Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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"No, no, It is not so. Do not fancy that, for one moment, I can
entertain such unworthy opinions. The thought that crossed me was that I
should have to tell one of such a gentle nature that her father had done
such a deed."

"On that head you can use your own discretion. The deed was done; there
was sufficient light for us to look upon the features of the dying man.
Ghastly and terrific they glared upon us; while the glazed eyes, as they
were upturned to the bright sky, seemed appealing to Heaven for
vengeance against us, for having done the deed.

"Many a day and many an hour since at all times and all seasons, I have
seen those eyes, with the glaze of death upon them, following me, and
gloating over the misery they had the power to make. I think I see them
now."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; look--look--see how they glare upon me--with what a fixed and
frightful stare the bloodshot pupils keep their place--there, there! oh!
save me from such a visitation again. It is too horrible. I dare not--I
cannot endure it; and yet why do you gaze at me with such an aspect,
dread visitant? You know that it was not my hand that did the deed--who
laid you low. You know that not to me are you able to lay the heavy
charge of your death!"

"Varney, you look upon vacancy," said Charles Holland.

"No, no; vacancy it may be to you, but to me 'tis full of horrible
shapes."

"Compose yourself; you have taken me far into your confidence already; I
pray you now to tell me all. I have in my brain no room for horrible
conjectures such as those which might else torment me."

Varney was silent for a few minutes, and then he wiped from his brow the
heavy drops of perspiration that had there gathered, and heaved a deep
sigh.

"Speak to me," added Charles; "nothing will so much relieve you from the
terrors of this remembrance as making a confidence which reflection will
approve of, and which you will know that you have no reason to repent."

"Charles Holland," said Varney, "I have already gone too far to
retract--much too far, I know, and can well understand all the danger of
half confidence. You already know so much, that it is fit you should
know more."

"Go on then, Varney, I will listen to you."

"I know not if, at this juncture, I can command myself to say more. I
feel that what next has to be told will be most horrible for me to
tell--most sad for you to hear told."

"I can well believe, Varney, from your manner of speech, and from the
words you use, that you have some secret to relate beyond this simple
fact of the murder of this gamester by Marmaduke Bannerworth."

"You are right--such is the fact; the death of that man could not have
moved me as you now see me moved. There is a secret connected with his
fate which I may well hesitate to utter--a secret even to whisper to the
winds of heaven--I--although I did not do the deed, no, no--I--I did not
strike the blow--not I--not I!"

[Illustration]

"Varney, it is astonishing to me the pains you take to assure yourself
of your innocence of this deed; no one accuses you, but still, were it
not that I am impressed with a strong conviction that you're speaking to
me nothing but the truth, the very fact of your extreme anxiety to
acquit yourself, would engender suspicion."

"I can understand that feeling, Charles Holland; I can fully understand
it. I do not blame you for it--it is a most natural one; but when you
know all, you will feel with me how necessary it must have been to my
peace to seize upon every trivial circumstance that can help me to a
belief in my own innocence."

"It may be so; as yet, you well know, I speak in ignorance. But what
could there have been in the character of that gambler, that has made
you so sympathetic concerning his decease?"

"Nothing--nothing whatever in his character. He was a bad man; not one
of those free, open spirits which are seduced into crime by
thoughtlessness--not one of those whom we pity, perchance, more than we
condemn; but a man without a redeeming trait in his disposition--a man
so heaped up with vices and iniquities, that society gained much by his
decease, and not an individual could say that he had lost a friend."

"And yet the mere thought of the circumstances connected with his death
seems almost to drive you to the verge of despair."

"You are right; the mere thought has that effect."

"You have aroused all my curiosity to know the causes of such a
feeling."

Varney paced the apartment in silence for many minutes. He seemed to be
enduring a great mental struggle, and at length, when he turned to
Charles Holland and spoke, there were upon his countenance traces of
deep emotion.

"I have said, young man, that I will take you into my confidence. I have
said that I will clear up many seeming mysteries, and that I will enable
you to understand what was obscure in the narrative of Dr.
Chillingworth, and of that man who filled the office of public
executioner, and who has haunted me so long."

"It is true, then, as the doctor states, that you were executed in
London?"

"I was."

"And resuscitated by the galvanic process, put into operation by Dr.
Chillingworth?"

