A \ B \ C \ D \ E \ F \ G \ H \ I \ J \ K \ L \ M \ N \ O \ P \ R \ S \ T \ U \ V \ W \Z

Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

T >> Thomas Preskett Prest >> Varney the Vampire




"Did you not hear them coming?"

"I did."

"And yet you did not attempt to escape from them?"

"No, I could not persuade them I was not there save by my utter silence.
I allowed them to come too close to leave myself time to
escape--besides, I could hardly persuade myself there could be any
necessity for so doing."

"It was fortunate it was as it happened afterwards, that you were able
to reach the wood, and get out of it unperceived by the mob."

"I should have been in an unfortunate condition had I been in their
hands long. A man made of iron would not be able to resist the brutality
of those people."

As they were speaking, a gig, with two men, drove up, followed by one on
horseback. They stopped at the garden-gate, and then tarried to consult
with each other, as they looked at the house.

"What can they want, I wonder?" inquired Henry; "I never saw them
before."

"Nor I," said Charles Holland.

"Do you not know them at all?" inquired Varney.

"No," replied Flora; "I never saw them, neither can I imagine what is
their object in coming here."

"Did you ever see them before?" inquired Henry of his mother, who held
up her hand to look more carefully at the strangers; then, shaking her
head, she declared she had never seen such persons as those.

"I dare say not," said Charles Holland. "They certainly are not
gentlemen; but here they come; there is some mistake, I daresay--they
don't want to come here."

As they spoke, the two strangers got down; after picking up a topcoat
they had let fall, they turned round, and deliberately put it into the
chaise again; they walked up the path to the door, at which they
knocked.

The door was opened by the old woman, when the two men entered.

"Does Francis Beauchamp live here?"

"Eh?" said the old woman, who was a little deaf, and she put her hand
behind her ear to catch the sounds more distinctly--"eh?--who did you
say?"

Sir Francis Varney started as the sounds came upon his ear, but he sat
still an attentive listener.

"Are there any strangers in the house?" inquired the other officer,
impatiently. "Who is here?"

"Strangers!" said the old woman; "you are the only strangers that I have
seen here."

"Come," said the officer to his companion, "come this way; there are
people in this parlour. Our business must be an apology for any rudeness
we may commit."

As he spoke he stepped by the old woman, and laying his hand upon the
handle of the door, entered the apartment, at the same time looking
carefully around the room as if he expected some one.

"Ladies," said the stranger, with an off-hand politeness that had
something repulsive in it, though it was meant to convey a notion that
civility was intended; "ladies, I beg pardon for intruding, but I am
looking for a gentleman."

"You shall hear from me again soon," said Sir Francis, in an almost
imperceptible whisper.

"What is the object of this intrusion?" demanded Henry Bannerworth,
rising and confronting the stranger. "This is a strange introduction."

"Yes, but not an unusual one," said the stranger, "in these cases--being
unavoidable, at the least."

"Sir," said Charles Holland, "if you cannot explain quickly your
business here, we will proceed to take those measures which will at
least rid ourselves of your company."

"Softly, sir. I mean no offence--not the least; but I tell you I do not
come for any purpose that is at all consonant to my wishes. I am a
Bow-street officer in the execution of my duty--excuse me, therefore."

"Whom do you want?"

"Francis Beauchamp; and, from the peculiarity of the appearance of this
individual here, I think I may safely request the pleasure of his
company."

Varney now rose, and the officer made a rush at him, when he saw him do
so, saying,--

"Surrender in the king's name."

Varney, however, paid no attention to that, but rushed past, throwing
his chair down to impede the officer, who could not stay himself, but
fell over it, while Varney made a rush towards the window, which he
cleared at one bound, and crossing the road, was lost to sight in a few
seconds, in the trees and hedges on the other side.

"Accidents will happen," said the officer, as he rose to his feet; "I
did not think the fellow would have taken the window in that manner; but
we have him in view, and that will be enough."

"In heaven's name," said Henry, "explain all about this; we cannot
understand one word of it--I am at a loss to understand one word of it."

"We will return and do so presently," said the officer as he dashed out
of the house after the fugitive at a rapid and reckless speed, followed
by his companion.

The man who had been left with the chaise, however, was the first in the
chase; seeing an escape from the window, he immediately guessed that he
was the man wanted, and, but for an accident, he would have met Varney
at the gate, for, as he was getting out in a hurry, his foot became
entangled with the reins, and he fell to the ground, and Varney at the
same moment stepped over him.

