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Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

T >> Thomas Preskett Prest >> Varney the Vampire




"What, ten half-crowns?"

"Yes, I will keep my word with you."

"What a go! I know what I'll do. I'll set up as a show man, and what a
glorious treat it will be, to peep through one of the holes all day
myself, and get somebody to pull the strings up and down, and when I'm
tired of that, I can blaze away upon the trumpet like one o'clock. I
think I see me. Here you sees the Duke of Marlborough a whopping of
everybody, and here you see the Frenchmen flying about like parched peas
in a sifter."




CHAPTER LXXXIV.

THE EXCITED POPULACE.--VARNEY HUNTED.--THE PLACE OF REFUGE.


[Illustration]

There seemed, now a complete lull in the proceedings as connected with
Varney, the vampyre. We have reason to believe that the executioner who
had been as solicitous as Varney to obtain undisputed possession of
Bannerworth Hall, has fallen a victim to the indiscriminating rage of
the mob. Varney himself is a fugitive, and bound by the most solemn ties
to Charles Holland, not only to communicate to him such particulars of
the past, as will bring satisfaction to his mind, but to abstain from
any act which, for the future, shall exercise a disastrous influence
upon the happiness of Flora.

The doctor and the admiral, with Henry, had betaken themselves from the
Hall as we had recorded, and, in due time, reached the cottage where
Flora and her mother had found a temporary refuge.

Mrs. Bannerworth was up; but Flora was sleeping, and, although the
tidings they had to tell were of a curious and mixed nature, they would
not have her disturbed to listen to them.

And, likewise, they were rather pleased than otherwise, since they knew
not exactly what had become of Charles Holland, to think that they would
probably be spared the necessity of saying they could not account for
his absence.

That he had gone upon some expedition, probably dangerous, and so one
which he did not wish to communicate the particulars of to his friends,
lest they should make a strong attempt to dissuade him from it, they
were induced to believe.

But yet they had that confidence in his courage and active intellectual
resources, to believe that he would come through it unscathed, and,
probably, shortly show himself at the cottage.

In this hope they were not disappointed, for in about two hours Charles
made his appearance; but, until he began to be questioned concerning his
absence by the admiral, he scarcely considered the kind of dilemma he
had put himself into by the promise of secrecy he had given to Varney,
and was a little puzzled to think now much he might tell, and how much
he was bound in honour to conceal.

"Avast there!" cried the admiral; "what's become of your tongue,
Charles? You've been on some cruize, I'll be bound. Haul over the ship's
books, and tell us what's happened."

"I have been upon an adventure," said Charles, "which I hope will be
productive of beneficial results to us all; but, the fact is, I have
made a promise, perhaps incautiously, that I will not communicate what I
know."

"Whew!" said the admiral, "that's awkward; but, however, if a man said
under sealed instructions, there's an end of it. I remember when I was
off Candia once---"

"Ha!" interposed Jack, "that was the time you tumbled over the blessed
binnacle, all in consequence of taking too much Madeira. I remember it,
too--it's an out and out good story, that 'ere. You took a rope's end,
you know, and laid into the bowsprit; and, says you, 'Get up, you
lubber,' says you, all the while a thinking, I supposes, as it was long
Jack Ingram, the carpenter's mate, laying asleep. What a lark!"

"This scoundrel will be the death of me," said the admiral; "there isn't
one word of truth in what he says. I never got drunk in all my life, as
everybody knows. Jack, affairs are getting serious between you and I--we
must part, and for good. It's a good many times that I've told you
you've forgot the difference between the quarter-deck and the caboose.
Now, I'm serious--you're off the ship's books, and there's an end of
you."

"Very good," said Jack; "I'm willing I'll leave you. Do you think I want
to keep you any longer? Good bye, old bloak--I'll leave you to repent,
and when old grim death comes yard-arm and yard-arm with you, and you
can't shake off his boarding-tackle, you'll say, 'Where's Jack Pringle?'
says you; and then what's his mane--oh ah! echo you call it--echo'll
say, it's d----d if it knows."

Jack turned upon his heel, and, before the admiral could make any reply
he left the place.

"What's the rascal up to now?" said the admiral. "I really didn't think
he'd have taken me at my word."

"Oh, then, after all, you didn't mean it, uncle?" said Charles.