"As he supposed; but there are truths connected with natural philosophy
which he dreamed not of. I bear a charmed life, and it was but accident
which produced a similar effect upon the latent springs of my existence
in the house to which the executioner conducted me, to what would have
been produced had I been sufficed, in the free and open air, to wait
until the cool moonbeams fell upon me."

"Varney, Varney," said Charles Holland, "you will not succeed in
convincing me of your supernatural powers. I hold such feelings and
sensations at arm's length. I will not--I cannot assume you to be what
you affect."

"I ask for no man's belief. I know that which I know, and, gathering
experience from the coincidences of different phenomena, I am compelled
to arrive at certain conclusions. Believe what you please, doubt what
you please; but I say again that I am not as other men."

"I am in no condition to depute your proposition; I wish not to dispute
it; but you are wandering, Varney, from the point. I wait anxiously for
a continuation of your narrative."

"I know that I am wandering from it--I know well that I am wandering
from it, and that the reason I do so is that I dread that continuation."

"That dread will nor be the less for its postponement."

"You are right; but tell me, Charles Holland, although you are young you
have been about in the great world sufficiently to form correct
opinions, and to understand that which is related to you, drawing proper
deductions from certain facts, and arriving possibly at more correct
conclusions than some of maturer years with less wisdom."

"I will freely answer, Varney, any question you may put to me."

"I know it; tell me then what measure of guilt you attach to me in the
transaction I have noticed to you."

"It seems then to me that, not contemplating the man's murder, you
cannot be accused of the act, although a set of fortuitous circumstances
made you appear an accomplice to its commission."

"You think I may be acquitted?"

"You can acquit yourself, knowing that you did not contemplate the
murder."

"I did not contemplate it. I know not what desperate deed I should have
stopped short at then, in the height of my distress, but I neither
contemplated taking that man's life, nor did I strike the blow which
sent him from existence."

"There is even some excuse as regards the higher crime for Marmaduke
Bannerworth."

"Think you so?"

"Yes; he thought that you were killed, and impulsively he might have
struck the blow that made him a murderer."

"Be it so. I am willing, extremely willing that anything should occur
that should remove the odium of guilt from any man, Be it so, I say,
with all my heart; but now, Charles Holland, I feel that we must meet
again ere I can tell you all; but in the meantime let Flora Bannerworth
rest in peace--she need dread nothing from me. Avarice and revenge, the
two passions which found a home in my heart, are now stifled for ever."

"Revenge! did you say revenge?"

"I did; whence the marvel, am I not sufficiently human for that?"

"But you coupled it with the name of Flora Bannerworth."

"I did, and that is part of my mystery."

"A mystery, indeed, to imagine that such a being as Flora could awaken
any such feeling in your heart--a most abundant mystery."

"It is so. I do not affect to deny it: but yet it is true, although so
greatly mysterious, but tell her that although at one time I looked upon
her as one whom I cared not if I injured, her beauty and distress
changed the current of my thoughts, and won upon me greatly, From the
moment I found I had the power to become the bane of her existence, I
ceased to wish to be so, and never again shall she experience a pang of
alarm from Varney, the vampyre."

"Your message shall be faithfully delivered, and doubt not that it will
be received with grateful feelings. Nevertheless I should have much
wished to have been in a position to inform her of more particulars."

"Come to me here at midnight to-morrow, and you shall know all. I will
have no reservation with you, no concealments; you shall know whom I
have had to battle against, and how it is that a world of evil passions
took possession of my heart and made me what I am."

"Are you firm in this determination, Varney--will you indeed tell me no
more to-night?"

"No more, I have said it. Leave me now. I have need of more repose, for
of late sleep has seldom closed my eyelids."

Charles Holland was convinced, from the positive manner in which he
spoke, that nothing more in the shape of information, at that time, was
to be expected from Varney; and being fearful that if he urged this
strange being too far, at a time when he did not wish it, he might
refuse all further communication, he thought it prudent to leave him, so
he said to him,--

"Be assured, Varney, I shall keep the appointment you have made, with an
expectation when we do meet of being rewarded by a recital of some full
particulars."

"You shall not he disappointed; farewell, farewell!"

Charles Holland bade him adieu, and left the place.

Although he had now acquired all the information he hoped to take away
with him when Varney first began to be communicative, yet, when he came
to consider how strange and unaccountable a being he had been in
communication with, Charles could not but congratulate himself that he
had heard so much, for, from the manner of Varney, he could well suppose
that that was, indeed, the first time he had been so communicative upon
subjects which evidently held so conspicuous a place in his heart.