"Curse his infernal impudence, and d--n these reins!" muttered the man
in a fury at the accident, and the aggravating circumstance of the
fugitive walking over him in such a manner, and so coolly too--it was
vexing.

The man, however, quickly released himself, and rushed after Varney
across the road, and kept on his track for some time. The moon was still
rising, and shed but a gloomy light around. Everything was almost
invisible until you came close to it. This was the reason why Varney and
his pursuer met with several severe accidents--fumbles and hard knocks
against impediments which the light and the rapid flight they were
taking did not admit of their avoiding very well.

They went on for some time, but it was evident Varney knew the place
best, and could avoid what the man could not, and that was the trees and
the natural impediments of the ground, which Varney was acquainted with.

For instance, at full speed across a meadow, a hollow would suddenly
present itself, and to an accustomed eye the moonlight might enable it
to be distinguished at a glance what it was, while to one wholly
unaccustomed to it, the hollow would often look like a hillock by such a
light. This Varney would clear at a bound, which a less agile and
heavier person would step into, lifting up his leg to meet an
impediment, when he would find it come down suddenly some six or eight
inches lower than he anticipated, almost dislocating his leg and neck,
and producing a corresponding loss of breath, which was not regained by
the muttered curse upon such a country where the places were so uneven.

Having come to one of these places, which was a little more perceptible
than the others, he made a desperate jump, but he jumped into the middle
of the hole with such force that he sprained his ankle, besides sinking
into a small pond that was almost dry, being overgrown with rushes and
aquatic plants.

"Well?" said the other officer coming up--"well?"

"Well, indeed!" said the one who came first; "it's anything but well.
D--n all country excursions say I."

"Why, Bob, you don't mean to say as how you are caught in a rat-trap?"

"Oh, you be d----d! I am, ain't I?"

"Yes; but are you going to stop there, or coming out, eh? You'll catch
cold."

"I have sprained my ankle."

"Well?"

"It ain't well, I tell you; here have I a sprained foot, and my wind
broken for a month at least. Why were you not quicker? If you had been
sharper we should have had the gentleman, I'll swear!"

"I tumbled down over the chair, and he got out of the window, and I come
out of the door."

"Well, I got entangled in the reins; but I got off after him, only his
long legs carried him over everything. I tell you what, Wilkinson, if I
were to be born again, and intended to be a runner, I would bespeak a
pair of long legs."

"Why?"

"Because I should be able to get along better. You have no idea of how
he skimmed along the ground; it was quite beautiful, only it wasn't good
to follow it."

"A regular sky scraper!"

"Yes, or something of that sort; he looked like a patent flying shadow."

"Well, get up and lead the way; we'll follow you."

"I dare say you will--when I lead the way back there; for as to going
out yonder, it is quite out of the question. I want supper to-night and
breakfast to-morrow morning."

"Well, what has that to do with it?"

"Just this much: if you follow any farther, you'll get into the woods,
and there you'll be, going round and round, like a squirrel in a cage,
without being able to get out, and you will there get none of the good
things included under the head of those meals."

"I think so too," said the third.

"Well, then, let's go back; we needn't run, though it might be as well
to do so."

"It would be anything but well. I don't gallop back, depend upon it."

The three men now slowly returned from their useless chase, and re-trod
the way they had passed once in such a hurry that they could hardly
recognize it.

"What a dreadful bump I came against that pole standing there," said
one.

"Yes, and I came against a hedge-stake, that was placed so as the moon
didn't show any light on it. It came into the pit of my stomach. I never
recollect such a pain in my life; for all the world like a hot coal
being suddenly and forcibly intruded into your stomach."

"Well, here's the road. I must go up to the house where I started him
from. I promised them some explanation. I may as well go and give it to
them at once."

"Do as you will. I will wait with the horse, else, perhaps, that
Beauchamp will again return and steal him."

The officer who had first entered the house now returned to the
Bannerworths, saying,

"I promised you I would give you some explanation as to what you have
witnessed."

"Yes," said Henry; "we have been awaiting your return with some anxiety
and curiosity. What is the meaning of all this? I am, as we are all, in
perfect ignorance of the meaning of what took place."

"I will tell you. The person whom you have had here, and goes by the
name of Varney, is named Francis Beauchamp."

"Indeed! Are you assured of this?"

"Yes, perfectly assured of it; I have it in my warrant to apprehend him
by either name."

"What crime had he been guilty of?"

