Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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And yet, surely he needed not have been so cautious. Who was likely, at
such an hour as that, to come to the ruins, but one who sought it by
appointment?

And, moreover, the manner of the advancing man should have been quite
sufficient to convince him who waited, that so much caution was
unnecessary; but it was a part and parcel of his nature.

About three minutes more sufficed to bring the second man to the ruin,
and he, at once, and fearlessly, plunged into its recesses.

"Who comes?" said the first man, in a deep, hollow voice.

"He whom you expect," was the reply.

"Good," he said, and at once he now emerged from his hiding-place, and
they stood together in the nearly total darkness with which the place
was enshrouded; for the night was a cloudy one, and there appeared not a
star in the heavens, to shed its faint light upon the scene below.

For a few moments they were both silent, for he who had last arrived had
evidently made great exertions to reach the spot, and was breathing
laboriously, while he who was there first appeared, from some natural
taciturnity of character, to decline opening the conversation.

At length the second comer spoke, saying,--

"I have made some exertion to get here to my time, and yet I am beyond
it, as you are no doubt aware."

"Yes, yes."

"Well, such would not have been the case; but yet, I stayed to bring you
some news of importance."

"Indeed!"

"It is so. This place, which we have, now for some time had as a quiet
and perfectly eligible one of meeting, is about to be invaded by one of
those restless, troublesome spirits, who are never happy but when they
are contriving something to the annoyance of others who do not interfere
with them."

"Explain yourself more fully."

"I will. At a tavern in the town, there has happened some strange scenes
of violence, in consequence of the general excitement into which the
common people have been thrown upon the dreadful subject of vampyres."

"Well."

"The consequence is, that numerous arrests have taken place, and the
places of confinement for offenders against the laws are now full of
those whose heated and angry imaginations have induced them to take
violent steps to discover the reality or the falsehood of rumours which
so much affected them, their wives, and their families, that they feared
to lie down to their night's repose."

The other laughed a short, hollow, restless sort of laugh, which had not
one particle of real mirth in it.

"Go on--go on," he said. "What did they do?"

"Immense excesses have been committed; but what made me, first of all,
stay beyond my time, was that I overheard a man declare his intentions
this night, from twelve till the morning, and for some nights to come,
to hold watch and ward for the vampyre."

"Indeed!"

"Yes. He did but stay, at the earnest solicitation of his comrades, to
take yet another glass, ere he came upon his expedition."

"He must be met. The idiot! what business is it of his?"

"There are always people who will make everything their business,
whether it be so or not."

"There are. Let us retire further into the recesses of the ruin, and
there consider as well what is to be done regarding more important
affairs, as with this rash intruder here."

They both walked for some twenty paces, or so, right into the ruin, and
then he who had been there first, said, suddenly, to his companion,--

"I am annoyed, although the feeling reaches no further than annoyance,
for I have a natural love of mischief, to think that my reputation has
spread so widely, and made so much noise."

"Your reputation as a vampyre, Sir Francis Varney, you mean?"

"Yes; but there is no occasion for you to utter my name aloud, even here
where we are alone together."

"It came out unawares."

"Unawares! Can it be possible that you have so little command over
yourself as to allow a name to come from your lips unawares?"

"Sometimes."

"I am surprised."

"Well, it cannot be helped. What do you now propose to do?"

"Nay, you are my privy councillor. Have you no deep-laid, artful project
in hand? Can you not plan and arrange something which may yet have the
effect of accomplishing what at first seemed so very simple, but which
has, from one unfortunate circumstance and another, become full of
difficulty and pregnant with all sorts of dangers?"

"I must confess I have no plan."

"I listen with astonishment."

"Nay, now, you are jesting."

"When did you ever hear of me jesting?"

"Not often, I admit. But you have a fertile genius, and I have always,
myself, found it easier to be the executive than to plan an elaborate
course of action for others."

"Then you throw it all on me?"

"I throw a weight, naturally enough, upon the shoulders which I think
the best adapted to sustain it."

"Be it so, then--be it so."

"You are, I presume, from what you say, provided with a scheme of action
which shall present better hopes of success, at less risk, I hope. Look
what great danger we have already passed through."

"Yes, we have."

"I pray you avoid that in the next campaign."

"It is not the danger that annoys and troubles me, but it is that,
notwithstanding it, the object is as far off as ever from being
attained."

