Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

T >> Thomas Preskett Prest >> Varney the Vampire

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | 69 | 70 | 71 | 72 | 73

The doctor laid his hand upon Henry's arm as he said,--

"There is a young lime tree yonder to the right."

"Yes--yes."

"Carry your eye from it in a horizontal line, as near as you can,
towards the wood."

Henry did so, and then he uttered a sudden exclamation of surprise, and
pointed to a rising spot of ground, which was yet, in consequence of the
number of tall trees in its vicinity, partially enveloped in shadow.

"What is that?" he said.

"I see something," said Marchdale. "By Heaven! it is a human form lying
stretched there."

"It is--as if in death."

"What can it be?" said Chillingworth.

"I dread to say," replied Marchdale; "but to my eyes, even at this
distance, it seems like the form of him we chased last night."

"The vampyre?"

"Yes--yes. Look, the moonbeams touch him. Now the shadows of the trees
gradually recede. God of Heaven! the figure moves."

Henry's eyes were riveted to that fearful object, and now a scene
presented itself which filled them all with wonder and astonishment,
mingled with sensations of the greatest awe and alarm.

As the moonbeams, in consequence of the luminary rising higher and
higher in the heavens, came to touch this figure that lay extended on
the rising ground, a perceptible movement took place in it. The limbs
appeared to tremble, and although it did not rise up, the whole body
gave signs of vitality.

"The vampyre--the vampyre!" said Mr. Marchdale. "I cannot doubt it now.
We must have hit him last night with the pistol bullets, and the
moonbeams are now restoring him to a new life."

Henry shuddered, and even Mr. Chillingworth turned pale. But he was the
first to recover himself sufficiently to propose some course of action,
and he said,--

"Let us descend and go up to this figure. It is a duty we owe to
ourselves as much as to society."

"Hold a moment," said Mr. Marchdale, as he produced a pistol. "I am an
unerring shot, as you well know, Henry. Before we move from this
position we now occupy, allow me to try what virtue may be in a bullet
to lay that figure low again."

"He is rising!" exclaimed Henry.

Mr. Marchdale levelled the pistol--he took a sure and deliberate aim,
and then, just as the figure seemed to be struggling to its feet, he
fired, and, with a sudden bound, it fell again.

"You have hit it," said Henry.

"You have indeed," exclaimed the doctor. "I think we can go now."

"Hush!" said Marchdale--"Hush! Does it not seem to you that, hit it as
often as you will, the moonbeams will recover it?"

"Yes--yes," said Henry, "they will--they will."

"I can endure this no longer," said Mr. Chillingworth, as he sprung from
the wall. "Follow me or not, as you please, I will seek the spot where
this being lies."

"Oh, be not rash," cried Marchdale. "See, it rises again, and its form
looks gigantic."

"I trust in Heaven and a righteous cause," said the doctor, as he drew
the sword he had spoken of from the stick, and threw away the scabbard.
"Come with me if you like, or I go alone."

Henry at once jumped down from the wall, and then Marchdale followed
him, saying,--

"Come on; I will not shrink."

They ran towards the piece of rising ground; but before they got to it,
the form rose and made rapidly towards a little wood which was in the
immediate neighbourhood of the hillock.

"It is conscious of being pursued," cried the doctor. "See how it
glances back, and then increases its speed."

"Fire upon it, Henry," said Marchdale.

He did so; but either his shot did not take effect, or it was quite
unheeded if it did, by the vampyre, which gained the wood before they
could have a hope of getting sufficiently near it to effect, or
endeavour to effect, a capture.

"I cannot follow it there," said Marchdale. "In open country I would
have pursued it closely; but I cannot follow it into the intricacies of
a wood."

"Pursuit is useless there," said Henry. "It is enveloped in the deepest
gloom."

"I am not so unreasonable," remarked Mr. Chillingworth, "as to wish you
to follow into such a place as that. I am confounded utterly by this
affair."

"And I," said Marchdale. "What on earth is to be done?"

"Nothing--nothing!" exclaimed Henry, vehemently; "and yet I have,
beneath the canopy of Heaven, declared that I will, so help me God!
spare neither time nor trouble in the unravelling of this most fearful
piece of business. Did either of you remark the clothing which this
spectral appearance wore?"