"I will tell you: he has been _hanged_."

"Hanged!" exclaimed all present.

"What do you mean by that?" added Henry; "I am at a loss to understand
what you can mean by saying he was hanged."

"What I say is literally true."

"Pray tell us all about it. We are much interested in the fact; go on,
sir."

"Well, sir, then I believe it was for murder that Francis Beauchamp was
hanged--yes, hanged; a common execution, before a multitude of people,
collected to witness such an exhibition."

"Good God!" exclaimed Henry Bannerworth. "And was--but that is
impossible. A dead man come to life again! You must be amusing yourself
at our expense."

"Not I," replied the officer. "Here is my warrant; they don't make these
out in a joke."

And, as he spoke, he produced the warrant, when it was evident the
officer spoke the truth.

"How was this?"

"I will tell you, sir. You see that this Varney was a regular scamp,
gamester, rogue, and murderer. He was hanged, and hung about the usual
time; he was cut down and the body was given to some one for dissection,
when a surgeon, with the hangman, one Montgomery, succeeded in restoring
the criminal to life."

"But I always thought they broke the neck when they were hanged; the
weight of the body would alone do that."

"Oh, dear, no, sir," said the officer; "that is one of the common every
day mistakes; they don't break the neck once in twenty times."

"Indeed!"

"No; they die of suffocation only; this man, Beauchamp, was hanged thus,
but they contrived to restore him, and then he assumed a new name, and
left London."

"But how came you to know all this?"

"Oh! it came to us, as many things usually do, in a very extraordinary
manner, and in a manner that appears most singular and out of the way;
but such it was.

"The executioner who was the means of his being restored, or one of
them, wished to turn him to account, and used to draw a yearly sum of
money from him, as hush money, to induce them to keep the secret; else,
the fact of his having escaped punishment would subject him to a
repetition of the same punishment; when, of course, a little more care
would be taken that he did not escape a second time."

"I dare say not."

"Well, you see, Varney, or rather Beauchamp, was to pay a heavy sum to
this man to keep him quiet, and to permit him to enjoy the life he had
so strangely become possessed of."

"I see," said Holland.

"Well, this man, Montgomery, had always some kind of suspicion that
Varney would murder him."

"Murder him! and he the means of saving his life; surely he could not be
so bad as that."

"Why, you see, sir, this hangman drew a heavy sum yearly from him; thus
making him only a mine of wealth to himself; this, no doubt, would
rankle in the other's heart, to think he should be so beset, and hold
life upon such terms."

"I see, now."

"Yes; and then came the consideration that he did not do it from any
good motive, merely a selfish one, and he was consequently under no
obligation to him for what he had done; besides, self-preservation might
urge him on, and tell him to do the deed.

"However that may be, Montgomery dreaded it, and was resolved to punish
the deed if he could not prevent it. He, therefore, left general orders
with his wife, whenever he went on a journey to Varney, if he should be
gone beyond a certain time, she was to open a certain drawer, and take
out a sealed packet to the magistrate at the chief office, who would
attend to it.

"He has been missing, and his wife did as she was desired, and now we
have found what he there mentioned to be true; but, now, sir, I have
satisfied you and explained to you why we intruded upon you, we must now
leave and seek for him elsewhere."

"It is most extraordinary, and that is the reason why his complexion is
so singular."

"Very likely."

They poured out some wine, which was handed to the officers, who drank
and then quitted the house, leaving the inmates in a state of
stupefaction, from surprise and amazement at what they had heard from
the officers.

There was a strange feeling came over them when they recollected the
many occurrences they had witnessed, and even the explanation of the
officers; it seemed as if some mist had enveloped objects and rendered
them indistinct, but which was fast rising, and they were becoming
plainer and more distinct every moment in which they were regarded.

There was a long pause, and Flora was about to speak, when suddenly
there came the sound of a footstep across the garden. It was slow but
unsteady, and paused between whiles until it came close beneath the
windows. They remained silent, and then some one was heard to climb up
the rails of the veranda, and then the curtains were thrust aside, but
not till after the person outside had paused to ascertain who was there.

Then the curtains were opened, and the visage of Sir Francis Varney
appeared, much altered; in fact, completely worn and exhausted.

It was useless to deny it, but he looked ghastly--terrific; his singular
visage was as pallid as death; his eyes almost protruding, his mouth
opened, and his breathing short, and laboured in the extreme.

He climbed over with much difficulty, and staggered into the room, and
would have spoken, but he could not; befell senseless upon the floor,
utterly exhausted and motionless.

