Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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"Nor I, indeed," said Henry; "but yet I somehow tremble for his fate,
and I seem to feel that something ought to be done to save him from the
fearful consequences of popular feeling. Let us hasten to the town, and
procure what assistance we may: but a few persons, well organised and
properly armed, will achieve wonders against a desultory and
ill-appointed multitude. There may be a chance of saving him, yet, from
the imminent danger which surrounds him."

"That's proper," cried the admiral. "I don't like to see anybody run
down. A fair fight's another thing. Yard arm and yard arm--stink pots
and pipkins--broadside to broadside--and throw in your bodies, if you
like, on the lee quarter; but don't do anything shabby. What do you
think of it, Jack?"

"Why, I means to say as how if Varney only keeps on sail as he's been
doing, that the devil himself wouldn't catch him in a gale."

"And yet," said Henry, "it is our duty to do the best we can. Let us at
once to the town, and summons all the assistance in our power. Come
on--come on!"

His friends needed no further urging, but, at a brisk pace, they all
proceeded by the nearest footpaths towards the town.

It puzzled his pursuers to think in what possible direction Sir Francis
Varney expected to find sustenance or succour, when they saw how
curiously he took his flight across the meadows. Instead of
endeavouring, by any circuitous path, to seek the shelter of his own
house, or to throw himself upon the care of the authorities of the town,
who must, to the extent of their power, have protected him, he struck
across the fields, apparently without aim or purpose, seemingly intent
upon nothing but to distance his pursuers in a long chase, which might
possibly tire them, or it might not, according to their or his powers of
endurance.

We say this seemed to be the case, but it was not so in reality. Sir
Francis Varney had a deeper purpose, and it was scarcely to be supposed
that a man of his subtle genius, and, apparently, far-seeing and
reflecting intellect, could have so far overlooked the many dangers of
his position as not to be fully prepared for some such contingency as
that which had just now occurred.

Holding, as he did, so strange a place in society--living among men, and
yet possessing so few attributes in common with humanity--he must all
along have felt the possibility of drawing upon himself popular
violence.

He could not wholly rely upon the secrecy of the Bannerworth family,
much as they might well be supposed to shrink from giving publicity to
circumstances of so fearfully strange and perilous a nature as those
which had occurred amongst them. The merest accident might, at any
moment, make him the town's talk. The overhearing of a few chance words
by some gossiping domestic--some ebullition of anger or annoyance by
some member of the family--or a communication from some friend who had
been treated with confidence--might, at any time, awaken around him some
such a storm as that which now raged at his heels.

Varney the vampire must have calculated this. He must have felt the
possibility of such a state of things; and, as a matter of course,
politicly provided himself with some place of refuge.

After about twenty minutes of hard chasing across the fields, there
could be no doubt of his intentions. He had such a place of refuge; and,
strange a one as it might appear, he sped towards it in as direct a line
as ever a well-sped arrow flew towards its mark.

That place of refuge, to the surprise of every one, appeared to be the
ancient ruin, of which we have before spoken, and which was so well
known to every inhabitant of the county.

Truly, it seemed like some act of mere desperation for Sir Francis
Varney to hope there to hide himself. There remained within, of what had
once been a stately pile, but a few grey crumbling walls, which the
hunted have would have passed unheeded, knowing that not for one instant
could he have baffled his pursuers by seeking so inefficient a refuge.

And those who followed hard and fast upon the track of Sir Francis
Varney felt so sure of their game, when they saw whither he was
speeding, that they relaxed in their haste considerably, calling loudly
to each other that the vampire was caught at last, for he could be
easily surrounded among the old ruins, and dragged from amongst its
moss-grown walls.

In another moment, with a wild dash and a cry of exultation, he sprang
out of sight, behind an angle, formed by what had been at one time one
of the principal supports of the ancient structure.

Then, as if there was still something so dangerous about him, that only
by a great number of hands could he be hoped to be secured, the
infuriated peasantry gathered in a dense circle around what they
considered his temporary place of refuge, and as the sun, which had now
climbed above the tree tops, and dispersed, in a great measure, many of
the heavy clouds of morning, shone down upon the excited group, they
might have been supposed there assembled to perform some superstitious
rite, which time had hallowed as an association of the crumbling ruin
around which they stood.