"What's that to you, you lubber, whether I mean it, or not, you
shore-going squab? Of course I expect everybody to desert an old hulk,
rats and all--and now Jack Pringle's gone; the vagabond, couldn't he
stay, and get drunk as long as he liked! Didn't he say what he pleased,
and do what he pleased, the mutinous thief? Didn't he say I run away
from a Frenchman off Cape Ushant, and didn't I put up with that?"

"But, my dear uncle, you sent him away yourself."

"I didn't, and you know I didn't; but I see how it is, you've disgusted
Jack among you. A better seaman never trod the deck of a man-of-war."

"But his drunkenness, uncle?"

"It's a lie. I don't believe he ever got drunk. I believe you all
invented it, and Jack's so good-natured, he tumbled about just to keep
you in countenance."

"But his insolence, uncle; his gross insolence towards you--his
inventions, his exaggerations of the truth?"

"Avast, there--avast, there--none of that, Master Charlie; Jack couldn't
do anything of the sort; and I means to say this, that if Jack was here
now, I'd stick up for him, and say he was a good seaman.

"Tip us your fin, then," said Jack, darting into the room; "do you think
I'd leave you, you d----d old fool? What would become of you, I wonder,
if I wasn't to take you in to dry nurse? Why, you blessed old babby,
what do you mean by it?"

"Jack, you villain!"

"Ah! go on and call me a villain as much as you like. Don't you remember
when the bullets were scuttling our nobs?"

"I do, I do, Jack; tip us your fin, old fellow. You've saved my life
more than once."

"It's a lie."

"It ain't. You did, I say."

"You bed----d!"

And thus was the most serious misunderstanding that these two worthies
ever had together made up. The real fact is, that the admiral could as
little do without Jack, as he could have done without food; and as for
Pringle, he no more thought of leaving the old commodore, than of--what
shall we say? forswearing him. Jack himself could not have taken a
stronger oath.

But the old admiral had suffered so much from the idea that Jack had
actually left him, that although he abused him as usual often enough, he
never again talked of taking him off the ship's books; and, to the
credit of Jack be it spoken, he took no advantage of the circumstance,
and only got drunk just as usual, and called his master an old fool
whenever it suited him.




CHAPTER LXXXV.

THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN GETS INTO DANGER.--HE IS FIRED AT, AND SHOWS SOME
OF HIS QUALITY.


[Illustration]

Considerably delighted was the Hungarian, not only at the news he had
received from the boy, but as well for the cheapness of it. Probably he
did not conceive it possible that the secret of the retreat of such a
man as Varney could have been attained so easily.

He waited with great impatience for the evening, and stirred not from
the inn for several hours; neither did he take any refreshment,
notwithstanding he had made so liberal an arrangement with the landlord
to be supplied.

All this was a matter of great excitement and speculation in the inn, so
much so, indeed, that the landlord sent for some of the oldest customers
of his house, regular topers, who sat there every evening, indulging in
strong drinks, and pipes and tobacco, to ask their serious advice as to
what he should do, as if it were necessary he should do anything at all.

But, somehow or another, these wiseacres who assembled at the landlord's
bidding, and sat down, with something strong before them, in the bar
parlour, never once seemed to think that a man might, if he choosed,
come to an inn, and agree to pay four guineas a week for board and
lodging, and yet take nothing at all.

No; they could not understand it, and therefore they would not have it.
It was quite monstrous that anybody should attempt to do anything so
completely out of the ordinary course of proceeding. It was not to be
borne; and as in this country it happens, free and enlightened as we
are, that no man can commit a greater social offence than doing
something that his neighbours never thought of doing themselves, the
Hungarian nobleman was voted a most dangerous character, and, in fact,
not to be put up with.

"I shouldn't have thought so much of it" said the landlord; "but only
look at the aggravation of the thing. After I have asked him four
guineas a week, and expected to be beaten down to two, to be then told
that he would not have cared if it had been eight. It is enough to
aggravate a saint."

"Well, I agree with you there," said another; "that's just what it is,
and I only wonder that a man of your sagacity has not quite understood
it before."

"Understood what?"

"Why, that he is a vampyre. He has heard of Sir Francis Varney, that's
the fact, and he's come to see him. Birds of a feather, you know, flock
together, and now we shall have two vampyres in the town instead of
one."

