Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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"The slugs have taken effect on his face."--"I know it--I know it. Don't
tell me."

"He looks horrible."--"And I am a murderer."

"Psha! You look upon this matter too seriously. Think of who and what he
was, and then you will soon acquit yourself of being open to any such
charge."--"I am bewildered, Mr. Marchdale, and cannot now know whether
he be a vampyre or not. If he be not, I have murdered, most
unjustifiably, a fellow-creature."

"Well, but if he be?"--"Why, even then I do not know but that I ought to
consider myself as guilty. He is one of God's creatures if he were ten
times a vampyre."

"Well, you really do take a serious view of the affair."--"Not more
serious than it deserves."

"And what do you mean to do?"--"I shall remain here to await the result
of what you tell me will ensue, if he be a real vampire. Even now the
moonbeams are full upon him, and each moment increasing in intensity.
Think you he will recover?"

"I do indeed."--"Then here will I wait."

"Since that is you resolve, I will keep you company. We shall easily
find some old stone in the ruins which will serve us for a seat, and
there at leisure we can keep our eyes upon the dead body, and be able to
observe if it make the least movement."

This plan was adopted, and they sat down just within the ruins, but in
such a place that they had a full view of the dead body, as it appeared
to be, of Sir Francis Varney, upon which the sweet moonbeams shone full
and clear.

Tom Eccles related how he was incited to come upon his expedition, but
he might have spared himself that trouble, as Marchdale had been in a
retired corner of the inn parlour before he came to his appointment with
Varney, and heard the business for the most part proposed.

Half-an-hour, certainly not more, might have elapsed; when suddenly Tom
Eccles uttered an exclamation, partly of surprise and partly of
terror,--

"He moves; he moves!" he cried. "Look at the vampyre's body."

Marchdale affected to look with an all-absorbing interest, and there was
Sir Francis Varney, raising slowly one arm with the hand outstretched
towards the moon, as if invoking that luminary to shed more of its beams
upon him. Then the body moved slowly, like some one writhing in pain,
and yet unable to move from the spot on which it lay. From the head to
the foot, the whole frame seemed to be convulsed, and now and then as
the ghastly object seemed to be gathering more strength, the limbs were
thrown out with a rapid and a frightful looking violence.

It was truly to one, who might look upon it as a reality and no juggle,
a frightful sight to see, and although Marchdale, of course, tolerably
well preserved his equanimity, only now and then, for appearance sake,
affecting to be wonderfully shocked, poor Tom Eccles was in such a state
of horror and fright that he could not, if he would, have flown from the
spot, so fascinated was he by the horrible spectacle.

This was a state of things which continued for many minutes, and then
the body showed evident symptoms of so much returning animation, that it
was about to rise from his gory bed and mingle once again with the
living.

"Behold!" said Marchdale--"behold!"--"Heaven have mercy upon us!"

"It is as I said; the beams of the moon have revived the vampyre. You
perceive now that there can be no doubt."--"Yes, yes, I see him; I see
him."

Sir Francis Varney now, as if with a great struggle, rose to his feet,
and looked up at the bright moon for some moments with such an air and
manner that it would not have required any very great amount of
imagination to conceive that he was returning to it some sort of
thanksgiving for the good that it had done to him.

He then seemed for some moments in a state of considerable indecision as
to which way he should proceed. He turned round several times. Then he
advanced a step or two towards the house, but apparently his resolution
changed again, and casting his eyes upon the ruins, he at once made
towards them.

This was too much for the philosophy as well as for the courage of Tom
Eccles. It was all very well to look on at some distance, and observe
the wonderful and inexplicable proceedings of the vampyre; but when he
showed symptoms of making a nearer acquaintance, it was not to be borne.

"Why, he's coming here," said Tom.--"He seems so indeed," remarked
Marchdale.

"Do you mean to stay?"--"I think I shall."

"You do, do you?"--"Yes, I should much like to question him, and as we
are two to one I think we really can have nothing to fear."

"Do you? I'm altogether of a different opinion. A man who has more lives
than a cat don't much mind at what odds he fights. You may stay if you
like."--"You do not mean to say that you will desert me?"