By the time the whole of the stragglers, who had persisted in the chase,
had come up, there might have been about fifty or sixty resolute men,
each intent upon securing the person of one whom they felt, while in
existence, would continue to be a terror to all the weaker and dearer
portions of their domestic circles.

There was a pause of several minutes. Those who had come the fleetest
were gathering breath, and those who had come up last were looking to
their more forward companions for some information as to what had
occurred before their arrival.

All was profoundly still within the ruin, and then suddenly, as if by
common consent, there arose from every throat a loud shout of
"Down with the vampyre! down with the vampyre!"

The echoes of that shout died away, and then all was still as before,
while a superstitious feeling crept over even the boldest. It would
almost seem as if they had expected some kind of response from Sir
Francis Varney to the shout of defiance with which they had just greeted
him; but the very calmness, repose, and absolute quiet of the ruin, and
all about it, alarmed them, and they looked the one at the other as if
the adventure after all were not one of the pleasantest description, and
might not fall out so happily as they had expected.

Yet what danger could there be? there were they, more than half a
hundred stout, strong men, to cope with one; they felt convinced that he
was completely in their power; they knew the ruins could not hide him,
and that five minutes time given to the task, would suffice to explore
every nook and corner of them.

And yet they hesitated, while an unknown terror shook their nerves, and
seemingly from the very fact that they had run down their game
successfully, they dreaded to secure the trophy of the chase.

One bold spirit was wanting; and, if it was not a bold one that spoke at
length, he might be complimented as being comparatively such. It was one
who had not been foremost in the chase, perchance from want of physical
power, who now stood forward, and exclaimed,--

"What are you waiting for, now? You can have him when you like. If you
want your wives and children to sleep quietly in their beds, you will
secure the vampyre. Come on--we all know he's here--why do you hesitate?
Do you expect me to go alone and drag him out by the ears?"

Any voice would have sufficed to break the spell which bound them. This
did so; and, with one accord, and yells of imprecation, they rushed
forward and plunged among the old walls of the ruin.

Less time than we have before remarked would have enabled any one to
explore the tottering fabric sufficient to bring a conviction to their
minds that, after all, there might have been some mistake about the
matter, and Sir Francis Varney was not quite caught yet.

It was astonishing how the fact of not finding him in a moment, again
roused all their angry feelings against him, and dispelled every feeling
of superstitious awe with which he had been surrounded; rage gave place
to the sort of shuddering horror with which they had before contemplated
his immediate destruction, when they had believed him to be virtually
within their very grasp.

Over and over again the ruins were searched--hastily and impatiently by
some, carefully and deliberately by others, until there could be no
doubt upon the mind of every one individual, that somehow or somewhere
within the shadow of those walls, Sir Francis Varney had disappeared
most mysteriously.

Then it would have been a strange sight for any indifferent spectator to
have seen how they shrunk, one by one, out of the shadow of those ruins;
each seeming to be afraid that the vampyre, in some mysterious manner,
would catch him if he happened to be the last within their sombre
influence; and, when they had all collected in the bright, open space,
some little distance beyond, they looked at each other and at the ruins,
with dubious expressions of countenance, each, no doubt, wishing that
each would suggest something of a consolatory or practicable character.

"What's to be done, now?" said one.

"Ah! that's it," said another, sententiously. "I'll be hanged if I
know."

"He's given us the slip," remarked a third.

"But he can't have given us the slip," said one man, who was
particularly famous for a dogmatical spirit of argumentation; "how is it
possible? he must be here, and I say he is here."

"Find him, then," cried several at once.

"Oh! that's nothing to do with the argument; he's here, whether we find
him or not."

One very cunning fellow laid his finger on his nose, and beckoned to a
comrade to retire some paces, where he delivered himself of the
following very oracular sentiment:--

"My good friend, you must know Sir Francis Varney is here or he isn't."

"Agreed, agreed."

"Well, if he isn't here it's no use troubling our heads any more about
him; but, otherwise, it's quite another thing, and, upon the whole, I
must say, that I rather think he is."

All looked at him, for it was evident he was big with some suggestion.
After a pause, he resumed,--

"Now, my good friends, I propose that we all appear to give it up, and
to go away; but that some one of us shall remain and hide among the
ruins for some time, to watch, in case the vampyre makes his appearance
from some hole or corner that we haven't found out."