"And not only so, but, as is invariably the case under such
circumstances, we have made it more difficult of execution because we
have put those upon their guard thoroughly who are the most likely to
oppose us."

"We have--we have."

"And placed the probability of success afar off indeed."

"And yet I have set my life upon the cast, and I will stand the hazard.
I tell you I will accomplish this object, or I will perish in the
attempt."

"You are too enthusiastic."

"Not at all. Nothing has been ever done, the execution of which was
difficult, without enthusiasm. I will do what I intend, or Bannerworth
Hall shall become a heap of ruins, where fire shall do its worst work of
devastation, and I will myself find a grave in the midst."

"Well, I quarrel with no man for chalking out the course he intends to
pursue; but what do you mean to do with the prisoner below here?"

"Kill him."

"What?"

"I say kill him. Do you not understand me?"

"I do, indeed."

"When everything else is secured, and when the whole of that which I so
much court, and which I will have, is in my possession, I will take his
life, or you shall. Ay, you are just the man for such a deed. A
smooth-faced, specious sort of roan are you, and you like not danger.
There will be none in taking the life of a man who is chained to the
floor of a dungeon."

"I know not why," said the other, "you take a pleasure on this
particular night, of all others, in saying all you can which you think
will be offensive to me."

"Now, how you wrong me. This is the reward of confidence."

"I don't want such confidence."

"Why, you surely don't want me to flatter you."

"No; but--"

"Psha! Hark you. That admiral is the great stumbling-block in my way. I
should ere this have had undisturbed possession of Bannerworth Hall but
for him. He must be got out of the way somehow."

"A short time will tire him out of watching. He is one of those men of
impulse who soon become wearied of inaction."

"Ay, and then the Bannerworths return to the Hall."

"It may be so."

"I am certain of it. We have been out-generalled in this matter,
although I grant we did all that men could do to give us success."

"In what way would you get rid of this troublesome admiral?"

"I scarcely know. A letter from his nephew might, if well put together,
get him to London."

"I doubt it. I hate him mortally. He has offended me more than once most
grievously."

"I know it. He saw through you."

"I do not give him so much credit. He is a suspicious man, and a vain
and a jealous one."

"And yet he saw through you. Now, listen to me. You are completely at
fault, and have no plan of operations whatever in your mind. What I want
you to do is, to disappear from the neighbourhood for a time, and so
will I. As for our prisoner here below, I cannot see what else can be
done with him than--than--"

"Than what? Do you hesitate?"

"I do."

"Then what is it you were about to say?"

"I cannot but feel that all we have done hitherto, as regards this young
prisoner of ours, has failed. He has, with a determined obstinacy, set
at naught, as well you know, all threats."

"He has."

"He has refused to do one act which could in any way aid me in my
objects. In fact, from the first to the last, he has been nothing but an
expense and an encumbrance to us both."

"All that is strictly true."

"And yet, although you, as well as I, know of a marvellously ready way
of getting rid of such encumbrances, I must own, that I shrink with more
than a feeling of reluctance from the murder of the youth."

"You contemplated it then?" asked the other.

"No; I cannot be said to have contemplated it. That is not the proper
sort of expression to use."

"What is then?"

"To contemplate a deed seems to me to have some close connexion to the
wish to do it."

"And you have no such wish?"

"I have no such wish, and what is more I will not do it."

"Then that is sufficient; and the only question that remains for you to
confide, is, what you will do. It is far easier in all enterprises to
decide upon what we will not do, than upon what we will. For my own part
I must say that I can perceive no mode of extricating ourselves from
this involvement with anything like safety."

"Then it must be done with something like danger."

"As you please."

"You say so, and your words bear a clear enough signification; but from
your tone I can guess how much you are dissatisfied with the aspect of
affairs."

"Dissatisfied!"

"Yes; I say, dissatisfied. Be frank, and own that which it is in vain to
conceal from me. I know you too well; arch hypocrite as you are, and
fully capable of easily deceiving many, you cannot deceive me."

"I really cannot understand you."

"Then I will take care that you shall."

"How?"

"Listen. I will not have the life of Charles Holland taken."

"Who wishes to take it?"

"You."

"There, indeed, you wrong me. Unless you yourself thought that such an
act was imperatively called for by the state of affairs, do you think
that I would needlessly bring down upon my head the odium as well as the
danger of such a deed? No, no. Let him live, if you are willing; he may
live a thousand years for all I care."