And he had abundance of hope, likewise, from what had been said by
Varney, that he would keep his word, and communicate to him fully all
else that he required to know; and when he recollected those words which
Varney had used, signifying that he knew the danger of half confidences,
that hope grew into a certainty, and Charles began to have no doubt but
that on the next evening all that was mysterious in the various affairs
connected with the vampyre would become clear and open to the light of
day.

He strolled down the lane in which the lone house was situated,
revolving these matters in his mind, and when he arrived at its
entrance, he was rather surprised to see a throng of persons hastily
moving onward, with come appearance of dismay about them, and anxiety
depicted upon their countenances.

He stopped a lad, and inquired of him the cause of the seeming tumult.

"Why, sir, the fact is," said the boy, "a crowd from the town's been
burning down Bannerworth Hall, and they've killed a man"

"Bannerworth Hall! you must be mistaken."

"Well, sir, I ought not to call it Bannerworth Hall, because I mean the
old ruins in the neighbourhood that are supposed to have been originally
Bannerworth Hall before the house now called such was built; and,
moreover, as the Bannerworths have always had a garden there, and two or
three old sheds, the people in the town called it Bannerworth Hall in
common with the other building."

"I understand. And do you say that all have been destroyed?"

"Yes, sir. All that was capable of being burnt has been burnt, and, what
is more, a man has been killed among the ruins. We don't know who he is,
but the folks said he was a vampyre, and they left him for dead,"

"When will these terrible outrages cease? Oh! Varney, Varney, you have
much to answer for; even if in your conscience you succeed in acquitting
yourself of the murder, some of the particulars concerning which you
have informed me of."

CHAPTER LXXXIII.

THE MYSTERIOUS ARRIVAL AT THE INN.--THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN.--THE LETTER
TO VARNEY.

[Illustration]

While these affairs are proceeding, and when there seems every
appearance of Sir Francis Varney himself quickly putting an end to some
of the vexatious circumstances connected with himself and the
Bannerworth family, it is necessary that we should notice an occurrence
which took place at the same inn which the admiral had made such a scene
of confusion upon the occasion of his first arrival in the town.

Not since the admiral had arrived with Jack Pringle, and so disturbed
the whole economy of the household, was there so much curiosity excited
as on the morning following the interview which Charles Holland had had
with Varney, the vampyre.

The inn was scarcely opened, when a stranger arrived, mounted on a
coal-black horse, and, alighting, he surrendered the bridle into the
hands of a boy who happened to be at the inn-door, and stalked slowly
and solemnly into the building.

He was tall, and of a cadaverous aspect; in attire he was plainly
apparelled, but there was no appearance of poverty about him; on the
contrary, what he really had on was of a rich and costly character,
although destitute of ornament.

He sat down in the first room that presented itself, and awaited the
appearance of the landlord, who, upon being informed that a guest of
apparently ample means, and of some consequence, had entered the place,
hastily went to him to receive his commands.

With a profusion of bows, our old friend, who had been so obsequious to
Admiral Bell, entered the room, and begged to know what orders the
gentleman had for him.

"I presume," said the stranger, in a deep, solemn voice, "I presume that
you have no objection, for a few days that I shall remain in this town,
to board and lodge me for a certain price which you can name to me at
once?"

"Certainly, sir," said the landlord; "any way you please; without wine,
sir, I presume?"

"As you please; make your own arrangements."

"Well, sir, as we can't tell, of course, what wine a gentleman may
drink, but when we come to consider breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper,
and a bed, and all that sort of thing, and a private sitting-room, I
suppose, sir?"

"Certainly."

"You would not, then, think, sir, a matter of four guineas a week will
be too much, perhaps."

"I told you to name your own charge. Let it be four guineas; if you had
said eight I should have paid it."

"Good God!" said the publican, "here's a damned fool that I am. I beg
your pardon, sir, I didn't mean you. Now I could punch my own head--will
you have breakfast at once, sir, and then we shall begin regular, you
know, sir?"

"Have what?"

"Breakfast, breakfast, you know, sir; tea, coffee, cocoa, or chocolate;
ham, eggs, or a bit of grilled fowl, cold sirloin of roast beef, or a
red herring--anything you like, sir."