"I don't see a bit how you call it deserting you; if we had come out
together on this adventure, I would have stayed it out with you; but as
we came separate and independent, we may as well go back so."--"Well,
but--"

"Good morning?" cried Tom, and he at once took to his heels towards the
town, without staying to pay any attention to the remonstrances of
Marchdale, who called after him in vain.

Sir Francis Varney, probably, had Tom Eccles not gone off so rapidly,
would have yet taken another thought, and gone in another direction than
that which led him to the ruins, and Tom, if he had had his senses fully
about him, as well as all his powers of perception, would have seen that
the progress of the vampyre was very slow, while he continued to
converse with Marchdale, and that it was only when he went off at good
speed that Sir Francis Varney likewise thought it prudent to do so.

"Is he much terrified?" said Varney, as he came up to Marchdale.--"Yes,
most completely."

"This then, will make a good story in the town."--"It will, indeed, and
not a little enhance your reputation."

"Well, well; it don't much matter now; but if by terrifying people I can
purchase for myself anything like immunity for the past, I shall be
satisfied."--"I think you may now safely reckon that you have done so.
This man who has fled with so much precipitation, had courage."

"Unquestionably."--"Or else he would have shrunk from coming here at
all."

"True, but his courage and presence arose from his strong doubts as to
the existence of such beings as vampyres."--"Yes, and now that he is
convinced, his bravery has evaporated along with his doubts; and such a
tale as he has now to tell, will be found sufficient to convert even the
most sceptical in the town."

"I hope so."--"And yet it cannot much avail you."

"Not personally, but I must confess that I am not dead to all human
opinions, and I feel some desire of revenge against those dastards who
by hundreds have hunted me, burnt down my mansion, and sought my
destruction."--"That I do not wonder at."

"I would fain leave among them a legacy of fear. Such fear as shall
haunt them and their children for years to come. I would wish that the
name of Varney, the vampire, should be a sound of terror for
generations."--"It will be so."

"It shall."--"And now, then, for a consideration of what is to be done
with our prisoner. What is your resolve upon that point?"

"I have considered it while I was lying upon yon green sward waiting for
the friendly moonbeams to fall upon my face, and it seems to me that
there is no sort of resource but to----"--"Kill him?"

"No, no."--"What then?"

"To set him free."--"Nay, have you considered the immense hazard of
doing so? Think again; I pray you think again. I am decidedly of opinion
that he more than suspects who are his enemies; and, in that case, you
know what consequences would ensue; besides, have we not enough already
to encounter? Why should we add another young, bold, determined spirit
to the band which is already arrayed against us?"

"You talk in vain, Marchdale; I know to what it all tends; you have a
strong desire for the death of this young man."--"No; there you wrong
me. I have no desire for his death, for its own sake; but, where great
interests are at stake, there must be sacrifices made."

"So there must; therefore, I will make a sacrifice, and let this young
prisoner free from his dungeon."--"If such be your determination, I know
well it is useless to combat with it. When do you purpose giving him his
freedom?"

"I will not act so heedlessly as that your principles of caution shall
blame me. I will attempt to get from him some promise that he will not
make himself an active instrument against me. Perchance, too, as
Bannerworth Hall, which he is sure to visit, wears such an air of
desertion, I may be able to persuade him that the Bannerworth family, as
well as his uncle, have left this part of the country altogether; so
that, without making any inquiry for them about the neighbourhood, he
may be induced to leave at once."--"That would be well."

"Good; your prudence approves of the plan, and therefore it shall be
done."--"I am rather inclined to think," said Marchdale, with a slight
tone of sarcasm, "that if my prudence did not approve of the plan, it
would still be done."

"Most probably," said Varney, calmly.--"Will you release him to-night?"

"It is morning, now, and soon the soft grey light of day will tint the
east. I do not think I will release him till sunset again now. Has he
provision to last him until then?"--"He has."

"Well, then, two hours after sunset I will come here and release him
from his weary bondage, and now I must go to find some place in which to
hide my proscribed head. As for Bannerworth Hall, I will yet have it in
my power; I have sworn to do so, I will keep my oath."--"The
accomplishment of our purpose, I regret to say, seems as far off as
ever."