"They were antique clothes," said Mr. Chillingworth, "such as might have
been fashionable a hundred years ago, but not now."

"Such was my impression," added Marchdale.

"And such my own," said Henry, excitedly. "Is it at all within the
compass of the wildest belief that what we have seen is a vampyre, and
no other than my ancestor who, a hundred years ago, committed suicide?"

There was so much intense excitement, and evidence of mental suffering,
that Mr. Chillingworth took him by the arm, saying,--

"Come home--come home; no more of this at present; you will but make
yourself seriously unwell."

"No--no--no."

"Come home now, I pray you; you are by far too much excited about this
matter to pursue it with the calmness which should be brought to bear
upon it."

"Take advice, Henry," said Marchdale, "take advice, and come home at
once."

"I will yield to you; I feel that I cannot control my own feelings--I
will yield to you, who, as you say, are cooler on this subject than I
can be. Oh, Flora, Flora, I have no comfort to bring to you now."

Poor Henry Bannerworth appeared to be in a complete state of mental
prostration, on account of the distressing circumstances that had
occurred so rapidly and so suddenly in his family, which had had quite
enough to contend with without having superadded to every other evil the
horror of believing that some preternatural agency was at work to
destroy every hope of future happiness in this world, under any
circumstances.

He suffered himself to be led home by Mr. Chillingworth and Marchdale;
he no longer attempted to dispute the dreadful fact concerning the
supposed vampyre; he could not contend now against all the corroborating
circumstances that seemed to collect together for the purpose of proving
that which, even when proved, was contrary to all his notions of Heaven,
and at variance with all that was recorded and established is part and
parcel of the system of nature.

"I cannot deny," he said, when they had reached home, "that such things
are possible; but the probability will not bear a moment's
investigation."

"There are more things," said Marchdale, solemnly, "in Heaven, and on
earth, than are dreamed of in our philosophy."

"There are indeed, it appears," said Mr. Chillingworth.

"And are you a convert?" said Henry, turning to him.

"A convert to what?"

"To a belief in--in--these vampyres?"

"I? No, indeed; if you were to shut me up in a room full of vampyres, I
would tell them all to their teeth that I defied them."

"But after what we have seen to-night?"

"What have we seen?"

"You are yourself a witness."

"True; I saw a man lying down, and then I saw a man get up; he seemed
then to be shot, but whether he was or not he only knows; and then I saw
him walk off in a desperate hurry. Beyond that, I saw nothing."

"Yes; but, taking such circumstances into combination with others, have
you not a terrible fear of the truth of the dreadful appearance?"

"No--no; on my soul, no. I will die in my disbelief of such an outrage
upon Heaven as one of these creatures would most assuredly be."

"Oh! that I could think like you; but the circumstance strikes too
nearly to my heart."

"Be of better cheer, Henry--be of better cheer," said Marchdale; "there
is one circumstance which we ought to consider, it is that, from all we
have seen, there seems to be some things which would favour an opinion,
Henry, that your ancestor, whose portrait hangs in the chamber which was
occupied by Flora, is the vampyre."

"The dress was the same," said Henry.

"I noted it was."

"And I."

"Do you not, then, think it possible that something might be done to set
that part of the question at rest?"

"What--what?"

"Where is your ancestor buried?"

"Ah! I understand you now."

"And I," said Mr. Chillingworth; "you would propose a visit to his
mansion?"

"I would," added Marchdale; "anything that may in any way tend to assist
in making this affair clearer, and divesting it of its mysterious
circumstances, will be most desirable."

Henry appeared to rouse for some moments and then he said,--

"He, in common with many other members of the family, no doubt occupies
place in the vault under the old church in the village."

"Would it be possible," asked Marchdale, "to get into that vault without
exciting general attention?"

"It would," said Henry; "the entrance to the vault is in the flooring of
the pew which belongs to the family in the old church."

"Then it could be done?" asked Mr. Chillingworth.

"Most undoubtedly."

"Will you under take such an adventure?" said Mr. Chillingworth. "It may
ease your mind."

"He was buried in the vault, and in his clothes," said Henry, musingly;
"I will think of it. About such a proposition I would not decide
hastily. Give me leave to think of it until to-morrow."

"Most certainly."