"I never take breakfast, so you may spare yourself the trouble of
providing anything for me."

"Not take breakfast, sir! not take breakfast! Would you like to take
anything to drink then, sir? People say it's an odd time, at eight
o'clock in the morning, to drink; but, for my part, I always have
thought that you couldn't begin a good thing too soon."

"I live upon drink," said the stranger; "but you have none in the cellar
that will suit me."

"Indeed, sir."

"No, no, I am certain."

"Why, we've got some claret now, sir," said the landlord.

"Which may look like blood, and yet not be it."

"Like what, sir?--damn my rags!"

"Begone, begone."

The stranger uttered these words so peremptorily that the landlord
hastily left the room, and going into his own bar, he gave himself so
small a tap on the side of the head, that it would not have hurt a fly,
as he said,--

"I could punch myself into bits, I could tear my hair out by the roots;"
and then he pulled a little bit of his hair, so gently and tenderly that
it showed what a man of discretion he was, even in the worst of all his
agony of passion.

"The idea," he added, "of a fellow coming here, paying four guineas a
week for board and lodging, telling me he would not have minded eight,
and then not wanting any breakfast; it's enough to aggravate half a
dozen saints; but what an odd fish he looks."

At this moment the ostler came in, and, standing at the bar, he wiped
his mouth with his sleeve, as he said,--

"I suppose you'll stand a quart for that, master?"

"A quart for what, you vagabond? A quart because I've done myself up in
heaps; a quart because I'm fit to pull myself into fiddlestrings?"

"No," said the ostler; "because I've just put up the gentleman's horse."

"What gentleman's horse?"

"Why, the big-looking fellow with the white face, now in the parlour."

"What, did he come on a horse, Sam? What sort of a looking creature is
it? you may judge of a man from the sort of horse-company he keeps."

"Well, then, sir, I hardly know. It's coal black, and looks as knowing
as possible; it's tried twice to get a kick at me, but I was down upon
him, and put the bucket in his way. Howsomdever, I don't think it's a
bad animal, as a animal, mind you, sir, though a little bit wicious or
so."

"Well," said the publican, as he drew the ostler half a pint instead of
a quart, "you're always drinking; take that."

"Blow me," said the ostler, "half a pint, master!"

"Plague take you, I can't stand parleying with you, there's the parlour
bell; perhaps, after all, he will have some breakfast."

While the landlord was away the ostler helped himself to a quart of the
strongest ale, which, by a singular faculty that he had acquired, he
poured down his throat without any effort at swallowing, holding his
head back, and the jug at a little distance from his mouth.

Having accomplished this feat, he reversed the jug, giving it a knowing
tap with his knuckles as though he would have signified to all the world
that it was empty, and that he had accomplished what he desired.

In the meantime, the landlord had made his way to his strange guest, who
said to him, when he came into the room,

"Is there not one Sir Francis Varney residing in this town?"

"The devil!" thought the landlord; "this is another of them, I'll bet a
guinea. Sir Francis Varney, sir, did you say? Why, sir, there was a Sir
Francis Varney, but folks seem to think as how he's no better than he
should be--a sort of vampyre, sir, if you know what that is."

"I have, certainly, heard of such things; but can you not tell me
Varney's address? I wish to see him."

"Well, then, sir, I cannot tell it to you, for there's really been such
a commotion and such a riot about him that he's taken himself off, I
think, altogether, and we can hear nothing of him. Lord bless you, sir,
they burnt down his house, and hunted him about so, that I don't think
that he'll ever show his face here again."

"And cannot you tell me where he was seen last?"

"That I cannot, sir; but, if anybody knows anything about him, it's Mr.
Henry Bannerworth, or perhaps Dr. Chillingworth, for they have had more
to do with him than anybody else."

"Indeed; and can you tell me the address of the former individual?"

"That I can't, sir, for the Bannerworths have left the Hall. As for the
doctor, sir, you'll see his house in the High-street, with a large brass
plate on the door, so that you cannot mistake it. It's No. 9, on the
other side of the way."

"I thank you for so much information," said the stranger, and rising, he
walked to the door. Before, however, he left, he turned, and
added,--"You can say, if you should by chance meet Mr. Bannerworth, that
a Hungarian nobleman wishes to speak to him concerning Sir Francis
Varney, the vampyre?"

"A what, sir?"