[Illustration]

The party looked rather blank at this suggestion, which, indeed, seemed
rather uncomfortable probably. The landlord had just opened his mouth to
make some remark, when he was stopped by the violent ringing of what he
now called the vampyre's bell, since it proceeded from the room where
the Hungarian nobleman was.

"Have you an almanack in the house?" was the question of the mysterious
guest.

"An almanack, sir? well, I really don't know. Let me see, an almanack."

"But, perhaps, you can tell me. I was to know the moon's age."

"The devil!" thought the landlord; "he's a vampyre, and no mistake. Why,
sir, as to the moon's age, it was a full moon last night, very bright
and beautiful, only you could not see it for the clouds."

"A full moon last night," said the mysterious guest, thoughtfully; "it
may shine, then, brightly, to-night, and if so, all will be well. I
thank you,--leave the room."

"Do you mean to say, sir, you don't want anything to eat now?"

"What I want I'll order."

"But you have ordered nothing."

"Then presume that I want nothing."

The discomfited landlord was obliged to leave the room, for there was no
such a thing as making any answer to this, and so, still further
confirmed in his opinion that the stranger was a vampyre that came to
see Sir Francis Varney from a sympathetic feeling towards him, he again
reached the bar-parlour.

"You may depend," he said, "as sure as eggs is eggs, that he is a
vampyre. Hilloa! he's going off,--after him--after him; he thinks we
suspect him. There he goes--down the High-street."

The landlord ran out, and so did those who were with him, one of whom
carried his brandy and water in his hand, which, being too hot for him
to swallow all at once, he still could not think of leaving behind.

It was now gelling rapidly dark, and the mysterious stranger was
actually proceeding towards the lane to keep his appointment with the
boy who had promised to conduct him to the hiding-place of Sir Francis
Varney.

He had not proceeded far, however, before he began to suspect that he
was followed, as it was evident on the instant that he altered his
course; for, instead of walking down the lane, where the boy was waiting
for him, he went right on, and seemed desirous of making his way into
the open country between the town and Bannerworth Hall.

His pursuers--for they assumed that character--when they saw this became
anxious to intercept him; and thinking that the greater force they had
the better, they called out aloud as they passed a smithy, where a man
was shoeing a horse,--

"Jack Burdon, here is another vampyre!"

"The deuce there is!" said the person who was addressed. "I'll soon
settle him. Here's my wife gets no sleep of a night as it is, all owing
to that Varney, who has been plaguing us so long. I won't put up with
another."

So saying, he snatched from a hook on which it hung, an old
fowling-piece, and joined the pursuit, which now required to be
conducted with some celerity, for the stranger had struck into the open
country, and was getting on at good speed.

The last remnants of the twilight were fading away, and although the
moon had actually risen, its rays were obscured by a number of light,
fleecy clouds, which, although they did not promise to be of long
continuance, as yet certainly impeded the light.

"Where is he going?" said the blacksmith. "He seems to be making his way
towards the mill-stream."

"No," said another; "don't you see he is striking higher up towards the
old ford, where the stepping-stones are!"

"He is--he is," cried the blacksmith. "Run on--run on; don't you see he
is crossing it now? Tell me, all of you, are you quite sure he is a
vampyre, and no mistake? He ain't the exciseman, landlord, now, is he?"

"The exciseman, the devil! Do you think I want to shoot the exciseman?"

"Very good--then here goes," exclaimed the Smith.

He stooped, and just as the brisk night air blew aside the clouds from
before the face of the moon, and as the stranger was crossing the
slippery stones, he fired at him.

* * * * *

How silently and sweetly the moon's rays fall upon the water, upon the
meadows, and upon the woods. The scenery appeared the work of
enchantment, some fairy land, waiting the appearance of its inhabitants.
No sound met the ear; the very wind was hushed; nothing was there to
distract the sense of sight, save the power of reflection.

This, indeed, would aid the effect of such a scene. A cloudless sky, the
stars all radiant with beauty, while the moon, rising higher and higher
in the heavens, increasing in the strength and refulgence of her light,
and dimming the very stars, which seemed to grow gradually invisible as
the majesty of the queen of night became more and more manifest.

The dark woods and the open meadows contrasted more and more strongly;
like light and shade, the earth and sky were not more distinct and
apart; and the ripling stream, that rushed along with all the
impetuosity of uneven ground.