There was a long pause, and each one present looked at each other, and
then they gazed upon the inanimate body of Sir Francis Varney, which lay
supine and senseless in the middle of the floor.

* * * *

The importance of the document, said to be on the dead body, was such
that it would admit of no delay before it was obtained, and the party
determined that it should be commenced instanter. Lost time would be an
object to them; too much haste could hardly be made; and now came the
question of, "should it be to-night, or not?"

"Certainly," said Henry Bannerworth; "the sooner we can get it, the
sooner all doubt and distress will be at an end; and, considering the
turn of events, that will be desirable for all our sakes; besides, we
know not what unlucky accident may happen to deprive us of what is so
necessary."

"There can be none," said Mr. Chillingworth; "but there is this to be
said, this has been such an eventful history, that I cannot say what
might or what might not happen."

"We may as well go this very night," said Charles Holland. "I give my
vote for an immediate exhumation of the body. The night is somewhat
stormy, but nothing more; the moon is up, and there will be plenty of
light."

"And rain," said the doctor.

"Little or none," said Charles Holland. "A few gusts of wind now and
then drive a few heavy plashes of rain against the windows, and that
gives a fearful sound, which is, in fret, nothing, when you have to
encounter it; but you will go, doctor?"

"Yes, most certainly. We must have some tools."

"Those may be had from the garden," said Henry. "Tools for the
exhumation, you mean?"

"Yes; pickaxe, mattocks, and a crowbar; a lantern, and so forth," said
the doctor. "You see I am at home in this; the fact is, I have had more
than one affair of this kind on my hands before now, and whilst a
student I have had more than one adventure of a strange character."

"I dare say, doctor," said Charles Holland, "you have some sad pranks to
answer for; you don't think of it then, only when you find them
accumulated in a heap, so that you shall not be able to escape them;
because they come over your senses when you sleep at night."

"No, no," said Chillingworth; "you are mistaken in that. I have long
since settled all my accounts of that nature; besides, I never took a
dead body out of a grave but in the name of science, and never far my
own profit, seeing I never sold one in my life, or got anything by it."

"That is not the fact," said Henry; "you know, doctor, you improved your
own talents and knowledge."

"Yes, yes; I did."

"Well, but you profited by such improvements?"

"Well, granted, I did. How much more did the public not benefit then,"
said the doctor, with a smile.

"Ah, well, we won't argue the question," said Charles; "only it strikes
me that the doctor could never have been a doctor if he had not
determined upon following a profession."

"There may be a little truth in that," said Chillingworth; "but now we
had better quit the house, and make the best of our way to the spot
where the unfortunate man lies buried in his unhallowed grave."

"Come with me into the garden," said Henry Bannerworth; "we shall there
be able to suit ourselves to what is required. I have a couple of
lanterns."

"One is enough," said Chillingworth; "we had better not burden ourselves
more than we are obliged to do; and we shall find enough to do with the
tools."

"Yes, they are not light; and the distance is by far too great to make
walking agreeable and easy; the wind blows strong, and the rain appears
to be coming up afresh, and, by the time we have done, we shall find the
ground will become slippy, and bad for walking."

"Can we have a conveyance?"

"No, no," said the doctor; "we could, but we must trouble the turnpike
man; besides, there is a shorter way across some fields, which will be
better and safer."

"Well, well," said Charles Holland; "I do not mind which way it is, as
long as you are satisfied yourselves. The horse and cart would have
settled it all better, and done it quicker, besides carrying the tools."

"Very true, very true," said the doctor; "all that is not without its
weight, and you shall choose which way you would have it done; for my
part, I am persuaded the expedition on foot is to be preferred for two
reasons."

"And what are they?"

"The first is, we cannot obtain a horse and cart without giving some
detail as to what you want it for, which is awkward, on account of the
hour. Moreover, you could not get one at this moment in time."

"That ought to settle the argument," said Henry Bannerworth; "an
impossibility, under the circumstances, at once is a clincher, and one
that may be allowed to have some weight."

"You may say that," said Charles.

"Besides which, you must go a greater distance, and that, too, along the
main road, which is objectionable."

"Then we are agreed," said Charles Holland, "and the sooner we are off
the better; the night grows more and more gloomy every hour, and more
inclement."

"It will serve our purpose the better," said Chillingworth. "What we do,
we may as well do now."

"Come with me to the garden," said Henry, "and we will take the tools.
We can go out the back way; that will preclude any observation being
made."