"Not so--not so. As I before remarked, we must disappear, for a time, so
as to lull suspicion. There will then arise a period when Bannerworth
Hall will neither be watched, as it is now, nor will it be inhabited,--a
period before the Bannerworth family has made up its mind to go back to
it, and when long watching without a result has become too tiresome to
be continued at all; then we can at once pursue our object."--"Be it
so."

"And now, Marchdale, I want more money."--"More money!"

"Yes; you know well that I have had large demands of late."--"But I
certainly had an impression that you were possessed, by the death of
some one, with very ample means."

"Yes, but there is a means by which all is taken from me. I have no real
resources but what are rapidly used up, so I must come upon you
again."--"I have already completely crippled myself as regards money
matters in this enterprise, and I do certainly hope that the fruits will
not be far distant. If they be much longer delayed, I shall really not
know what to do. However, come to the lodge where you have been staying,
and then I will give you, to the extent of my ability, whatever sum you
think your present exigencies require."

"Come on, then, at once. I would certainly, of course, rather leave this
place now, before daybreak. Come on, I say, come on."

Sir Francis Varney and Marchdale walked for some time in silence across
the meadows. It was evident that there was not between these associates
the very best of feelings. Marchdale was always smarting under an
assumption of authority over him, on the part of Sir Francis Varney,
while the latter scarcely cared to conceal any portion of the contempt
with which he regarded his hypocritical companion.

Some very strong band of union, indeed, must surely bind these two
strange persons together! It must be something of a more than common
nature which induces Marchdale not only to obey the behests of his
mysterious companion, but to supply him so readily with money as we
perceive he promises to do.

And, as regards Varney, the vampyre, be, too, must have some great
object in view to induce him to run such a world of risk, and take so
much trouble as he was doing with the Bannerworth family.

What his object is, and what is the object of Marchdale, will, now that
we have progressed so far in our story, soon appear, and then much that
is perfectly inexplicable, will become clear and distinct, and we shall
find that some strong human motives are at the bottom of it all.

CHAPTER LXV.

VARNEY'S VISIT TO THE DUNGEON OF THE LONELY PRISONER IN THE RUINS.

[Illustration]

Evident it was that Marchdale was not near so scrupulous as Sir Francis
Varney, in what he chose to do. He would, without hesitation, have
sacrificed the life of that prisoner in the lonely dungeon, whom it
would be an insult to the understanding of our readers, not to presume
that they had, long ere this, established in their minds to be Charles
Holland.

His own safety seemed to be the paramount consideration with Marchdale,
and it was evident that he cared for nothing in comparison with that
object.

It says much, however, for Sir Francis Varney, that he did not give in
to such a blood-thirsty feeling, but rather chose to set the prisoner
free, and run all the chances of the danger to which he might expose
himself by such a course of conduct, than to insure safety,
comparatively, by his destruction.

Sir Francis Varney is evidently a character of strangely mixed feelings.
It is quite evident that he has some great object in view, which he
wishes to accomplish almost at any risk; but it is equally evident, at
the same time, that he wishes to do so with the least possible injury to
others, or else he would never have behaved as he had done in his
interview with the beautiful and persecuted Flora Bannerworth, or now
suggested the idea of setting Charles Holland free from the dreary
dungeon in which he had been so long confined.

We are always anxious and willing to give every one credit for the good
that is in them; and, hence, we are pleased to find that Sir Francis
Varney, despite his singular, and apparently preternatural capabilities,
has something sufficiently human about his mind and feelings, to induce
him to do as little injury as possible to others in the pursuit of his
own objects.

Of the two, vampyre as he is, we prefer him much to the despicable and
hypocritical, Marchdale, who, under the pretence of being the friend of
the Bannerworth family, would freely have inflicted upon them the most
deadly injuries.

It was quite clear that he was most dreadfully disappointed that Sir
Francis Varney, would not permit him to take the life of Charles
Holland, and it was with a gloomy and dissatisfied air that he left the
ruins to proceed towards the town, after what we may almost term the
altercation he had had with Varney the vampyre upon that subject.

It must not be supposed that Sir Francis Varney, however, was blind to
the danger which must inevitably accrue from permitting Charles Holland
once more to obtain his liberty.

