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Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

T >> Thomas Preskett Prest >> Varney the Vampire




"Have you a fresh horse?" inquired Bertha.--"I have, or shall have by
the morning; but promise me you will do what I ask you, and then my arm
will be nerved to its utmost, and I am sure to be victorious."

"I do promise," said Bertha; "I hope you may be as successful as you
hope to be, Arthur; but suppose fortune should declare against you;
suppose an accident of any kind were to happen, what could be done
then?"--"I must be content to hide myself for ever afterwards, as a
defeated knight; how can I appear before your friends as the claimant of
your hand?"

"I will never have any other."--"But you will be forced to accept this
Guthrie de Beaumont, your father's chosen son-in-law."

"I will seek refuge in a cloister."--"Will you fly with me, Bertha, to
some sequestered spot, where we can live in each others society?"

"Yes," said Bertha, "anything, save marriage with Guthrie de
Beaumont."--"Then await the tournament of to-morrow," said Sir Arthur,
"and then this may be avoided; in the meantime, keep up a good heart and
remember I am at hand."

* * * * *

These two lovers parted for the present, after a protracted interview,
Bertha to her chamber, and the Knight of the Green Shield to his tent.

The following morning was one of great preparation; the lists had been
enlarged, and the seats made more commodious, for the influx of visitors
appeared to be much greater than had been anticipated.

Moreover, there were many old warriors of distinction to be present,
which made the bridegroom look pale and feel uncomfortable as to the
results of the tournament. The tilting was to begin at an early hour,
and then the feasting and revelry would begin early in the evening,
after the tilting had all passed off.

In that day's work there were many thrown from their saddles, and many
broke their lances. The bridegroom tilted with several knights, and came
off victorious, or without disadvantage to either.

The green knight, on the contrary, tilted with but few, and always
victorious, and such matches were with men who had been men of some name
in the wars, or at least in the tilt yard.

The sports drew to a close, and when the bridegroom became the
challenger, the Knight of the Green Shield at once rode out quietly to
meet him. The encounter could not well be avoided, and the bridegroom
would willingly have declined the joust with a knight who had disposed
of his enemies so easily, and so unceremoniously as he had.

The first encounter was enough; the bridegroom was thrown to a great
distance, and lay insensible on the ground, and was carried out of the
field. There was an immediate sensation among the friends of the
bridegroom, several of whom rode out to challenge the stranger knight
for his presumption.

In this, however, they had misreckoned the chances, for the challenged
accepted their challenges with alacrity and disposed of them one by one
with credit to himself until the day was concluded. The stranger was
then asked to declare who he was, upon which he lifted his visor, and
said,

"I am Sir Arthur Home, and claim the Lady Bertha as my bride, by the
laws of arms, and by those of love."

* * * * *

Again the tent was felled, and again the hostelry was tenanted by the
soldier, who declared for one side and then for the other, as the cups
clanged and jingled together.

"Said I not," exclaimed one of the troopers, "that the knight with a
green shield was a good knight?"--"You did," replied the other.

"And you knew who he was?" said another of the troopers.--"Not I,
comrades; I had seen him fight in battle, and, therefore, partly guessed
how it would be if he had any chance with the bridegroom. I'm glad he
has won the lady."

It was true, the Lady Bertha was won, and Sir Arthur Home claimed his
bride, and then they attempted to defeat his claim; yet Bertha at once
expressed herself in his favour, to strongly that they were, however
reluctantly compelled, to consent at last.

At this moment, a loud shout as from a multitude of persons came upon
their ears and Flora started from her seat in alarm. The cause of the
alarm we shall proceed to detail.




CHAPTER LXX.

THE FUNERAL OF THE STRANGER OF THE INN.--THE POPULAR COMMOTION, AND MRS.
CHILLINGWORTH'S APPEAL TO THE MOB.--THE NEW RIOT.--THE HALL IN DANGER.


[Illustration]

As yet the town was quiet; and, though there was no appearance of riot
or disturbance, yet the magistracy had taken every precaution they
deemed needful, or their position and necessities warranted, to secure
the peace of the town from the like disturbance to that which had been,
of late, a disgrace and terror of peaceably-disposed persons.

The populace were well advertised of the fact, that the body of the
stranger was to be buried that morning in their churchyard; and that, to
protect the body, should there be any necessity for so doing, a large
body of constables would be employed.