"Oh, capital!" said everybody.

"Then you all agree to that?"

"Yes, yes."

"Very good; that's the only way to nick him. Now, we'll pretend to give
it up; let's all of us talk loud about going home."

They did all talk loud about going home; they swore that it was not
worth the trouble of catching him, that they gave it up as a bad job;
that he might go to the deuce in any way he liked, for all they cared;
and then they all walked off in a body, when, the man who had made the
suggestion, suddenly cried,--

"Hilloa! hilloa!--stop! stop! you know one of us is to wait?"

"Oh, ay; yes, yes, yes!" said everybody, and still they moved on.

"But really, you know, what's the use of this? who's to wait?"

That was, indeed, a knotty question, which induced a serious
consultation, ending in their all, with one accord, pitching upon the
author of the suggestion, as by far the best person to hide in the ruins
and catch the vampyre.

They then all set off at full speed; but the cunning fellow, who
certainly had not the slightest idea of so practically carrying out his
own suggestion, scampered off after them with a speed that soon brought
him in the midst of the throng again, and so, with fear in their looks,
and all the evidences of fatigue about them, they reached the town to
spread fresh and more exaggerated accounts of the mysterious conduct of
Varney the vampyre.

CHAPTER XLIV.

VARNEY'S DANGER, AND HIS RESCUE.--THE PRISONER AGAIN, AND THE
SUBTERRANEAN VAULT.

[Illustration]

We have before slightly mentioned to the reader, and not unadvisedly,
the existence of a certain prisoner, confined in a gloomy dungeon, into
whose sad and blackened recesses but few and faint glimmering rays of
light ever penetrated; for, by a diabolical ingenuity, the narrow
loophole which served for a window to that subterraneous abode was so
constructed, that, let the sun be at what point it might, during its
diurnal course, but a few reflected beams of light could ever find their
way into that abode of sorrow.

The prisoner--the same prisoner of whom we before spoke--is there.
Despair is in his looks, and his temples are still bound with those
cloths, which seemed now for many days to have been sopped in blood,
which has become encrusted in their folds.

He still lives, apparently incapable of movement. How he has lived so
long seems to be a mystery, for one would think him scarcely in a state,
even were nourishment placed to his lips, to enable him to swallow it.

It may be, however, that the mind has as much to do with that apparent
absolute prostration of all sort of physical energy as those bodily
wounds which he has received at the hands of the enemies who have
reduced him to his present painful and hopeless situation.

Occasionally a low groan burst from his lips; it seems to come from the
very bottom of his heart, and it sounds as if it would carry with it
every remnant of vitality that was yet remaining to him.

Then he moves restlessly, and repeats in hurried accents the names of
some who are dear to him, and far away--some who may, perchance, be
mourning him, but who know not, guess not, aught of his present
sufferings.

As he thus moves, the rustle of a chain among the straw on which he lies
gives an indication, that even in that dungeon it has not been
considered prudent to leave him master of his own actions, lest, by too
vigorous an effort, he might escape from the thraldom in which he is
held.

The sound reaches his own ears, and for a few moments, in the deep
impatience of his wounded spirit, he heaps malediction on the heads of
those who have reduced him to his present state.

But soon a better nature seems to come over him, and gentler words fall
from his lips. He preaches patience to himself--he talks not of revenge,
but of justice, and in accents of more hopefulness than he had before
spoken, he calls upon Heaven to succour him in his deep distress.

Then all is still, and the prisoner appears to have resigned himself
once more to the calmness of expectation or of despair; but hark! his
sense of hearing, rendered doubly acute by lying so long alone in nearly
darkness, and in positive silence, detects sounds which, to ordinary
mortal powers of perception, would have been by far too indistinct to
produce any tangible effect upon the senses.

It is the sound of feet--on, on they come; far overhead he hears them;
they beat the green earth--that sweet, verdant sod, which he may never
see again--with an impatient tread. Nearer and nearer still; and now
they pause; he listens with all the intensity of one who listens for
existence; some one comes; there is a lumbering noise--a hasty footstep;
he hears some one labouring for breath--panting like a hunted hare; his
dungeon door is opened, and there totters in a man, tall and gaunt; he
reels like one intoxicated; fatigue has done more than the work of
inebriation; he cannot save himself, and he sinks exhausted by the side
of that lonely prisoner.