What the latter would be able to state would be more than sufficient to
convince the Bannerworths, and all interested in their fortunes, that
something was going on of a character, which, however, supernatural it
might seem to be, still seemed to have some human and ordinary objects
for its ends.

Sir Francis Varney thought over all this before he proceeded, according
to his promise, to the dungeon of the prisoner; but it would seem as if
there was considerable difficulty, even to an individual of his long
practice in all kinds of chicanery and deceit, in arriving at any
satisfactory conclusion, as to a means of making Charles Holland's
release a matter of less danger to himself, than it would be likely to
be, if, unfettered by obligation, he was at once set free.

At the solemn hour of midnight, while all was still, that is, to say, on
the night succeeding the one, on which he had had the interview with
Marchdale, we have recorded, Sir Francis Varney alone sought the silent
ruins. He was attired, as usual, in his huge cloak, and, indeed, the
chilly air of the evening warranted such protection against its numerous
discomforts.

Had any one seen him, however, that evening, they would have observed an
air of great doubt, and irresolution upon his brow, as if he were
struggling with some impulses which he found it extremely difficult to
restrain.

"I know well," he muttered, as he walked among the shadow of the ruins,
"that Marchdale's reasoning is coldly and horribly correct, when he says
that there is danger in setting this youth free; but, I am about to
leave this place, and not to show myself for some time, and I cannot
reconcile myself to inflicting upon him the horror of a death by
starvation, which must ensue."

It was a night of more than usual dullness, and, as Sir Francis Varney
removed the massy stone, which hid the narrow and tortuous entrance to
the dungeons, a chilly feeling crept over him, and he could not help
supposing, that even then Marchdale might have played him false, and
neglected to supply the prisoner food, according to his promise.

Hastily he descended to the dungeons, and with a step, which had in it
far less of caution, than had usually characterised his proceedings, he
proceeded onwards until he reached that particular dungeon, in which our
young friend, to whom we wished so well, had been so long confined from
the beautiful and cheering light of day, and from all that his heart's
best affections most cling to.

"Speak," said Sir Francis Varney, as he entered the dungeon--"If the
occupant of this dreary place live, let him answer one who is as much
his friend as he has been his enemy."

"I have no friend," said Charles Holland, faintly; "unless it be one who
would come and restore me to liberty."

"And how know you that I am not he?"

"Your voice sounds like that of one of my persecutors. Why do you not
place the climax to your injuries by at once taking away life. I should
be better pleased that you would do so, than that I should wear out the
useless struggle of existence in so dreary and wretched an abode as
this."

"Young man," said Sir Francis Varney, "I have come to you on a greater
errand of mercy than, probably, you will ever give me credit for. There
is one who would too readily have granted your present request, and who
would at once have taken that life of which you profess to be so
wearied; but which may yet present to you some of its sunniest and most
beautiful aspects."

"Your tones are friendly," said Charles; "but yet I dread some new
deception. That you are one of those who consigned me by stratagem, and
by brute force, to this place of durance, I am perfectly well assured,
and, therefore, any good that may be promised by you, presents itself to
me in a very doubtful character."

"I cannot be surprised," said Sir Francis Varney, "at such sentiments
arising from your lips; but, nevertheless, I am inclined to save you.
You have been detained here because it was supposed by being so, a
particular object would be best obtained by your absence. That object,
however has failed, notwithstanding, and I do not feel further inclined
to protract your sufferings. Have you any guess as to the parties who
have thus confined you?"--"I am unaccustomed to dissemble, and,
therefore I will say at once that I have a guess."

"In which way does it tend?"--

"Against Sir Francis Varney, called the vampyre."

"Does it not strike you that this may be a dangerous candour?"--"It may,
or it may not be; I cannot help it. I know I am at the mercy of my foes,
and I do not believe that anything I can say or do will make my
situation worse or better."

"You are much mistaken there. In other hands than mine, it might make it
much worse; but it happens to be one of my weaknesses, that I am charged
with candour, and that I admire boldness of disposition."--"Indeed! and
yet can behave in the manner you have done towards me."

"Yes. There are more things in heaven and on earth than are dreamt of in
your philosophy. I am the more encouraged to set you free, because, if I
procure from you a promise, which I intend to attempt, I am inclined to
believe that you will keep it."--"I shall assuredly keep whatever
promise I may make. Propound your conditions, and if they be such as
honour and honesty will permit me to accede to, I will do so willingly
and at once. Heaven knows I am weary enough of this miserable
imprisonment."

