Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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He went to his house first before he started on his errand to the ruins.
It was to get a horse-pistol which he had, and which he duly loaded and
placed in his pocket. Then he wrapped himself up in a great-coat, and
with the air of a man quite determined upon something desperate he left
the town.

The guests at the inn looked after him as he walked from the door of
that friendly establishment, and some of them, as they saw his resolved
aspect, began to quake for the amount of the wagers they had laid upon
his non-success.

However, it was resolved among them, that they would stay until
half-past twelve, in the expectation of his return, before they
separated.

To while away the time, he who had been so facetious about his story of
the clock-weight, volunteered to tell what happened to a friend of his
who went to take possession of some family property which he became
possessed of as heir-at-law to an uncle who had died without a will,
having an illegitimate family unprovided for in every shape.

"Ah! nobody cares for other people's illegitimate children, and, if
their parents don't provide for them, why, the workhouse is open for
them, just as if they were something different from other people."

"So they are; if their parents don't take care of them, and provide for
them, nobody else will, as you say, neighbour, except when they have a
Fitz put to their name, which tells you they are royal bastards, and of
course unlike anybody else's."

"But go on--let's know all about it; we sha'n't hear what he has got to
say at all, at this rate."

"Well, as I was saying, or about to say, the nephew, as soon as he heard
his uncle was dead, comes and claps his seal upon everything in the
house."

"But, could he do so?" inquired one of the guests.

"I don't see what was to hinder him," replied a third. "He could do so,
certainly."

"But there was a son, and, as I take it, a son's nearer than a nephew
any day."

"But the son is illegitimate."

"Legitimate, or illegitimate, a son's a son; don't bother me about
distinction of that sort; why, now, there was old Weatherbit--"

"Order, order."

"Let's hear the tale."

"Very good, gentlemen, I'll go on, if I ain't to be interrupted; but
I'll say this, that an illegitimate son is no son, in the eyes of the
law; or at most he's an accident quite, and ain't what he is, and so
can't inherit."

"Well, that's what I call making matters plain," said one of the guests,
who took his pipe from his mouth to make room for the remark; "now that
is what I likes."

"Well, as I have proved then," resumed the speaker, "the nephew was the
heir, and into the house he would come. A fine affair it was too--the
illegitimates looking the colour of sloes; but he knew the law, and
would have it put in force."

"Law's law, you know."

"Uncommonly true that; and the nephew stuck to it like a cobbler to his
last--he said they should go out, and they did go out; and, say what
they would about their natural claims, he would not listen to them, but
bundled them out and out in a pretty short space of time."

"It was trying to them, mind you, to leave the house they had been born
in with very different expectations to those which now appeared to be
their fate. Poor things, they looked ruefully enough, and well they
might, for there was a wide world for them, and no prospect of a warm
corner.

"Well, as I was saying, he had them all out and the house clear to
himself.

"Now," said he, "I have an open field and no favour. I don't care for
no--Eh! what?"

"There was a sudden knocking, he thought, the door, and went and opened
it, but nothing was to be seen.

"Oh! I see--somebody next door; and if it wasn't, it don't matter.
There's nobody here. I'm alone, and there's plenty of valuables in the
house. That is what I call very good company. I wouldn't wish for
better."

He turned about, looked over room after room, and satisfied himself that
he was alone--that the house was empty.

At every room he entered he paused to think over the value--what it was
worth, and that he was a very fortunate man in having dropped into such
a good thing."

"Ah! there's the old boy's secretary, too--his bureau--there'll be
something in that that will amuse me mightily; but I don't think I shall
sit up late. He was a rum old man, to say the least of it--a very odd
sort of man."

With that he gave himself a shrug, as if some very uncomfortable feeling
had come over him.

"I'll go to bed early, and get some sleep, and then in daylight I can
look after these papers. They won't be less interesting in the morning
than they are now."

There had been some rum stories about the old man, and now the nephew
seemed to think he might have let the family sleep on the premises for
that night; yes, at that moment he could have found it in his heart to
have paid for all the expense of their keep, had it been possible to
have had them back to remain the night.

But that wasn't possible, for they would not have done it, but sooner
have remained in the streets all night than stay there all night, like
so many house-dogs, employed by one who stepped in between them and
their father's goods, which were their inheritance, but for one trifling
circumstance--a mere ceremony.