The captive raises himself as far as his chains will allow him; he
clutches the throat of his enervated visitor.

"Villain, monster, vampyre!" he shrieks, "I have thee now;" and locked
in a deadly embrace, they roll upon the damp earth, struggling for life
together.

* * * * *

It is mid-day at Bannerworth Hall, and Flora is looking from the
casement anxiously expecting the arrival of her brothers. She had seen,
from some of the topmost windows of the Hall, that the whole
neighbourhood had been in a state of commotion, but little did she guess
the cause of so much tumult, or that it in any way concerned her.

She had seen the peasantry forsaking their work in the fields and the
gardens, and apparently intent upon some object of absorbing interest;
but she feared to leave the house, for she had promised Henry that she
would not do so, lest the former pacific conduct of the vampyre should
have been but a new snare, for the purpose of drawing her so far from
her home as to lead her into some danger when she should be far from
assistance.

And yet more than once was she tempted to forget her promise, and to
seek the open country, for fear that those she loved should be
encountering some danger for her sake, which she would willingly either
share with them or spare them.

The solicitation, however, of her brother kept her comparatively quiet;
and, moreover, since her last interview with Varney, in which, at all
events, he had shown some feeling for the melancholy situation to which,
he had reduced her, she had been more able to reason calmly, and to meet
the suggestions of passion and of impulse with a sober judgment.

About midday, then, she saw the domestic party returning--that party,
which now consisted of her two brothers, the admiral, Jack Pringle, and
Mr. Chillingworth. As for Mr. Marchdale, he had given them a polite
adieu on the confines of the grounds of Bannerworth Hall, stating, that
although he had felt it to be his duty to come forward and second Henry
Bannerworth in the duel with the vampyre, yet that circumstance by no
means obliterated from his memory the insults he had received from
Admiral Bell, and, therefore, he declined going to Bannerworth Hall, and
bade them a very good morning.

To all this, Admiral Bell replied that he might go and be d----d, if he
liked, and that he considered him a swab and a humbug, and appealed to
Jack Pringle whether he, Jack, ever saw such a sanctified looking prig
in his life.

"Ay, ay," says Jack.

This answer, of course, produced the usual contention, which lasted them
until they got fairly in the house, where they swore at each other to an
extent that was enough to make any one's hair stand on end, until Henry
and Mr. Chillingworth interfered, and really begged that they would
postpone the discussion until some more fitting opportunity.

The whole of the circumstances were then related to Flora; who, while
she blamed her brother much for fighting the duel with the vampyre,
found in the conduct of that mysterious individual, as regarded the
encounter, yet another reason for believing him to be strictly sincere
in his desire to save her from the consequences of his future visits.

Her desire to leave Bannerworth Hall consequently became more and more
intense, and as the admiral really now considered himself the master of
the house, they offered no amount of opposition to the subject, but
merely said,--

"My dear Flora, Admiral Bell shall decide in all these matters, now. We
know that he is our sincere friend; and that whatever he says we ought
to do, will be dictated by the best possible feelings towards us."

"Then I appeal to you, sir," said Flora, turning to the admiral.

"Very good," replied the old man; "then I say--"

"Nay, admiral," interrupted Mr. Chillingworth; "you promised me, but a
short time since, that you would come to no decision whatever upon this
question, until you had heard some particulars which I have to relate to
you, which, in my humble opinion, will sway your judgment."

"And so I did," cried the admiral; "but I had forgotten all about it.
Flora, my dear, I'll be with you in an hour or two. My friend, the
doctor, here, has got some sow by the ear, and fancies it's the right
one; however, I'll hear what he has got to say, first, before we come to
a conclusion. So, come along, Mr. Chillingworth, and let's have it out
at once."

"Flora," said Henry, when the admiral had left the room, "I can see that
you wish to leave the Hall."

"I do, brother; but not to go far--I wish rather to hide from Varney
than to make myself inaccessible by distance."

"You still cling to this neighbourhood?"

"I do, I do; and you know with what hope I cling to it."

"Perfectly; you still think it possible that Charles Holland may be
united to you."

"I do, I do."