There was no disposition to riot; at least, none was visible. It looked
as if there was some event about to take place that was highly
interesting to all parties, who were peaceably assembling to witness the
interment of nobody knew who.

The early hour at which persons were assembling, at different points,
clearly indicated that there was a spirit of curiosity about the town,
so uncommon that none would have noticed it but for the fact of the
crowd of people who hung about the streets, and there remained, listless
and impatient.

The inn, too, was crowded with visitors, and there were many who, not
being blessed with the strength of purse that some were, were hanging
about in the distance, waiting and watching the motions of those who
were better provided.

"Ah!" said one of the visitors, "this is a disagreeable job in your
house, landlord."--"Yes, sir; I'd sooner it had happened elsewhere, I
assure you. I know it has done me no good."

"No; no man could expect any, and yet it is none the less unfortunate
for that."--"I would sooner anything else happen than that, whatever it
might be. I think it must be something very bad, at all events; but I
dare say I shall never see the like again."

"So much the better for the town," said another; "for, what with
vampyres and riots, there has been but little else stirring than
mischief and disturbances of one kind and another."

"Yes; and, what between Varneys and Bannerworths, we have had but little
peace here."

"Precisely. Do you know it's my opinion that the least thing would upset
the whole town. Any one unlucky word would do it, I am sure," said a
tall thin man.

"I have no doubt of it," said another; "but I hope the military would do
their duty under such circumstances, for people's lives and property are
not safe in such a state of things."--"Oh, dear no."

"I wonder what has become of Varney, or where he can have gone
to."--"Some thought he must have been burned when they burned his
house," replied the landlord.

"But I believe it generally understood he's escaped, has he not? No
traces of his body were found in the ruins."--"None. Oh! he's escaped,
there can be no doubt of that. I wish I had some fortune depending upon
the fact; it would be mine, I am sure."

"Well, the lord keep us from vampyres and suchlike cattle," said an old
woman. "I shall never sleep again in my bed with any safety. It
frightens one out of one's life to think of it. What a shame the men
didn't catch him and stake him!"

The old woman left the inn as soon as she had spoke this Christian
speech.

"Humane!" said a gentleman, with a sporting coat on. "The old woman is
no advocate for half measures!"

"You are right, sir," said the landlord; "and a very good look-out she
keeps upon the pot, to see it's full, and carefully blows the froth
off!"--"Ah! I thought as much."

"How soon will the funeral take place, landlord?" inquired a person, who
had at that moment entered the inn.--"In about an hour's time, sir."

"Oh! the town seems pretty full, though it is very quiet. I suppose it
is more as a matter of curiosity people congregate to see the funeral of
this stranger?"

"I hope so, sir."

"The time is wearing on, and if they don't make a dust, why then the
military will not be troubled."

"I do not expect anything more, sir," said the landlord; "for you see
they must have had their swing out, as the saying is, and be fully
satisfied. They cannot have much more to do in the way of exhibiting
their anger or dislike to vampyres--they all have done enough."

"So they have--so they have."

"Granted," said an old man with a troublesome cough; "but when did you
ever know a mob to be satisfied? If they wanted the moon and got it,
they'd find out it would be necessary to have the stars also."

"That's uncommonly true," said the landlord. "I shouldn't be surprised
if they didn't do something worse than ever."--"Nothing more likely,"
said the little old man. "I can believe anything of a mob--anything--no
matter what."

The inn was crowded with visitors, and several extra hands were employed
to wait upon the customers, and a scene of bustle and activity was
displayed that was never before seen. It would glad the heart of a
landlord, though he were made of stone, and landlords are usually of
much more malleable materials than that.

However, the landlord had hardly time to congratulate himself, for the
bearers were come now, and the undertaker and his troop of
death-following officials.

There was a stir among the people, who began now to awaken from the
lethargy that seemed to have come over them while they were waiting for
the moment when it should arrive, that was to place the body under the
green sod, against which so much of their anger had been raised. There
was a decent silence that pervaded the mob of individuals who had
assembled.

Death, with all its ghastly insignia, had an effect even upon the
unthinking multitude, who were ever ready to inflict death or any
violent injury upon any object that came in their way--they never
hesitated; but even these, now the object of their hatred was no more,
felt appalled.