The night came on, and he had lights. True it was he had not been down
stairs, only just to have a look. He could not tell what sort of a place
it was; there were a good many odd sort of passages, that seemed to end
nowhere, and others that did.

There were large doors; but they were all locked, and he had the keys;
so he didn't mind, but secured all places that were not fastened.

He then went up stairs again, and sat down in the room where the bureau
was placed.

"I'll be bound," said one of the guests, "he was in a bit of a stew,
notwithstanding all his brag."

"Oh! I don't believe," said another, "that anything done that is
dangerous, or supposed to be dangerous, by the bravest man, is any way
wholly without some uncomfortable feelings. They may not be strong
enough to prevent the thing proposed to be done from being done, but
they give a disagreeable sensation to the skin."

"You have felt it, then?"

"Ha! ha! ha!"

"Why, at that time I slept in the churchyard for a wager, I must say I
felt cold all over, as if my skin was walking about me in an
uncomfortable manner."

"But you won your wager?"

"I did."

"And of course you slept there?"

"To be sure I did."

"And met with nothing?"

"Nothing, save a few bumps against the gravestones."

"Those were hard knocks, I should say."

"They were, I assure you; but I lay there, and slept there, and won my
wager."

"Would you do it again?"

"No."

"And why not?"

"Because of the rheumatism."

"You caught that?"

"I did; I would give ten times my wager to get rid of them. I have them
very badly."

"Come, order, order--the tale; let's hear the end of that, since it has
begun."

"With all my heart. Come, neighbour."

"Well, as I said, he was fidgetty; but yet he was not a man to be very
easily frightened or overcome, for he was stout and bold.

"When he shut himself up in the room, he took out a bottle of some good
wine, and helped himself to drink; it was good old wine, and he soon
felt himself warmed and, comforted. He could have faced the enemy.

"If one bottle produces such an effect," he muttered, "what will two
do?"

This was a question that could only be solved by trying it, and this he
proceeded to do.

But first he drew a brace of long barrelled pistols from his coat
pocket, and taking a powder-flask and bullets from his pocket also, he
loaded them very carefully.

"There," said he, "are my bull-dogs; and rare watch-dogs they are. They
never bark but they bite. Now, if anybody does come, it will be all up
with them. Tricks upon travellers ain't a safe game when I have these;
and now for the other bottle."

He drew the other bottle, and thought, if anything, it was better than
the first. He drank it rather quick, to be sure, and then he began to
feel sleepy and tired.

"I think I shall go to bed," he said; "that is, if I can find my way
there, for it does seem to me as if the door was travelling. Never mind,
it will make a call here again presently, and then I'll get through."

So saying he arose. Taking the candle in his hand, he walked with a
better step than might have been expected under the circumstance. True
it was the candle wagged to and fro, and his shadow danced upon the
wall; but still, when he got to the bed, he secured his door, put the
light in a safe place, threw himself down, and was fast asleep in a few
moments, or rather he fell into a doze instantaneously.

How long he remained in this state he knew not, but he was suddenly
awakened by a loud bang, as though something heavy and flat had fallen
upon the floor--such, for instance, as a door, or anything of that sort.
He jumped up, rubbed his eyes, and could even then hear the
reverberations through the house.

"What is that?" he muttered; "what is that?"

He listened, and thought he could hear something moving down stairs, and
for a moment he was seized with an ague fit; but recollecting, I
suppose, that there were some valuables down stairs that were worth
fighting for, he carefully extinguished the light that still burned, and
softly crept down stairs.

When he got down stairs he thought he could hear some one scramble up
the kitchen stairs, and then into the room where the bureau was.
Listening for a moment to ascertain if there were more than one, and
then feeling convinced there was not, he followed into the parlour, when
he heard the cabinet open by a key.

This was a new miracle, and one he could not understand; and then he
hoard the papers begin to rattle and rustle; so, drawing out one of the
pistols, he cocked it, and walked in.

The figure instantly began to jump about; it was dressed in white--in
grave-clothes. He was terribly nervous, and shook, so he feared to fire
the pistol; but at length he did, and the report was followed by a fall
and a loud groan.

This was very dreadful--very dreadful; but all was quiet, and he lit the
candle again, and approached the body to examine it, and ascertain if he
knew who it was. A groan came from it. The bureau was open, and the
figure clutched firmly a will in his hand.