"'Tis well. I am, mark me, not only willing, but I am determined that he
shall live so far as we are concerned. I can respect the courage that,
even when he considered that his life was at stake, enabled him to say
no to a proposal which was cowardly and dishonourable, although it went
far to the defeat of my own plans and has involved me in much trouble."

"Hush! hush!"

"What is it?"

"I fancy I hear a footstep."

"Indeed; that were a novelty in such a place as this."

"And yet not more than I expected. Have you forgotten what I told you
when I reached here to-night after the appointed hour?"

"Truly; I had for the moment. Do you think then that the footstep which
now meets our ears, is that of the adventurer who boasted that he could
keep watch for the vampyre?"

"In faith do I. What is to be done with such a meddling fool?"

"He ought certainly to be taught not to be so fond of interfering with
other people's affairs."

"Certainly."

"Perchance the lesson will not be wholly thrown away upon others. It may
be worth while to take some trouble with this poor valiant fellow, and
let him spread his news so as to stop any one else from being equally
venturous and troublesome."

"A good thought."

"Shall it be done?"

"Yes; if you will arrange that which shall accomplish such a result."

"Be it so. The moon rises soon."

"It does."

"Ah, already I fancy I see a brightening of the air as if the mellow
radiance of the queen of night were already quietly diffusing itself
throughout the realms of space. Come further within the ruins."

They both walked further among the crumbling walls and fragments of
columns with which the place abounded. As they did so they paused now
and then to listen, and more than once they both heard plainly the sound
of certain footsteps immediately outside the once handsome and spacious
building.

Varney, the vampyre, who had been holding this conversation with no
other than Marchdale, smiled as he, in a whispered voice, told the
latter what to do in order to frighten away from the place the foolhardy
man who thought that, by himself, he should be able to accomplish
anything against the vampyre.

It was, indeed, a hair-brained expedition, for whether Sir Francis
Varney was really so awful and preternatural a being as so many
concurrent circumstances would seem to proclaim, or not, he was not a
likely being to allow himself to be conquered by anyone individual, let
his powers or his courage be what they might.

What induced this man to become so ventursome we shall now proceed to
relate, as well as what kind of reception he got in the old ruins,
which, since the mysterious disappearance of Sir Francis Varney within
their recesses, had possessed so increased a share of interest and
attracted so much popular attention and speculation.

CHAPTER LXIII.

THE GUESTS AT THE INN, AND THE STORY OF THE DEAD UNCLE.

[Illustration]

As had been truly stated by Mr. Marchdale, who now stands out in his
true colours to the reader as the confidant and abettor of Sir Francis
Varney, there had assembled on that evening a curious and a gossipping
party at the inn where such dreadful and such riotous proceedings had
taken place, which, in their proper place, we have already duly and at
length recorded.

It was not very likely that, on that evening, or for many and many an
evening to come, the conversation in the parlour of the inn would be
upon any other subject than that of the vampyre.

Indeed, the strange, mysterious, and horrible circumstances which had
occurred, bade fair to be gossipping stock in trade for many a year.

Never before had a subject presenting so many curious features arisen.
Never, within the memory of that personage who is supposed to know
everything, had there occurred any circumstance in the county, or set of
circumstances, which afforded such abundant scope for conjecture and
speculation.

Everybody might have his individual opinion, and be just as likely to be
right as his neighbours; and the beauty of the affair was, that such was
the interest of the subject itself, that there was sure to be a kind of
reflected interest with every surmise that at all bore upon it.

[Illustration]

On this particular night, when Marchdale was prowling about, gathering
what news he could, in order that he might carry it to the vampyre, a
more than usually strong muster of the gossips of the town took place.

Indeed, all of any note in the talking way were there, with the
exception of one, and he was in the county gaol, being one of the
prisoners apprehended by the military when they made the successful
attack upon the lumber-room of the inn, after the dreadful desecration
of the dead which had taken place.

The landlord of the inn was likely to make a good thing of it, for
talking makes people thirsty; and he began to consider that a vampyre
about once a-year would be no bad thing for the Blue Lion.

"It's shocking," said one of the guests; "it's shocking to think of.
Only last night, I am quite sure I had such a fright that it added at
least ten years to my age."

"A fright!" said several.