The banks are clothed with verdure; the tall sedges, here and there,
lined the sides; beds of bulrushes raised their heads high above all
else, and threw out their round clumps of blossoms like tufts, and
looked strange in the light of the moon.

Here and there, too, the willows bent gracefully over the stream, and
their long leaves were wafted and borne up and down by the gentler force
of the stream.

Below, the stream widened, and ran foaming over a hard, stony bottom,
and near the middle is a heap of stones--of large stones, that form the
bed of the river, from which the water has washed away all earthy
particles, and left them by themselves.

These stones in winter could not be seen, they were all under water, and
the stream washed over in a turbulent and tumultuous manner. But now,
when the water was clear and low, they are many of them positively out
of the water, the stream running around and through their interstices;
the water-weeds here and there lying at the top of the stream, and
blossoming beautifully.

The daisy-like blossoms danced and waved gently on the moving flood, at
the same time they shone in the moonlight, like fairy faces rising from
the depths of the river, to receive the principle of life from the
moon's rays.

'Tis sweet to wander in the moonlight at such an hour, and it is sweet
to look upon such a scene with an unruffled mind, and to give way to the
feelings that are engendered by a walk by the river side.

See, the moon is rising higher and higher, the shadows grow shorter and
shorter; the river, which in places was altogether hidden by the tall
willow trees, now gradually becomes less and less hidden, and the water
becomes more and more lit up.

The moonbeams play gracefully on the rippling surface, here and there
appearing like liquid silver, that each instant changed its position and
surface exposed to the light.

Such a moment--such a scene, were by far too well calculated to cause
the most solemn and serious emotions of the mind, and he must have been
but at best insensible, who could wander over meadow and through grove,
and yet remain untouched by the scene of poetry and romance in which he
breathed and moved.

At such a time, and in such a place, the world is alive with all the
finer essences of mysterious life. 'Tis at such an hour that the spirits
quit their secret abodes, and visit the earth, and whirl round the
enchanted trees.

'Tis now the spirits of earth and air dance their giddy flight from
flower to flower. 'Tis now they collect and exchange their greetings;
the wood is filled with them, the meadows teem with them, the hedges at
the river side have them hidden among the deep green leaves and blades.

But what is that yonder, on the stones, partially out of the water--what
can it be? The more it is looked at, the more it resembles the human
form--and yet it is still and motionless on the hard stones--and yet it
is a human form. The legs are lying in the water, the arms appear to be
partially in and partially out, they seem moved by the stream now and
then, but very gently--so slightly, indeed, that it might well be
questioned if it moved at all.

The moon's rays had not yet reached it; the bank on the opposite side of
the stream was high, and some tall trees rose up and obscured the moon.
But she was rising higher and higher each moment, and, finally, when it
has reached the tops of those trees, then the rays will reach the middle
of the river, and then, by degrees, it will reach the stones in the
river, and, finally, the body that lies there so still and so
mysteriously.

How it came there it would be difficult to say. It appeared as though,
when the waters were high, the body had floated down, and, at the
subsidence of the waters, it had been left upon the stones, and now it
was exposed to view.

It was strange and mysterious, and those who might look upon such a
sight would feel their blood chill, and their body creep, to contemplate
the remains of humanity in such a place, and in such a condition as that
must be in.

A human life had been taken! How? Who could tell? Perhaps accident alone
was the cause of it; perhaps some one had taken a life by violent means,
and thrown the body in the waters to conceal the fact and the crime.

The waters had brought it down, and deposited it there in the middle of
the river, without any human creature being acquainted with the fact.

But the moon rises--the beams come trembling through the tree tops and
straggling branches, and fall upon the opposite bank, and there lies the
body, mid stream, and in comparative darkness.

By the time the river is lit up by the moon's rays, then the object on
the stones will be visible, then it can be ascertained what appears now
only probable, namely, is the dark object a human form or not?

In the absence of light it appears to be so, but when the flood of
silver light falls upon it, it would be placed then beyond a doubt.

The time is approaching--the moon each moment approaches her meridian,
and each moment do the rays increase in number and in strength, while
the shadows shorten.

The opposite bank each moment becomes more and more distinct, and the
side of the stream, the green rushes and sedges, all by degrees come
full into view.

