Henry. To spring, however, up
the seat which Flora had vacated, and to dash out some of the flimsy and
rotten wood-work at the back of the summer-house by the propulsive power
of his whole frame, was the work of a moment; and before Henry could
free himself from the clinging embrace of Flora, Varney, the vampyre was
gone, and there was no greater chance of his capture than on a former
occasion, when he was pursued in vain from the Hall to the wood, in the
intricacies of which he was so entirely lost.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE EXPLANATION.--MARCHDALE'S ADVICE.--THE PROJECTED REMOVAL, AND THE
ADMIRAL'S ANGER.

[Illustration]

This extremely sudden movement on the part of Varney was certainly as
unexpected as it was decisive. Henry had imagined, that by taking
possession of the only entrance to the summer-house, he must come into
personal conflict with the being who had worked so much evil for him and
his; and that he should so suddenly have created for himself another
mode of exit, certainly never occurred to him.

"For Heaven's sake, Flora," he said, "unhand me; this is a time for
action."

"But, Henry, Henry, hear me."

"Presently, presently, dear Flora; I will yet make another effort to
arrest the headlong flight of Varney."

He shook her off, perhaps with not more roughness than was necessary to
induce her to forego her grasp of him, but in a manner that fully showed
he intended to be free; and then he sprang through the same aperture
whence Varney had disappeared, just as George and Mr. Marchdale arrived
at the door of the summer-house.

It was nearly morning, so that the fields were brightening up with the
faint radiance of the coming day; and when Henry reached a point which
he knew commanded an extensive view, he paused, and ran his eye eagerly
along the landscape, with a hope of discovering some trace of the
fugitive.

Such, however, was not the case; he saw nothing, heard nothing of Sir
Francis Varney; and then he turned, and called loudly to George to join
him, and was immediately replied to by his brother's presence,
accompanied by Marchdale.

Before, however, they could exchange a word, a rattling discharge of
fire-arms took place from one of the windows, and they heard the
admiral, in a loud voice, shouting,--

"Broadside to broadside! Give it them again, Jack! Hit them between wind
and water!"

Then there was another rattling discharge, and Henry exclaimed,--

"What is the meaning of that firing?"

"It comes from the admiral's room," said Marchdale. "On my life, I think
the old man must be mad. He has some six or eight pistols ranged in a
row along the window-sill, and all loaded, so that by the aid of a match
they can be pretty well discharged as a volley, which he considers the
only proper means of firing upon the vampyre."

"It is so," replied George; "and, no doubt, hearing an alarm, he has
commenced operations by firing into the enemy."

"Well, well," said Henry; "he must have his way. I have pursued Varney
thus far, and that he has again retreated to the wood, I cannot doubt.
Between this and the full light of day, let us at least make an effort
to discover his place of retreat. We know the locality as well as he can
possibly, and I propose now that we commence an active search."

"Come on, then," said Marchdale. "We are all armed; and I, for one,
shall feel no hesitation in taking the life, if it be possible to do so,
of that strange being."

"Of that possibility you doubt?" said George, as they hurried on across
the meadows.

"Indeed I do, and with reason too. I'm certain that when I fired at him
before I hit him; and besides, Flora must have shot him upon the
occasion when we were absent, and she used your pistols Henry, to defend
herself and her mother."

"It would seem so," said Henry; "and disregarding all present
circumstances, if I do meet him, I will put to the proof whether he be
mortal or not."

The distance was not great, and they soon reached the margin of the
wood; they then separated agreeing to meet within it, at a well-spring,
familiar to them all: previous to which each was to make his best
endeavour to discover if any one was hidden among the bush-wood or in
the hollows of the ancient trees they should encounter on their line of
march.

The fact was, that Henry finding that he was likely to pass an
exceedingly disturbed, restless night, through agitation of spirits,
had, after tossing to and fro on his couch for many hours, wisely at
length risen, and determined to walk abroad in the gardens belonging to
the mansion, in preference to continuing in such a state of fever and
anxiety, as he was in, in his own chamber.

Since the vampyre's dreadful visit, it had been the custom of both the
brothers, occasionally, to tap at the chamber door of Flora, who, at her
own request, now that she had changed her room, and dispensed with any
one sitting up with her, wished occasionally to be communicated with by
some member of the family.