[Illustration]

They now made their way to the chamber of Flora, and they heard from
George that nothing of an alarming character had occurred to disturb him
on his lonely watch. The morning was now again dawning, and Henry
earnestly entreated Mr. Marchdale to go to bed, which he did, leaving
the two brothers to continue as sentinels by Flora's bed side, until the
morning light should banish all uneasy thoughts.

Henry related to George what had taken place outside the house, and the
two brothers held a long and interesting conversation for some hours
upon that subject, as well as upon others of great importance to their
welfare. It was not until the sun's early rays came glaring in at the
casement that they both rose, and thought of awakening Flora, who had
now slept soundly for so many hours.

CHAPTER VI.

A GLANCE AT THE BANNERWORTH FAMILY.--THE PROBABLE CONSEQUENCES OF THE
MYSTERIOUS APPARITION'S APPEARANCE.

[Illustration]

Having thus far, we hope, interested our readers in the fortunes of a
family which had become subject to so dreadful a visitation, we trust
that a few words concerning them, and the peculiar circumstances in
which they are now placed, will not prove altogether out of place, or
unacceptable. The Bannerworth family then were well known in the part of
the country where they resided. Perhaps, if we were to say they were
better known by name than they were liked, on account of that name, we
should be near the truth, for it had unfortunately happened that for a
very considerable time past the head of the family had been the very
worst specimen of it that could be procured. While the junior branches
were frequently amiable and most intelligent, and such in mind and
manner as were calculated to inspire goodwill in all who knew them, he
who held the family property, and who resided in the house now occupied
by Flora and her brothers, was a very so--so sort of character.

This state of things, by some strange fatality, had gone on for nearly a
hundred years, and the consequence was what might have been fairly
expected, namely--that, what with their vices and what with their
extravagances, the successive heads of the Bannerworth family had
succeeded in so far diminishing the family property that, when it came
into the hands of Henry Bannerworth, it was of little value, on account
of the numerous encumbrances with which it was saddled.

The father of Henry had not been a very brilliant exception to the
general rule, as regarded the head of the family. If he were not quite
so bad as many of his ancestors, that gratifying circumstance was to be
accounted for by the supposition that he was not quite so bold, and that
the change in habits, manners, and laws, which had taken place in a
hundred years, made it not so easy for even a landed proprietor to play
the petty tyrant.

He had, to get rid of those animal spirits which had prompted many of
his predecessors to downright crimes, had recourse to the gaming-table,
and, after raising whatever sums he could upon the property which
remained, he naturally, and as might have been fully expected, lost them
all.

He was found lying dead in the garden of the house one day, and by his
side was his pocket-book, on one leaf of which, it was the impression of
the family, he had endeavoured to write something previous to his
decease, for he held a pencil firmly in his grasp.

The probability was that he had felt himself getting ill, and, being
desirous of making some communication to his family which pressed
heavily upon his mind, he had attempted to do so, but was stopped by the
too rapid approach of the hand of death.

For some days previous to his decease, his conduct had been extremely
mysterious. He had announced an intention of leaving England for
ever--of selling the house and grounds for whatever they would fetch
over and above the sums for which they were mortgaged, and so clearing
himself of all encumbrances.

He had, but a few hours before he was found lying dead, made the
following singular speech to Henry,--

"Do not regret, Henry, that the old house which has been in our family
so long is about to be parted with. Be assured that, if it is but for
the first time in my life, I have good and substantial reasons now for
what I am about to do. We shall be able to go some other country, and
there live like princes of the land."

Where the means were to come from to live like a prince, unless Mr.
Bannerworth had some of the German princes in his eye, no one knew but
himself, and his sudden death buried with him that most important
secret.

There were some words written on the leaf of his pocket-book, but they
were of by far too indistinct and ambiguous a nature to lead to
anything. They were these:--

"The money is ----------"

And then there was a long scrawl of the pencil, which seemed to have
been occasioned by his sudden decease.

Of course nothing could be made of these words, except in the way of a
contradiction as the family lawyer said, rather more facetiously than a
man of law usually speaks, for if he had written "The money is not," he
would have been somewhere remarkably near the truth.

However, with all his vices he was regretted by his children, who chose
rather to remember him in his best aspect than to dwell upon his faults.