Now and then a fish leaps out of the stream, and just exhibits itself,
as much as to say, "There are things living in the stream, and I am one
of them."

The moment is one of awe--the presence of that mysterious and
dreadful-looking object, even while its identity remains doubt, chills
the heart--it contracts the expanding thoughts to that one object--all
interest in the scene lies centered in that one point.

What could it be? What else but a human body? What else could assume
such a form? But see, nearly half the stream is lit by the moonbeams
struggling through the tree tops, and now rising above them. The light
increases, and the shadows shorten.

The edge of the bed of stones now becomes lit up by the moonlight; the
rippling stream, the bubbles, and the tiny spray that was caused by the
rush of water against the stones, seemed like sparkling flashes of
silver fire.

Then came the moonbeams upon the body, for it was raised above the level
of the water, and shewed conspicuously; for the moonbeams reached the
body before they fell on the surrounding water; for that reason then it
was the body presented a strange and ghastly object against a deep, dark
background, by which it was surrounded.

But this did not last long--the water in another minute was lit up by
the moon's pale beams, and then indeed could be plainly enough seen the
body of a man lying on the heap of stones motionless and ghastly.

The colourless hue of the moonlight gave the object a most horrific and
terrible appearance! The face of the dead man was turned towards the
moon's rays, and the body seemed to receive all the light that could
fall upon it.

It was a terrible object to look upon, and one that added a new and
singular interest to the scene! The world seemed then to be composed
almost exclusively of still life, and the body was no impediment to the
stillness of the scene.

It was, all else considered, a calm, beautiful scene, lovely the night,
gorgeous the silvery rays that lit up the face of nature; the hill and
dale, meadow, and wood, and river, all afforded contrasts strong,
striking, and strange.

But strange, and more strange than any contrast in nature, was that
afforded to the calm beauty of the night and place by the deep stillness
and quietude imposed upon the mind by that motionless human body.

The moon's rays now fell upon its full length; the feet were lying in
the water, the head lay back, with its features turned towards the
quarter of the heavens where the moon shone from; the hair floated on
the shallow water, while the face and body were exposed to all
influences, from its raised and prominent position.

The moonbeams had scarcely settled upon it--scarce a few minutes--when
the body moved. Was it the water that moved it? it could not be, surely,
that the moonbeams had the power of recalling life into that inanimate
mass, that lay there for some time still and motionless as the very
stones on which it lay.

It was endued with life; the dead man gradually rose up, and leaned
himself upon his elbow; he paused a moment like one newly recalled to
life; he seemed to become assured he did live. He passed one hand
through his hair, which was wet, and then rose higher into a sitting
posture, and then he leaned on one hand, inclining himself towards the
moon.

His breast heaved with life, and a kind of deep inspiration, or groan,
came from him, as he first awoke to life, and then he seemed to pause
for a few moments. He turned gradually over, till his head inclined down
the stream.

Just below, the water deepened, and ran swiftly and silently on amid
meads and groves of trees. The vampyre was revived; he awoke again to a
ghastly life; he turned from the heap of stones, he gradually allowed
himself to sink into deep water, and then, with a loud plunge, he swam
to the centre of the river.

Slowly and surely did he swim into the centre of the river, and down the
stream he went. He took long, but easy strokes, for he was going down
the stream, and that aided him.

For some distance might he be heard and seen through the openings in the
trees, but he became gradually more and more indistinct, till sound and
sight both ceased, and the vampyre had disappeared.

During the continuance of this singular scene, not one word had passed
between the landlord and his companions. When the blacksmith fired the
fowling-piece, and saw the stranger fall, apparently lifeless, upon the
stepping-stones that crossed the river, he became terrified it what he
had done, and gazed upon the seeming lifeless form with a face on which
the utmost horror was depicted.

They all seemed transfixed to the spot, and although each would have
given worlds to move away, a kind of nightmare seemed to possess them,
which stunned all their faculties, and brought over them a torpidity
from which they found it impossible to arouse themselves.

But, when the apparently dead man moved again, and when, finally, the
body, which appeared so destitute of life, rolled into the stream, and
floated away with the tide, their fright might be considered to have
reached its climax. The absence of the body, however, had seemingly, at
all events, the effect of releasing them from the mental and physical
thraldom in which they were, and they were enabled to move from the
spot, which they did immediately, making their way towards the town with
great speed.

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