'Tis strange what a change comes over masses of men as they gaze upon a
dead body. It may be that they all know that to that complexion they
must come at last. This may be the secret of the respect offered to the
dead.

The undertakers are men, however, who are used to the presence of
death--it is their element; they gain a living by attending upon the
last obsequies of the dead; they are used to dead bodies, and care not
for them. Some of them are humane men, that is, in their way; and even
among them are men who wouldn't be deprived of the joke as they screwed
down the last screw. They could not forbear, even on this occasion, to
hold their converse when left alone.

"Jacobs," said one who was turning a long screw, "Jacobs, my boy, do you
take the chair to-night?"--"Yes," said Jacobs who was a long
lugubrious-looking man, "I do take the chair, if I live over this
blessed event."

"You are not croaking, Jacobs, are you? Well, you are a lively customer,
you are."--"Lively--do you expect people to be lively when they are full
dressed for a funeral? You are a nice article for your profession. You
don't feel like an undertaker, you don't."

"Don't, Jacobs, my boy. As long as I look like one when occasion
demands; when I have done my job I puts my comfort in my pocket, and
thinks how much more pleasanter it is to be going to other people's
funerals than to our own, and then only see the difference as regards
the money."

"True," said Jacobs with a groan; "but death's a melancholy article, at
all events."--"So it is."

"And then when you come to consider the number of people we have
buried--how many have gone to their last homes--and how many more will
go the same way."--"Yes, yes; that's all very well, Jacob. You are
precious surly this morning. I'll come to-night. You're brewing a
sentimental tale as sure as eggs is eggs."

"Well, that is pretty certain; but as I was saying how many more are
there--"

"Ah, don't bother yourself with calculations that have neither beginning
nor end, and which haven't one point to go. Come, Jacob, have you
finished yet?"--"Quite," said Jacob.

They now arranged the pall, and placed all in readiness, and returned to
a place down stairs where they could enjoy themselves for an odd half
hour, and pass that time away until the moment should arrive when his
reverence would be ready to bury the deceased, upon consideration of the
fees to be paid upon the occasion.

The tap-room was crowded, and there was no room for the men, and they
were taken into the kitchen, where they were seated, and earnestly at
work, preparing for the ceremony that had so shortly to be performed.

"Any better, Jacobs?"--"What do you mean?" inquired Jacobs, with a
groan. "It's news to me if I have been ill."

"Oh, yes, you were doleful up stairs, you know."--"I've a proper regard
for my profession--that's the difference between you and I, you know."

"I'll wager you what you like, now, that I'll handle a corpse and drive
a screw in a coffin as well as you, now, although you are so solid and
miserable."--"So you may--so you may."

"Then what do you mean by saying I haven't a proper regard for my
profession?"--"I say you haven't, and there's the thing that shall prove
it--you don't look it, and that's the truth."

"I don't look like an undertaker! indeed I dare say I don't if I ain't
dressed like one."--"Nor when you are," reiterated Jacob.

"Why not, pray?"--"Because you have always a grin on your face as broad
as a gridiron--that's why."

This ended the dispute, for the employer of the men suddenly put his
head in, saying,--

"Come, now, time's up; you are wanted up stairs, all of you. Be quick;
we shall have his reverence waiting for us, and then we shall lose his
recommendation."

"Ready sir," said the round man, taking up his pint and finishing it off
at a draught, at the same moment he thrust the remains of some bread and
cheese into his pocket.

Jacob, too, took his pot, and, having finished it, with great gravity
followed the example of his more jocose companion, and they all left the
kitchen for the room above, where the corpse was lying ready for
interment.

There was an unusual bustle; everybody was on the tip-top of
expectation, and awaiting the result in a quiet hurry, and hoped to have
the first glimpse of the coffin, though why they should do so it was
difficult to define. But in this fit of mysterious hope and expectation
they certainly stood.

"Will they be long?" inquired a man at the door of one inside,--"will
they be long before they come?"--"They are coming now," said the man.
"Do you all keep quiet; they are knocking their heads against the top of
the landing. Hark! There, I told you so."

The man departed, hearing something, and being satisfied that he had got
some information.

"Now, then," said the landlord, "move out of the way, and allow the
corpse to pass out. Let me have no indecent conduct; let everything be
as it should be."