The figure was dressed in grave-clothes, and he started up when he saw
the form and features of his own uncle, the man who was dead, who
somehow or other had escaped his confinement, and found his way up,
here. He held his will firmly; and the nephew was so horrified and
stunned, that he threw down the light, and rushed out of the room with a
shout of terror, and never returned again.

* * * * *

The narrator concluded, and one of the guests said,--

"And do you really believe it?"--"No, no--to be sure not."

"You don't?"--"Why should I? My friend was, out of all hand, one of the
greatest liars I ever came near; and why, therefore, should I believe
him? I don't, on my conscience, believe one word of it."

It was now half-past twelve, and, as Tom Eccles came not back, and the
landlord did not feel disposed to draw any more liquor, they left the
inn, and retired to their separate houses in a great state of anxiety to
know the fate of their respective wagers.

CHAPTER LXIV.

THE VAMPIRE IN THE MOONLIGHT.--THE FALSE FRIEND.

[Illustration]

Part of the distance being accomplished towards the old ruins, Tom
Eccles began to feel that what he had undertaken was not altogether such
child's-play as he had at first imagined it to be. Somehow or another,
with a singular and uncomfortable sort of distinctness, there came
across his mind every story that he had remembered of the wild and the
wonderful. All the long-since forgotten tales of superstition that in
early childhood he had learned, came now back upon him, suggesting to
his mind a thousand uncomfortable fancies of the strangest description.

It was not likely that when once a man, under such circumstances, got
into such a frame of mind, he would readily get out of it again, while
he continued surrounded by such scenes as had first called them into
existence.

No doubt, had he turned about, and faced the inn again instead of the
old ruins he would soon have shaken off these "thick coming fancies;"
but such a result was no to be expected, so long as he kept on towards
the dismal place he had pledged himself to reach.

As he traversed meadow after meadow he began to ask himself some
questions which he found that he could not answer exactly in a
consolatory manner, under the present state of things.

Among these question was the very pertinent one of,--"It's no argument
against vampyres, because I don't see the use of 'em--is it?" This he
was compelled to answer as he had put it; and when, in addition, he
began to recollect that, without the shadow of a doubt, Sir Francis
Varney the supposed vampyre, had been chased across the fields to that
very ruin whither he was bound, and had then and there disappeared, he
certainly found himself in decidedly uncomfortable and most unpromising
situation.

"No," he said, "no. Hang it, I won't go back now, to be made the
laughing-stock of the whole town, which I should be. Come what may of
it, I will go on as I have commenced; so I shall put on as stout a heart
as I can."

Then, having come to this resolve, he strove might and main to banish
from his mind those disagreeable reminiscences that had been oppressing
him, to turn his attention to subjects of a different complexion.

During the progress of making this endeavour, which was rather futile,
he came within sight of the ruins. Then he slackened his pace a little,
telling himself, with a pardonable self-deceit, that it was common,
ordinary caution only, which induced him to do so, and nothing at all in
the shape of fear.

"Time enough," he remarked, "to be afraid, when I see anything to be
afraid of, which I don't see as yet. So, as all's right, I may as well
put a good face upon the matter."

He tried to whistle a tune, but it turned out only a melancholy failure;
so he gave that up in despair, and walked on until he got within a
hundred yards, or thereabouts, of the old ruins.

He thus proceeded, and bending his ear close to the ground, he listened
attentively for several minutes. Somehow, he fancied that a strange,
murmuring sound came to his ears; but he was not quite sure that it
proceeded from the ruins, because it was just that sort of sound that
might come from a long way off, being mellowed by distance, although,
perhaps, loud enough at its source.

"Well, well," he whispered to himself, "it don't matter much, after all.
Go I must, and hide the handkerchiefs somewhere, or else be laughed at,
besides losing my wages. The former I don't like, and the latter I
cannot afford."

Thus clinching the matter by such knock-down arguments, he walked on
until he was almost within the very shadow of the ruins, and, probably,
it was at this juncture that his footsteps may have been heard by
Marchdale and Sir Francis Varney.

Then he paused again; but all was profoundly still, and he began to
think that the strange sort of murmuring noise which he had heard must
have come from far off and not at all from any person or persons within
the ruins.

"Let me see," he said to himself; "I have five handkerchiefs to hide
among the old ruins somewhere, and the sooner I do so the better,
because then I will get away; for, as regards staying here to watch,
Heaven knows how long, for Sir Francis Varney, I don't intend to do it,
upon second thoughts and second thoughts, they say, are generally best."