For the first time then, within the memory of man, the head of the
family of the Bannerworths was a gentleman, in every sense of the word.
Brave, generous, highly educated, and full of many excellent and noble
qualities--for such was Henry, whom we have introduced to our readers
under such distressing circumstances.

And now, people said, that the family property having been all
dissipated and lost, there would take place a change, and that the
Bannerworths would have to take to some course of honourable industry
for a livelihood, and that then they would be as much respected as they
had before been detested and disliked.

Indeed, the position which Henry held was now a most precarious one--for
one of the amazingly clever acts of his father had been to encumber the
property with overwhelming claims, so that when Henry administered to
the estate, it was doubted almost by his attorney if it were at all
desirable to do so.

An attachment, however, to the old house of his family, had induced the
young man to hold possession of it as long as he could, despite any
adverse circumstance which might eventually be connected with it.

Some weeks, however, only after the decease of his father, and when he
fairly held possession, a sudden and a most unexpected offer came to him
from a solicitor in London, of whom he knew nothing, to purchase the
house and grounds, for a client of his, who had instructed him so to do,
but whom he did not mention.

The offer made was a liberal one, and beyond the value of the place.
The lawyer who had conducted Henry's affairs for him since his father's
decease, advised him by all means to take it; but after a consultation
with his mother and sister, and George, they all resolved to hold by
their own house as long as they could, and, consequently, he refused the
offer.

He was then asked to let the place, and to name his own price for the
occupation of it; but that he would not do: so the negotiation went off
altogether, leaving only, in the minds of the family, much surprise at
the exceeding eagerness of some one, whom they knew not, to get
possession of the place on any terms.

There was another circumstance perhaps which materially aided in
producing a strong feeling on the minds of the Bannerworths, with regard
to remaining where they were.

That circumstance occurred thus: a relation of the family, who was now
dead, and with whom had died all his means, had been in the habit, for
the last half dozen years of his life, of sending a hundred pounds to
Henry, for the express purpose of enabling him and his brother George
and his sifter Flora to take a little continental or home tour, in the
autumn of the year.

A more acceptable present, or for a more delightful purpose, to young
people, could not be found; and, with the quiet, prudent habits of all
three of them, they contrived to go far and to see much for the sum
which was thus handsomely placed at their disposal.

In one of those excursions, when among the mountains of Italy, an
adventure occurred which placed the life of Flora in imminent hazard.

They were riding along a narrow mountain path, and, her horse slipping,
she fell over the ledge of a precipice.

In an instant, a young man, a stranger to the whole party, who was
travelling in the vicinity, rushed to the spot, and by his knowledge and
exertions, they felt convinced her preservation was effected.

He told her to lie quiet; he encouraged her to hope for immediate
succour; and then, with much personal exertion, and at immense risk to
himself, he reached the ledge of rock on which she lay, and then he
supported her until the brothers had gone to a neighbouring house,
which, bye-the-bye, was two good English miles off, and got assistance.

There came on, while they were gone, a terrific storm, and Flora felt
that but for him who was with her she must have been hurled from the
rock, and perished in an abyss below, which was almost too deep for
observation.

Suffice it to say that she was rescued; and he who had, by his
intrepidity, done so much towards saving her, was loaded with the most
sincere and heartfelt acknowledgments by the brothers as well as by
herself.

He frankly told them that his name was Holland; that he was travelling
for amusement and instruction, and was by profession an artist.

He travelled with them for some time; and it was not at all to be
wondered at, under the circumstances, that an attachment of the
tenderest nature should spring up between him and the beautiful girl,
who felt that she owed to him her life.

Mutual glances of affection were exchanged between them, and it was
arranged that when he returned to England, he should come at once as an
honoured guest to the house of the family of the Bannerworths.

All this was settled satisfactorily with the full knowledge and
acquiescence of the two brothers, who had taken a strange attachment to
the young Charles Holland, who was indeed in every way likely to
propitiate the good opinion of all who knew him.

Henry explained to him exactly how they were situated, and told him that
when he came he would find a welcome from all, except possibly his
father, whose wayward temper he could not answer for.

Young Holland stated that he was compelled to be away for a term of two
years, from certain family arrangements he had entered into, and that
then he would return and hope to meet Flora unchanged as he should be.