The people soon removed from the passage and vicinity of the doorway,
and then the mournful procession--as the newspapers have it--moved
forward. They were heard coming down stairs, and thence along the
passage, until they came to the street, and then the whole number of
attendants was plainly discernible.

How different was the funeral of one who had friends. He was alone; none
followed, save the undertaker and his attendants, all of whom looked
solemn from habit and professional motives. Even the jocose man was as
supernaturally solemn as could be well imagined; indeed, nobody knew he
was the same man.

"Well," said the landlord, as he watched them down the street, as they
slowly paced their way with funereal, not sorrowful, solemnity--"well, I
am very glad that it is all over."

"It has been a sad plague to you," said one.

"It has, indeed; it must be to any one who has had another such a job as
this. I don't say it out of any disrespect to the poor man who is dead
and gone--quite the reverse; but I would not have such another affair on
my hands for pounds."

"I can easily believe you, especially when we come to consider the
disagreeables of a mob."

"You may say that. There's no knowing what they will or won't do,
confound them! If they'd act like men, and pay for what they have, why,
then I shouldn't care much about them; but it don't do to have other
people in the bar."

"I should think not, indeed; that would alter the scale of your profits,
I reckon."

"It would make all the difference to me. Business," added the landlord,
"conducted on that scale, would become a loss; and a man might as well
walk into a well at once."

"So I should say. Have many such occurrences as these been usual in this
part of the country?" inquired the stranger.

"Not usual at all," said the landlord; "but the fact is, the whole
neighbourhood has run distracted about some superhuman being they call a
vampyre."

"Indeed!"--"Yes; and they suspected the unfortunate man who has been
lying up-stairs, a corpse, for some days."

"Oh, the man they have just taken in the coffin to bury?" said the
stranger.

"Yes, sir, the same."

"Well, I thought perhaps somebody of great consequence had suddenly
become defunct."--"Oh, dear no; it would not have caused half the
sensation; people have been really mad."

"It was a strange occurrence, altogether, I believe, was it?" inquired
the stranger.--"Indeed it was, sir. I hardly know the particulars, there
have been so many tales afloat; though they all concur in one point, and
that is, it has destroyed the peace of one family."

"Who has done so?"--"The vampyre."

"Indeed! I never heard of such an animal, save as a fable, before; it
seems to me extraordinary."

"So it would do to any one, sir, as was not on the spot, to see it; I'm
sure I wouldn't."

* * * * *

In the meantime, the procession, short as it was of itself, moved along
in slow time through a throng of people who ran out of their houses on
either side of the way, and lined the whole length of the town.

Many of these closed in behind, and followed the mourners until they
were near the church, and then they made a rush to get into the
churchyard.

As yet all had been conducted with tolerable propriety, the funeral met
with no impediment. The presence of death among so many of them seemed
some check upon the licence of the mob, who bowed in silence to the
majesty of death.

Who could bear ill-will against him who was now no more? Man, while he
is man, is always the subject of hatred, fear, or love. Some one of
these passions, in a modified state, exists in all men, and with such
feelings they will regard each other; and it is barely possible that any
one should not be the object of some of these, and hence the stranger's
corpse was treated with respect.

In silence the body proceeded along the highway until it came to the
churchyard, and followed by an immense multitude of people of all
grades.

The authorities trembled; they knew not what all this portended. They
thought it might pass off; but it might become a storm first; they hoped
and feared by turns, till some of them fell sick with apprehension.

There was a deep silence observed by all those in the immediate vicinity
of the coffin, but those farther in the rear found full expression for
their feelings.

"Do you think," said an old man to another, "that he will come to life
again, eh?"--"Oh, yes, vampyres always do, and lay in the moonlight, and
then they come to life again. Moonlight recovers a vampyre to life
again."

"And yet the moonlight is cold."--"Ah, but who's to tell what may happen
to a vampyre, or what's hot or what's cold?"

"Certainly not; oh, dear, no."--"And then they have permission to suck
the blood of other people, to live themselves, and to make other people
vampyres, too."

"The lord have mercy upon us!"--"Ay, but they have driven a stake
through this one, and he can't get in moonlight or daylight; it's all
over--he's certainly done for; we may congratulate ourselves on this
point."

"So we may--so we may."