With the most careful footsteps now, as if he were treading upon some
fragile substance, which he feared to injure, he advanced until he was
fairly within the precincts of the ancient place, which now bore so ill
a reputation.

He then made to himself much the same remark that Sir Francis Varney had
made to Marchdale, with respect to the brightening up of the sky, in
consequence of its being near the time for the moon to rise from the
horizon, and he saw more clearly around him, although he could not find
any good place to hide the handkerchiefs in.

"I must and will," he said, "hide them securely; for it would, indeed,
be remarkably unpleasant, after coming here and winning my wages, to
have the proofs that I had done so taken away by some chance visitor to
the place."

He at length saw a tolerably large stone, which stood, in a slant
position, up against one of the walls. Its size attracted him. He
thought, if his strength was sufficient to move it, that it would be a
good thing to do so, and to place the handkerchiefs beneath it; for, at
all events, it was so heavy that it could not be kicked aside, and no
one, without some sort of motive to do so, beyond the mere love of
labour, would set about moving it from its position.

"I may go further and fare worse," he said to himself; "so here shall
all the handkerchiefs lie, to afford a proof that I have been here."

He packed them into a small compass, and then stooped to roll aside the
heavy stone, when, at the moment, before he could apply his strength to
that purpose, he heard some one, in his immediate neighbourhood,
say,--"Hist!"

This was so sudden, and so utterly unexpected, that he not only ceased
his exertions to move the stone, but he nearly fell down in his
surprise.

"Hist--hist!" said the voice again.

"What--what," gasped Tom Eccles--"what are you?"--"Hush--hush--hush!"

The perspiration broke out upon his brow, and he leaned against the wall
for support, as he managed to say, faintly,--

"Well, hush--what then?"--"Hist!"

"Well, I hear you. Where are you?"

"Here at hand. Who are you?"

"Tom Eccles. Who are you?"--"A friend. Have you seen anything?"

"No; I wish I could. I should like to see you if I could."--"I'm
coming."

There was a slow and cautious footstep, and Marchdale advanced to where
Tom Eccles was standing.

"Come, now," said the latter, when he saw the dusky-looking form
stalking towards him; "till I know you better, I'll be obliged to you to
keep off. I am well armed. Keep your distance, be you friend or foe."

"Armed!" exclaimed Marchdale, and he at once paused.--"Yes, I am."

"But I am a friend. I have no sort of objection frankly to telly you my
errand. I am a friend of the Bannerworth family, and have kept watch
here now for two nights, in the hopes of meeting with Varney, the
vampyre."

"The deuce you have: and pray what may your name be?"--"Marchdale."

"If you be Mr. Marchdale, I know you by sight: for I have seen you with
Mr. Henry Bannerworth several times. Come out from among the shadows,
and let us have a look at you; but, till you do, don't come within arm's
length of me. I am not naturally suspicious; but we cannot be too
careful."

"Oh! certainly--certainly. The silver edge of the moon is now just
peeping up from the east, and you will be able to see me well, if you
step from the shadow of the wall by which you now are."

This was a reasonable enough proposition, and Tom Eccles at once acceded
to it, by stepping out boldly into the partial moonlight, which now
began to fall upon the open meadows, tinting the grass with a silvery
refulgence, and rendering even minute objects visible. The moment he saw
Marchdale he knew him, and, advancing frankly to him, he said,--

"I know you, sir, well."

"And what brings you here?"--"A wager for one thing, and a wish to see
the vampyre for another."

"Indeed!"--"Yes; I must own I have such a wish, along with a still
stronger one, to capture him, if possible; and, as there are now two of
us, why may we not do it?"

"As for capturing him," said Marchdale, "I should prefer shooting
him."--"You would?"

"I would, indeed. I have seen him once shot down, and he is now, I have
no doubt, as well as ever. What were you doing with that huge stone I
saw you bending over?"--"I have some handkerchiefs to hide here, as a
proof that I have to-night really been to this place."

"Oh, I will show you a better spot, where there is a crevice in which
you can place them with perfect safety. Will you walk with me into the
ruins?"--"Willingly."

"It's odd enough," remarked Marchdale, after he had shown Tom Eccles
where to hide the handkerchiefs, "that you and I should both be here
upon so similar an errand."--"I'm very glad of it. It robs the place of
its gloom, and makes it ten times more endurable than it otherwise would
be. What do you propose to do if you see the vampyre?"