Henry, then, after rapidly dressing, as he passed the door of her
bedroom, was about to tap at it, when to his surprise he found it open,
and upon hastily entering it he observed that the bed was empty, and a
hasty glance round the apartment convinced him that Flora was not there.

Alarm took possession of him, and hastily arming himself, he roused
Marchdale and George, but without waiting for them to be ready to
accompany him, he sought the garden, to search it thoroughly in case she
should be anywhere there concealed.

Thus it was he had come upon the conference so strangely and so
unexpectedly held between Varney and Flora in the summer-house. With
what occurred upon that discovery the readers are acquainted.

Flora had promised George that she would return immediately to the
house, but when, in compliance with the call of Henry, George and
Marchdale had left her alone, she felt so agitated and faint that she
began to cling to the trellis work of the little building for a few
moments before she could gather strength to reach the mansion.

Two or three minutes might thus have elapsed, and Flora was in such a
state of mental bewilderment with all that had occurred, that she could
scarce believe it real, when suddenly a slight sound attracted her
attention, and through the gap which had been made in the wall of the
summer-house, with an appearance of perfect composure, again appeared
Sir Francis Varney.

"Flora," he said, quietly resuming the discourse which had been broken
off, "I am quite convinced now that you will be much the happier for the
interview."

"Gracious Heaven!" said Flora, "whence have you come from?"

"I have never left," said Varney.

"But I saw you fly from this spot."

"You did; but it was only to another immediately outside the summer
house. I had no idea of breaking off our conference so abruptly."

"Have you anything to add to what you have already stated?"

"Absolutely nothing, unless you have a question to propose to me--I
should have thought you had, Flora. Is there no other circumstance
weighing heavily upon your mind, as well as the dreadful visitation I
have subjected you to?"

"Yes," said Flora. "What has become of Charles Holland?"

"Listen. Do not discard all hope; when you are far from here you will
meet with him again."

"But he has left me."

"And yet he will be able, when you again encounter him, so far to
extenuate his seeming perfidy, that you shall hold him as untouched in
honour as when first he whispered to you that he loved you."

"Oh, joy! joy!" said Flora; "by that assurance you have robbed
misfortune of its sting, and richly compensated me for all that I have
suffered."

"Adieu!" said the vampyre. "I shall now proceed to my own home by a
different route to that taken by those who would kill me."

"But after this," said Flora, "there shall be no danger; you shall be
held harmless, and our departure from Bannerworth Hall shall be so
quick, that you will soon be released from all apprehension of vengeance
from my brother, and I shall taste again of that happiness which I
thought had fled from me for ever."

"Farewell," said the vampire; and folding his cloak closely around him,
he strode from the summer-house, soon disappearing from her sight behind
the shrubs and ample vegetation with which that garden abounded.

Flora sunk upon her knees, and uttered a brief, but heartfelt
thanksgiving to Heaven for this happy change in her destiny. The hue of
health faintly again visited her cheeks, and as she now, with a feeling
of more energy and strength than she had been capable of exerting for
many days, walked towards the house, she felt all that delightful
sensation which the mind experiences when it is shaking off the trammels
of some serious evil which it delights now to find that the imagination
has attired in far worse colours than the facts deserved.

It is scarcely necessary, after this, to say that the search in the wood
for Sir Francis Varney was an unproductive one, and that the morning
dawned upon the labours of the brother and of Mr. Marchdale, without
their having discovered the least indication of the presence of Varney.
Again puzzled and confounded, they stood on the margin of the wood, and
looked sadly towards the brightening windows of Bannerworth Hall, which
were now reflecting with a golden radiance the slant rays of the morning
sun.

"Foiled again," remarked Henry, with a gesture of impatience; "foiled
again, and as completely as before. I declare that I will fight this
man, let our friend the admiral say what he will against such a measure
I will meet him in mortal combat; he shall consummate his triumph over
our whole family by my death, or I will rid the world and ourselves of
so frightful a character."

"Let us hope," said Marchdale, "that some other course may be adopted,
which shall put an end to these proceedings."

"That," exclaimed Henry, "is to hope against all probability; what other
course can be pursued? Be this Varney man or devil, he has evidently
marked us for his prey."