They now neared the grave, the clergyman officiating as usual on such
occasions. There was a large mob of persons on all sides, with serious
faces, watching the progress of the ceremony, and who listened in
quietness.

There was no sign of any disturbance amongst the people, and the
authorities were well pleased; they congratulated themselves upon the
quietness and orderliness of the assemblage.

The service was ended and the coffin lowered, and the earth was thrown
on the coffin-lid with a hollow sound. Nobody could hear that sound
unmoved. But in a short while the sound ceased as the grave became
filled; it was then trodden carefully down.

There were no relatives there to feel affected at the last scene of all.
They were far away, and, according to popular belief upon the subject,
they must have been dead some ages.

* * * * *

The mob watched the last shovel-full of earth thrown upon the coffin,
and witnessed the ramming down of the soil, and the heaping of it over
at top to make the usual monument; for all this was done speedily and
carefully, lest there should be any tendency to exhume the body of the
deceased.

The people were now somewhat relieved, as to their state of solemnity
and silence. They would all of them converse freely on the matter that
had so long occupied their thoughts.

They seemed now let loose, and everybody found himself at liberty to say
or do something, no matter if it were not very reasonable; that is not
always required of human beings who have souls, or, at least it is
unexpected; and were it expected, the expectation would never be
realized.

The day was likely to wear away without a riot, nay, even without a
fight; a most extraordinary occurrence for such a place under the
existing circumstances; for of late the populace, or, perhaps, the
townspeople, were extremely pugnacious, and many were the disputes that
were settled by the very satisfactory application of the knuckles to the
head of the party holding a contrary opinion.

Thus it was they were ready to take fire, and a hubbub would be the
result of the slightest provocation. But, on the present occasion, there
was a remarkable dearth of, all subjects of the nature described.

Who was to lead Israel out to battle? Alas! no one on the present
occasion.

Such a one, however, appeared, at least, one who furnished a ready
excuse for a disturbance.

Suddenly, Mrs Chillingworth appeared in the midst of a large concourse
of people. She had just left her house, which was close at hand, her
eyes red with weeping, and her children around her on this occasion.

The crowd made way for her, and gathered round her to see what was going
to happen.

"Friends and neighbours," she said "can any of you relieve the tears of
a distressed wife and mother, have any of you seen anything of my
husband, Mr. Chillingworth?"

"What the doctor?" exclaimed one.--"Yes; Mr. Chillingworth, the surgeon.
He has not been home two days and a night. I'm distracted!--what can
have become of him I don't know, unless--"

Here Mrs Chillingworth paused, and some person said,--

"Unless what, Mrs Chillingworth? there are none but friends here, who
wish the doctor well, and would do anything to serve him--unless what?
speak out."

"Unless he's been destroyed by the vampyre. Heaven knows what we may all
come to! Here am I and my children deprived of our protector by some
means which we cannot imagine. He never, in all his life, did the same
before."

"He must have been spirited away by some of the vampyres. I'll tell you
what, friend," said one to another, "that something must be done;
nobody's safe in their bed."

"No; they are not, indeed. I think that all vampyres ought to be burned
and a stake run through them, and then we should be safe."

"Ay; but you must destroy all those who are even suspected of being
vampyres, or else one may do all the mischief."--"So he might."

"Hurrah!" shouted the mob. "Chillingworth for ever! We'll find the
doctor somewhere, if we pull down the whole town."

There was an immense commotion among the populace, who began to start
throwing stones, and do all sorts of things without any particular
object, and some, as they said, to find the doctor, or to show how
willing they were to do so if they knew how.

Mrs. Chillingworth, however, kept on talking to the mob, who continued
shouting; and the authorities anticipated an immediate outbreak of
popular opinion, which is generally accompanied by some forcible
demonstration, and on this occasion some one suggested the propriety of
burning down Bannerworth Hall; because they had burned down the
vampyre's home, and they might as well burn down that of the injured
party, which was carried by acclamation; and with loud shouts they
started on their errand.

This was a mob's proceeding all over, and we regret very much to say,
that it is very much the characteristic of English mobs. What an
uncommonly strange thing it is that people in multitudes seem completely
to get rid of all reason--all honour--all common ordinary honesty;
while, if you were to take the same people singly, you would find that
they were reasonable enough, and would shrink with a feeling quite
approaching to horror from anything in the shape of very flagrant
injustice.

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