"I shall try a pistol bullet on him. You say you are armed?"--"Yes."

"With pistols?"--"One. Here it is."

"A huge weapon; loaded well, of course?"--"Oh, yes, I can depend upon
it; but I did not intend to use it, unless assailed."

"'Tis well. What is that?"--"What--what?"

"Don't you see anything there? Come farther back. Look--look. At the
corner of that wall there I am certain there is the flutter of a human
garment."--"There is--there is."

"Hush! Keep close. It must be the vampyre."--"Give me my pistol. What
are you doing with it?"

"Only ramming down the charge more firmly for you. Take it. If that be
Varney the vampyre, I shall challenge him to surrender the moment he
appears; and if he does not, I will fire upon him, and do you do so
likewise."--"Well, I--I don't know."

"You have scruples?"--"I certainly have."

"Well, well--don't you fire, then, but leave it to me. There;
look--look. Now have you any doubt? There he goes; in his cloak. It
is--it is----"--"Varney, by Heavens!" cried Tom Eccles.

[Illustration]

"Surrender!" shouted Marchdale.

At the instant Sir Francis Varney sprang forward, and made off at a
rapid pace across the meadows.

"Fire after him--fire!" cried Marchdale, "or he will escape. My pistol
has missed fire. He will be off."

On the impulse of the moment, and thus urged by the voice and the
gesture of his companion, Tom Eccles took aim as well as he could, and
fired after the retreating form of Sir Francis Varney. His conscience
smote him as he heard the report and saw the flash of the large pistol
amid the half sort of darkness that was still around.

The effect of the shot was then to him painfully apparent. He saw Varney
stop instantly; then make a vain attempt to stagger forward a little,
and finally fall heavily to the earth, with all the appearance of one
killed upon the spot.

"You have hit him," said Marchdale--"you have hit him. Bravo!"--"I
have--hit him."

"Yes, a capital shot, by Jove!"--"I am very sorry."

"Sorry! sorry for ridding the world of such a being! What was in your
pistol?"--"A couple of slugs."

"Well, they have made a lodgment in him, that's quite clear. Let's go up
and finish him at once."--"He seems finished."

"I beg your pardon there. When the moonbeams fall upon him he'll get up
and walk away as if nothing was the matter."--"Will he?" cried Tom, with
animation--"will he?"

"Certainly he will."--"Thank God for that. Now, hark you, Mr. Marchdale:
I should not have fired if you had not at the moment urged me to do so.
Now, I shall stay and see if the effect which you talk of will ensue;
and although it may convince me that he is a vampyre, and that there are
such things, he may go off, scot free, for me."

"Go off?"--"Yes; I don't want to have even a vampyre's blood upon my
hands."

"You are exceedingly delicate."--"Perhaps I am; it's my way, though. I
have shot him--not you, mind; so, in a manner of speaking, he belongs to
me. Now, mark, me: I won't have him touched any more to-night, unless
you think there's a chance of making a prisoner of him without
violence."

"There he lies; you can go and make a prisoner of him at once, dead as
he is; and if you take him out of the moonlight--"

"I understand; he won't recover."--"Certainly not."

"But, as I want him to recover, that don't suit me."--"Well, I cannot
but honour your scruples, although I do not actually share in them; but
I promise you that, since such is your wish, I will take no steps
against the vampyre; but let us come up to him and see if he be really
dead, or only badly wounded."

Tom Eccles hang back a little from this proposal; but, upon being urged
again by Marchdale, and told that he need not go closer than he chose,
he consented, and the two of them approached the prostrate form of Sir
Francis Varney, which lay upon its face in the faint moonlight, which
each moment was gathering strength and power.

"He lies upon his face," said Marchdale. "Will you go and turn him
over?"--"Who--I? God forbid I should touch him."

"Well--well, I will. Come on."

They halted within a couple of yards of the body. Tom Eccles would not
go a step farther; so Marchdale advanced alone, and pretended to be,
with great repugnance, examining for the wound.

"He is quite dead," he said; "but I cannot see the hurt."--"I think he
turned his head as I fired."

"Did he? Let us see."

Marchdale lifted up the head, and disclosed such a mass of
clotted-looking blood, that Tom Eccles at once took to his heels, nor
stopped until he was nearly as far off as the ruins. Marchdale followed
him more slowly, and when he came up to him, he said,--