"I believe I speak English--I said a fright."

"Well, but had it anything to do with the vampyre?"

"Everything."

"Oh! do tell us; do tell us all about it. How was it? Did he come to
you? Go on. Well, well."

The first speaker became immediately a very important personage in the
room; and, when he saw that, he became at once a very important
personage in his own eyes likewise; and, before he would speak another
word, he filled a fresh pipe, and ordered another mug of ale.

"It's no use trying to hurry him," said one.

"No," he said, "it isn't. I'll tell you in good time what a dreadful
circumstance has made me sixty-three to-day, when I was only fifty-three
yesterday."

"Was it very dreadful?"

"Rather. You wouldn't have survived it at all."

"Indeed!"

"No. Now listen. I went to bed at a quarter after eleven, as usual. I
didn't notice anything particular in the room."

"Did you peep under the bed?"

"No, I didn't. Well, as I was a-saying, to bed I went, and I didn't
fasten the door; because, being a very sound sleeper, in case there was
a fire, I shouldn't hear a word of it if I did."

"No," said another. "I recollect once--"

"Be so good as allow me to finish what I know, before you begin to
recollect anything, if you please. As I was saying, I didn't lock the
door, but I went to bed. Somehow or another, I did not feel at all
comfortable, and I tossed about, first on one side, and then on the
other; but it was all in vain; I only got, every moment, more and more
fidgetty."

"And did you think of the vampyre?" said one of the listeners.

"I thought of nothing else till I heard my clock, which is on the
landing of the stairs above my bed-room, begin to strike twelve."

"Ah! I like to hear a clock sound in the night," said one; "it puts one
in mind of the rest of the world, and lets one know one isn't all
alone."

"Very good. The striking of the clock I should not at all have objected
to; but it was what followed that did the business."

"What, what?"

"Fair and softly; fair and softly. Just hand me a light, Mr. Sprigs, if
you please. I'll tell you all, gentlemen, in a moment or two."

With the most provoking deliberation, the speaker re-lit his pipe, which
had gone out while he was talking, and then, after a few whiffs, to
assure himself that its contents had thoroughly ignited, he resumed,--

"No sooner had the last sound of it died away, than I heard something on
the stairs."

"Yes, yes."

"It was as if some man had given his foot a hard blow against one of the
stairs; and he would have needed to have had a heavy boot on to do it. I
started up in bed and listened, as you may well suppose, not in the most
tranquil state of mind, and then I heard an odd, gnawing sort of noise,
and then another dab upon one of the stairs."

"How dreadful!"

"It was. What to do I knew not, or what to think, except that the
vampyre had, by some means, got in at the attic window, and was coming
down stairs to my room. That seemed the most likely. Then there was
another groan, and then another heavy step; and, as they were evidently
coming towards my door, I felt accordingly, and got out of bed, not
knowing hardly whether I was on my head or my heels, to try and lock my
door."

"Ah, to be sure."

"Yes; that was all very well, if I could have done it; but a man in such
a state of mind as I was in is not a very sharp hand at doing anything.
I shook from head to foot. The room was very dark, and I couldn't, for a
moment or two, collect my senses sufficient really to know which way the
door lay."

"What a situation!"

"It was. Dab, dab, dab, came these horrid footsteps, and there was I
groping about the room in an agony. I heard them coming nearer and
nearer to my door. Another moment, and they must have reached it, when
my hand struck against the lock."

"What an escape!"

"No, it was not."

"No?"

"No, indeed. The key was on the outside, and you may well guess I was
not over and above disposed to open the door to get at it."

"No, no."

"I felt regularly bewildered, I can tell you; it seemed to me as if the
very devil himself was coming down stairs hopping all the way upon one
leg."

"How terrific!"

"I felt my senses almost leaving me; but I did what I could to hold the
door shut just as I heard the strange step come from the last stair on
to the landing. Then there was a horrid sound, and some one began trying
the lock of my door."

"What a moment!"

"Yes, I can tell you it was a moment. Such a moment as I don't wish to
go through again. I held the door as close as I could, and did not
speak. I tried to cry out help and murder, but I could not; my tongue
stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my strength was fast failing me."

"Horrid, horrid!"

"Take a drop of ale."

"Thank you. Well, I don't think this went on above two or three minutes,
and all the while some one tried might and main to push open the door.
My strength left me all at once; I had only time to stagger back a step
or two, and then, as the door opened, I fainted away."