"You believe his faith."

"Oh, yes; as I believe in Heaven's mercy."

"And I, Flora; I would not doubt him now for worlds; something even now
seems to whisper to me that a brighter sun of happiness will yet dawn
upon us, and that, when the mists which at present enshroud ourselves
and our fortunes pass away, they will disclose a landscape full of
beauty, the future of which shall know no pangs."

"Yes, brother," exclaimed Flora, enthusiastically; "this, after all, may
be but some trial, grievous while it lasts, but yet tending eventually
only to make the future look more bright and beautiful. Heaven may yet
have in store for us all some great happiness, which shall spring
clearly and decidedly from out these misfortunes."

"Be it so, and may we ever thus banish despair by such hopeful
propositions. Lean on my arm, Flora; you are safe with me. Come,
dearest, and taste the sweetness of the morning air."

There was, indeed now, a hopefulness about the manner in which Henry
Bannerworth spoke, such as Flora had not for some weary months had the
pleasure of listening to, and she eagerly rose to accompany him into the
garden, which was glowing with all the beauty of sunshine, for the day
had turned out to be much finer than the early morning had at all
promised it would be.

"Flora," he said, when they had taken some turns to and fro in the
garden, "notwithstanding all that has happened, there is no convincing
Mr. Chillingworth that Sir Francis Varney is really what to us he
appears."

"Indeed!"

"It is so. In the face of all evidence, he neither will believe in
vampyres at all, nor that Varney is anything but some mortal man, like
ourselves, in his thoughts, talents, feelings, and modes of life; and
with no more power to do any one an injury than we have."

"Oh, would that I could think so!"

"And I; but, unhappily, we have by far too many, and too conclusive
evidences to the contrary."

"We have, indeed, brother."

"And though, while we respect that strength of mind in our friend which
will not allow him, even almost at the last extremity, to yield to what
appear to be stern facts, we may not ourselves be so obdurate, but may
feel that we know enough to be convinced."

"You have no doubt, brother?"

"Most reluctantly, I must confess, that I feel compelled to consider
Varney as something more than mortal."

"He must be so."

"And now, sister, before we leave the place which has been a home to us
from earliest life, let us for a few moments consider if there be any
possible excuse for the notion of Mr. Chillingworth, to the effect that
Sir Francis Varney wants possession of the house for some purpose still
more inimical to our peace and prosperity than any he has yet
attempted."

"Has he such an opinion?"

"He has."

"'Tis very strange."

"Yes, Flora; he seems to gather from all the circumstances, nothing but
an overwhelming desire on the part of Sir Francis Varney to become the
tenant of Bannerworth Hall."

"He certainly wishes to possess it."

"Yes; but can you, sister, in the exercise of any possible amount of
fancy, imagine any motive for such an anxiety beyond what he alleges?"

"Which is merely that he is fond of old houses."

"Precisely so. That is the reason, and the only one, that can be got
from him. Heaven only knows if it be the true one."

"It may be, brother."

"As you say, it may; but there's a doubt, nevertheless, Flora. I much
rejoice that you have had an interview with this mysterious being, for
you have certainty, since that time, been happier and more composed than
I ever hoped to see you again."

"I have indeed."

"It is sufficiently perceivable."

"Somehow, brother, since that interview, I have not had the same sort of
dread of Sir Francis Varney which before made the very sound of his name
a note of terror to me. His words, and all he said to me during that
interview which took place so strangely between us, indeed how I know
not, tended altogether rather to make him, to a certain extent, an
object of my sympathies rather than my abhorrence."

"That is very strange."

"I own that it is strange, Henry; but when we come for but a brief
moment to reflect upon the circumstances which have occurred, we shall,
I think, be able to find some cause even to pity Varney the vampyre."

"How?"

"Thus, brother. It is said--and well may I who have been subject to an
attack of such a nature, tremble to repeat the saying--that those who
have been once subject to the visitations of a vampyre, are themselves
in a way to become one of the dreadful and maddening fraternity."

"I have heard so much, sister," replied Henry.

"Yes; and therefore who knows but that Sir Francis Varney may, at one
time, have been as innocent as we are ourselves of the terrible and
fiendish propensity which now makes him a terror and a reproach to all
who know him, or are in any way obnoxious to his attacks."