It happened that this was the last of the continental excursions of the
Bannerworths, for, before another year rolled round, the generous
relative who had supplied them with the means of making such delightful
trips was no more; and, likewise, the death of the father had occurred
in the manner we have related, so that there was no chance as had been
anticipated and hoped for by Flora, of meeting Charles Holland on the
continent again, before his two years of absence from England should be
expired.

Such, however, being the state of things, Flora felt reluctant to give
up the house, where he would be sure to come to look for her, and her
happiness was too dear to Henry to induce him to make any sacrifice of
it to expediency.

Therefore was it that Bannerworth Hall, as it was sometimes called, was
retained, and fully intended to be retained at all events until after
Charles Holland had made his appearance, and his advice (for he was, by
the young people, considered as one of the family) taken, with regard to
what was advisable to be done.

With one exception this was the state of affairs at the hall, and that
exception relates to Mr. Marchdale.

He was a distant relation of Mrs. Bannerworth, and, in early life, had
been sincerely and tenderly attached to her. She, however, with the want
of steady reflection of a young girl, as she then was, had, as is
generally the case among several admirers, chosen the very worst: that
is, the man who treated her with the most indifference, and who paid her
the least attention, was of course, thought the most of, and she gave
her hand to him.

That man was Mr. Bannerworth. But future experience had made her
thoroughly awake to her former error; and, but for the love she bore her
children, who were certainly all that a mother's heart could wish, she
would often have deeply regretted the infatuation which had induced her
to bestow her hand in the quarter she had done so.

About a month after the decease of Mr. Bannerworth, there came one to
the hall, who desired to see the widow. That one was Mr. Marchdale.

It might have been some slight tenderness towards him which had never
left her, or it might be the pleasure merely of seeing one whom she had
known intimately in early life, but, be that as it may, she certainly
gave him a kindly welcome; and he, after consenting to remain for some
time as a visitor at the hall, won the esteem of the whole family by his
frank demeanour and cultivated intellect.

He had travelled much and seen much, and he had turned to good account
all he had seen, so that not only was Mr. Marchdale a man of sterling
sound sense, but he was a most entertaining companion.

His intimate knowledge of many things concerning which they knew little
or nothing; his accurate modes of thought, and a quiet, gentlemanly
demeanour, such as is rarely to be met with, combined to make him
esteemed by the Bannerworths. He had a small independence of his own,
and being completely alone in the world, for he had neither wife nor
child, Marchdale owned that he felt a pleasure in residing with the
Bannerworths.

Of course he could not, in decent terms, so far offend them as to offer
to pay for his subsistence, but he took good care that they should
really be no losers by having him as an inmate, a matter which he could
easily arrange by little presents of one kind and another, all of which
he managed should be such as were not only ornamental, but actually
spared his kind entertainers some positive expense which otherwise they
must have gone to.

Whether or not this amiable piece of manoeuvring was seen through by the
Bannerworths it is not our purpose to inquire. If it was seen through,
it could not lower him in their esteem, for it was probably just what
they themselves would have felt a pleasure in doing under similar
circumstances, and if they did not observe it, Mr. Marchdale would,
probably, be all the better pleased.

Such then may be considered by our readers as a brief outline of the
state of affairs among the Bannerworths--a state which was pregnant with
changes, and which changes were now likely to be rapid and conclusive.

How far the feelings of the family towards the ancient house of their
race would be altered by the appearance at it of so fearful a visitor as
a vampyre, we will not stop to inquire, inasmuch as such feelings will
develop themselves as we proceed.

That the visitation had produced a serious effect upon all the household
was sufficiently evident, as well among the educated as among the
ignorant. On the second morning, Henry received notice to quit his
service from the three servants he with difficulty had contrived to keep
at the hall. The reason why he received such notice he knew well enough,
and therefore he did not trouble himself to argue about a superstition
to which he felt now himself almost, compelled to give way; for how
could he say there was no such thing as a vampyre, when he had, with his
own eyes, had the most abundant evidence of the terrible fact?

He calmly paid the servants, and allowed them to leave him at once
without at all entering into the matter, and, for the time being, some
men were procured, who, however, came evidently with fear and trembling,
and probably only took the place, on account of not being able, to
procure any other. The comfort of the household was likely to be
completely put an end to, and reasons now for leaving the hall appeared
to be most rapidly accumulating.