"Well, well!"

"Ah, you wouldn't have said well, if you had been there, I can tell
you."

"No; but what become of you. What happened next? How did it end? What
was it?"

"Why, what exactly happened next after I fainted I cannot tell you; but
the first thing I saw when I recovered was a candle."

"Yes, yes."

"And then a crowd of people."

"Ah, ah!"

"And then Dr. Web."

"Gracious!"

"And. Mrs. Bulk, my housekeeper. I was in my own bed, and when I opened
my eyes I heard Dr. Webb say,--

"'He will be better soon. Can no one form any idea of what it is all
about. Some sudden fright surely could alone have produced such an
effect.'"

"'The Lord have mercy upon me!' said I.

"Upon this everybody who had been called in got round the bed, and
wanted to know what had happened; but I said not a word of it; but
turning to Mrs. Bulk, I asked her how it was she found out I had
fainted.

"'Why, sir,' says she, 'I was coming up to bed as softly as I could,
because I knew you had gone to rest some time before. The clock was
striking twelve, and as I went past it some of my clothes, I suppose,
caught the large weight, but it was knocked off, and down the stairs it
rolled, going with such a lump from one to the other, and I couldn't
catch it because it rolled so fast, that I made sure you would be
awakened; so I came down to tell you what it was, and it was some time
before I could get your room door open, and when I did I found you out
of bed and insensible.'"

There was a general look of disappointment when this explanation was
given, and one said,--

"Then it was not the vampire?"

"Certainly not."

"And, after all, only a clock weight."

"That's about it."

"Why didn't you tell us that at first?"

"Because that would have spoilt the story."

There was a general murmur of discontent, and, after a few moments one
man said, with some vivacity,--

"Well, although our friend's vampyre has turned out, after all, to be
nothing but a confounded clock-weight, there's no disputing the fact
about Sir Francis Varney being a vampyre, and not a clock-weight."

"Very true--very true."

"And what's to be done to rid the town of such a man?"

"Oh, don't call him a man."

"Well, a monster."

"Ah, that's more like. I tell you what, sir, if you had got a light,
when you first heard the noise in your room, and gone out to see what it
was, you would have spared yourself much fright."

"Ah, no doubt; it's always easy afterwards to say, if you had done this,
and if you had done the other, so and so would have been the effect; but
there is something about the hour of midnight that makes men tremble."

"Well," said one, who had not yet spoken, "I don't see why twelve at
night should be a whit more disagreeable than twelve at day."

"Don't you?"

"Not I."

"Now, for instance, many a party of pleasure goes to that old ruin where
Sir Francis Varney so unaccountably disappeared in broad daylight. But
is there any one here who would go to it alone, and at midnight?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"I would."

"What! and after what has happened as regards the vampyre in connection
with it?"

"Yes, I would."

"I'll bet you twenty shilling you won't."

"And I--and I," cried several.

"Well, gentlemen," said the man, who certainly shewed no signs of fear,
"I will go, and not only will I go and take all your bets, but, if I do
meet the vampyre, then I'll do my best to take him prisoner."

"And when will you go?"

"To-night," he cried, and he sprang to his feet; "hark ye all, I don't
believe one word about vampyres. I'll go at once; it's getting late, and
let any one of you, in order that you may be convinced I have been to
the place, give me any article, which I will hide among the ruins; and
tell you where to find it to-morrow in broad daylight."

"Well," said one, "that's fair, Tom Eccles. Here's a handkerchief of
mine; I should know it again among a hundred others."

"Agreed; I'll leave it in the ruins."

The wagers were fairly agreed upon; several handkerchiefs were handed to
Tom Eccles; and at eleven o'clock he fairly started, through the murky
darkness of the night, to the old ruin where Sir Francis Varney and
Marchdale were holding their most unholy conference.

It is one thing to talk and to accept wagers in the snug parlour of an
inn, and another to go alone across a tract of country wrapped in the
profound stillness of night to an ancient ruin which, in addition to the
natural gloom which might well be supposed to surround it, has
superadded associations which are anything but of a pleasant character.

Tom Eccles, as he was named, was one of those individuals who act
greatly from impulse. He was certainly not a coward, and, perhaps,
really as free from superstition as most persons, but he was human, and
consequently he had nerves, and he had likewise an imagination.