"A nobleman from Hungary," was the reply.

"The deuce!" said the landlord, as he looked after him. "He don't seem
at all hungry here, not thirsty neither. What does he mean by a nobleman
from Hungary? The idea of a man talking about hungry, and not taking any
breakfast. He's queering me. I'll be hanged if I'll stand it. Here I
clearly lose four guineas a week, and then get made game of besides. A
nobleman, indeed! I think I see him. Why, he isn't quite so big as old
Slaney, the butcher. It's a do. I'll have at him when he comes back."

Meanwhile, the unconscious object of this soliloquy passed down the
High-street, until he came to Dr. Chillingworth's, at whose door he
knocked.

Now Mrs. Chillingworth had been waiting the whole night for the return
of the doctor, who had not yet made his appearance, and, consequently,
that lady's temper had become acidulated to an uncommon extent and when
she heard a knock at the door, something possessed her that it could be
no other than her spouse, and she prepared to give him that warm
reception which she considered he had a right, as a married man, to
expect after such conduct.

She hurriedly filled a tolerably sized hand-basin with not the cleanest
water in the world, and then, opening the door hurriedly with one hand,
she slouced the contents into the face of the intruder, exclaiming,--

"Now you've caught it!"

"D--n!" said the Hungarian nobleman, and then Mrs. Chillingworth uttered
a scream, for she feared she had made a mistake.

"Oh, sir! I'm very sorry: but I thought it was my husband."

"But if you did," said the stranger, "there was no occasion to drown him
with a basin of soap-suds. It is your husband I want, madam, if he be
Dr. Chillingworth."

"Then, indeed, you must go on wanting him, sir, for he's not been to his
own home for a day and a night. He takes up all his time in hunting
after that beastly vampyre."

"Ah! Sir Francis Varney, you mean."

"I do; and I'd Varney him if I caught hold of him."

"Can you give me the least idea of where he can be found?"

"Of course I can."

"Indeed! where?" said the stranger, eagerly.

"In some churchyard, to be sure, gobbling up the dead bodies."

With this Mrs. Chillingworth shut the door with a bang that nearly
flattened the Hungarian's nose with his face, and he was fain to walk
away, quite convinced that there was no information to be had in that
quarter.

He returned to the inn, and having told the landlord that he would give
a handsome reward to any one who would discover to him the retreat of
Sir Francis Varney, he shut himself up in an apartment alone, and was
busy for a time in writing letters.

Although the sum which the stranger offered was an indefinite one, the
landlord mentioned the matter across the bar to several persons; but all
of them shook their heads, believing it to be a very perilous adventure
indeed to have anything to do with so troublesome a subject as Sir
Francis Varney. As the day advanced, however, a young lad presented
himself, and asked to see the gentleman who had been inquiring for
Varney.

The landlord severely questioned and cross-questioned him, with the hope
of discovering if he had any information: but the boy was quite
obdurate, and would speak to no one but the person who had offered the
reward, so that mine host was compelled to introduce him to the
Hungarian nobleman, who, as yet, had neither eaten nor drunk in the
house.

The boy wore upon his countenance the very expression of juvenile
cunning, and when the stranger asked him if he really was in possession
of any information concerning the retreat of Sir Francis Varney, he
said,--

"I can tell you where he is, but what are you going to give?"

"What sum do you require?" said the stranger.

"A whole half-crown."

"It is your's; and, if your information prove correct, come to-morrow,
and I'll add another to it, always provided, likewise, you keep the
secret from any one else."

"Trust me for that," said the boy. "I live with my grandmother; she's
precious old, and has got a cottage. We sell milk and cakes, sticky
stuff, and pennywinkles."

"A goodly collection. Go on."

"Well, sir, this morning, there comes a man in with a bottle, and he
buys a bottle full of milk and a loaf. I saw him, and I knew it was
Varney, the vampyre."

"You followed him?"

"Of course I did, sir; and he's staying at the house that's to let down
the lane, round the corner, by Mr. Biggs's, and past Lee's garden,
leaving old Slaney's stacks on your right hand, and so cutting on till
you come to Grants's meadow, when you'll see old Madhunter a brick-field
staring of you in the face; and, arter that--"

"Peace--peace!--you shall yourself conduct me. Come to this place at
sunset; be secret, and, probably, ten times the reward you have already
received may be yours," said the stranger.