"Will you promise me then, if I set you free, not to mention your
suspicions that it is to Sir Francis Varney you owe this ill turn, and
not to attempt any act of vengeance against him as a retaliation for
it."--"I cannot promise so much as that. Freedom, indeed, would be a
poor boon, if I were not permitted freely to converse of some of the
circumstances connected with my captivity."

"You object?"--"I do to the former of your propositions, but not to the
latter. I will promise not to go at all out of my way to execute any
vengeance upon you; but I will not promise that I will not communicate
the circumstances of my forced absence from them, to those friends whose
opinion I so much value, and to return to whom is almost as dear to me
as liberty itself."

Sir Francis Varney was silent for a few moments, and then he said, in a
tone of deep solemnity,--

"There are ninety-nine persons out of a hundred who would take your life
for the independence of your tongue; but I am as the hundredth one, who
looks with a benevolent eye at your proceedings. Will you promise me, if
I remove the fetters which now bind your limbs, that you will make no
personal attack upon me; for I am weary of personal contention, and I
have no disposition to endure it. Will you make me this promise?"--"I
promise?"--"I will."

Without another word, but trusting implicitly to the promise which had
been given to him, Sir Francis Varney produced a small key from his
pocket, and unlocked with it a padlock which confined the chains about
the prisoner.

With ease, Charles Holland was then enabled to shake them off, and then,
for the first time, for some weeks, he rose to his feet, and felt all
the exquisite relief of being comparatively free from bondage.

"This is delightful, indeed," he said.

"It is," said Sir Francis Varney--"it is but a foretaste of the
happiness you will enjoy when you are entirely free. You see that I have
trusted you."

"You have trusted me as you might trust me, and you perceive that I have
kept my word."

"You have; and since you decline to make me the promise which I would
fain have from you, to the effect that you would not mention me as one
of the authors of your calamity, I must trust to your honour not to
attempt revenge for what you have suffered."

"That I will promise. There can be but little difficulty to any generous
mind in giving up such a feeling. In consequence of your sparing me what
you might still further have inflicted, I will let the past rest, and as
if it had never happened really to me; and speak of it to others, but as
a circumstance which I wish not to revert to, but prefer should be
buried in oblivion."

"It is well; and now I have a request to make of you, which, perhaps,
you will consider the hardest of all."

"Name it. I feel myself bound to a considerable extent to comply with
whatever you may demand of me, that is not contrary to honourable
principle."

"Then it is this, that, comparatively free as you are, and in a
condition, as you are, to assert your own freedom, you will not do so
hastily, or for a considerable period; in fact, I wish and expect that
you should wait yet awhile, until it shall suit me to say that it is my
pleasure that you shall be free."

"That is, indeed, a hard condition to man who feels, as you yourself
remark, that he can assert his freedom. It is one which I have still a
hope you will not persevere in.

"Nay, young man, I think that I have treated you with generosity, to
make you feel that I am not the worst of foes you could have had. All I
require of you is, that you should wait here for about an hour. It is
now nearly one o'clock; will you wait until you hear it strike two
before you actually make a movement to leave this place?"

Charles Holland hesitated for some moments, and then he said,--

"Do not fancy that I am not one who appreciates the singular trust you
have reposed in me; and, however repugnant to me it may be to remain
here, a voluntary prisoner, I am inclined to do so, if it be but to
convince you that the trust you have reposed in me is not in vain, and
that I can behave with equal generosity to you as you can to me."

"Be it so," said Sir Francis Varney; "I shall leave you with a full
reliance that you will keep your word; and now, farewell. When you think
of me, fancy me rather one unfortunate than criminal, and tell yourself
that even Varney the vampyre had some traits in his character, which,
although they might not raise your esteem, at all events did not loudly
call for your reprobation."

"I shall do so. Oh! Flora, Flora, I shall look upon you once again,
after believing and thinking that I had bidden you a long and last
adieu. My own beautiful Flora, it is joy indeed to think that I shall
look upon that face again, which, to my perception, is full of all the
majesty of loveliness."