[Illustration]

"Indeed, it would seem so," remarked George; "but yet he shall find that
we will not fall so easily; he shall discover that if poor Flora's
gentle spirit has been crushed by these frightful circumstances, we are
of a sterner mould."

"He shall," said Henry; "I for one will dedicate my life to this matter.
I will know no more rest than is necessary to recruit my frame, until I
have succeeded in overcoming this monster; I will seek no pleasure here,
and will banish from my mind, all else that may interfere with that one
fixed pursuit. He or I must fall."

"Well spoken," said Marchdale; "and yet I hope that circumstances may
occur to prevent such a necessity of action, and that probably you will
yet see that it will be wise and prudent to adopt a milder and a safer
course."

"No, Marchdale, you cannot feel as we feel. You look on more as a
spectator, sympathising with the afflictions of either, than feeling the
full sting of those afflictions yourself."

"Do I not feel acutely for you? I'm a lonely man in the world, and I
have taught myself now to centre my affections in your family; my
recollections of early years assist me in so doing. Believe me, both of
you, that I am no idle spectator of your griefs, but that I share them
fully. If I advise you to be peaceful, and to endeavour by the gentlest
means possible to accomplish your aims, it is not that I would counsel
you cowardice; but having seen so much more of the world than either of
you have had time or opportunity of seeing, I do not look so
enthusiastically upon matters, but, with a cooler, calmer judgment, I do
not say a better, I proffer to you my counsel."

"We thank you," said Henry; "but this is a matter in which action seems
specially called for. It is not to be borne that a whole family is to be
oppressed by such a fiend in human shape as that Varney."

"Let me," said Marchdale, "counsel you to submit to Flora's decision in
this business; let her wishes constitute the rules of action. She is the
greatest sufferer, and the one most deeply interested in the termination
of this fearful business. Moreover she has judgment and decision of
character--she will advise you rightly, be assured."

"That she would advise us honourably," said Henry, "and that we should
feel every disposition in the world to defer to her wishes our
proposition, is not to be doubted; but little shall be done without her
counsel and sanction. Let us now proceed homeward, for I am most anxious
to ascertain how it came about that she and Sir Francis Varney were
together in that summer-house at so strange an hour."

They all three walked together towards the house, conversing in a
similar strain as they went.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE CONSULTATION.--THE DUEL AND ITS RESULTS.

[Illustration]

Independent of this interview which Flora had had with the much dreaded
Sir Francis Varney, the circumstances in which she and all who were dear
to her, happened at that moment to be placed, certainly required an
amount of consideration, which could not be too soon bestowed.

By a combination of disagreeables, everything that could possibly occur
to disturb the peace of the family seemed to have taken place at once;
like Macbeth's, their troubles had truly come in battalions, and now
that the serenity of their domestic position was destroyed, minor evils
and annoyances which that very serenity had enabled them to hold at
arm's-length became gigantic, and added much to their distress.

The small income, which, when all was happiness, health and peace, was
made to constitute a comfortable household, was now totally inadequate
to do so--the power to economise and to make the most of a little, had
flown along with that contentedness of spirit which the harmony of
circumstances alone could produce.

It was not to be supposed that poor Mrs. Bannerworth could now, as she
had formerly done, when her mind was free from anxiety, attend to those
domestic matters which make up the comforts of a family--distracted at
the situation of her daughter, and bewildered by the rapid succession of
troublesome events which so short a period of time had given birth to,
she fell into an inert state of mind as different as anything could
possibly be, from her former active existence.

It has likewise been seen how the very domestics fled from Bannerworth
Hall in dismay, rather than remain beneath the same roof with a family
believed to be subject to the visitations of so awful a being as a
vampyre.

Among the class who occupy positions of servitude, certainly there might
have been found some, who, with feelings and understandings above such
considerations, would have clung sympathetically to that family in
distress, which they had known under a happier aspect; but it had not
been the good fortune of the Bannerworths to have such as these about
them; hence selfishness had its way, and they were deserted. It was not
likely, then, that strangers would willingly accept service in a family
so situated, without some powerful impulse in the shape of a higher
pecuniary consideration, as was completely out of the power of the
Bannerworths to offer.