They all now left the apartment, wrapped up in great overcoats, to
secure themselves against the weather, and also for the purpose of
concealing themselves from any chance passenger.

In the garden they found the tools they required, and having chosen
them, they took a lantern, with the mean of getting a light when they
got to their journey's end, which they would do in less than an hour.

After having duly inspected the state of their efficiency, they started
away on their expedition.

The night had turned gloomy and windy; heavy driving masses of clouds
obscured the moon, which only now and then was to be seen, when the
clouds permitted her to peep out. At the same time, there were many
drifting showers, which lasted but a few minutes, and then the clouds
were carried forwards by some sudden gust of wind so that, altogether,
it was a most uncomfortable night as well could be imagined.

However, there was no time to lose, and, under all circumstances, they
could not have chosen a better night for their purpose than the one they
had; indeed, they could not desire another night to be out on such a
purpose.

They spoke not while they were within sight of the houses, though at the
distance of many yards, and, at the same time, there was a noise through
the trees that would have carried their voices past every object,
however close; but they would make assurance doubly sure.

"I think we are fairly away now," said Henry, "from all fear of being
recognized."

"To be sure you are. Who would recognize us now, if we were met?"

"No one."

"I should think not; and, moreover, there would be but small chance of
any evil coming from it, even if it were to happen that we were to be
seen and known. Nobody knows what we are going to do, and, if they did,
there is no illegality in the question."

"Certainly not; but we wish the matter to be quite secret, therefore, we
don't wish to be seen by any one while upon this adventure."

"Exactly," said Chillingworth; "and, if you'll follow my guidance, you
shall meet nobody."

"We will trust you, most worthy doctor. What have you to say for our
confidence?"

"That you will find it is not misplaced."

Just as the doctor had uttered the last sound, there came a hearty laugh
upon the air, which, indeed, sounded but a few paces in advance of them.
The wind blew towards them, and would, therefore, cause the sounds to
come to them, but not to go away in the direction they were going.

The whole party came to a sudden stand still; there was something so
strange in hearing a laugh at that moment, especially as Chillingworth
was, at that moment, boasting of his knowledge of the ground and the
certainty of their meeting no one.

"What is that?" inquired Henry.

"Some one laughing, I think," said Chillingworth.

"Of that there can be little or no doubt," said Charles Holland; "and,
as people do not usually laugh by themselves so heartily, it may be
presumed there are, at least, two."

"No doubt of it."

"And, moreover, their purpose cannot be a very good one, at this hour of
the night, and of such a night, too. I think we had better be cautious."

"Hush! Follow me silently," said Henry.

As he spoke, he moved cautiously from the spot where he stood, and, at
the same time, he was followed by the whole party, until they came to
the hedge which skirted a lane, in which were seated three men.

They had a sort of tent erected, and that was hung upon a part of the
hedge which was to windward of them, so that it sheltered them from wind
and rain.

Henry and Chillingworth both peeped over the bank, and saw them seated
beneath this kind of canopy. They were shabby, gipsy-looking men, who
might be something else--sheep-stealers, or horse-stealers, in fact,
anything, even to beggars.

"I say, Jack," said one; "it's no bottle to-night."

"No; there's nobody about these parts to-night. We are safe, and so are
they."

"Exactly."

"Besides, you see, those who do happen to be out are not worth talking
to."

"No cash."

"None, not enough to pay turnpike for a walking-slick, at the most."

"Besides, it does us no good to take a few shillings from a poor wretch,
who has more in family than he has shillings in pocket."

"Ay, you are right, quite right. I don't like it myself, I don't;
besides that, there's fresh risk in every man you stop, and these poor
fellows will fight hard for a few shillings, and there is no knowing
what an unlucky blow may do for a man."

Copyright (c) 2007. bestextbooks.com. All rights reserved.

Henry A. Beers - "A History of English Romanticism in the Nineteenth Century"

S. E. Wishard - "The Testimony of the Bible Concerning the Assumptions of Destructive Criticism"

William Carleton - "Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent"

Various - "Notes & Queries No. 29, Saturday, May 18, 1850"

The green room: Carol Ann Duffy, poet
Articles published by guardian.co.uk Books

Audio slideshow: Robert Shaw discusses his production of Sylvia Plath's only play
What is your biggest guilty green secret?

Stephen King fan publishes Shining's Jack Torrance's novel
Three Women was first heard as a radio drama and then published as a poem. Robert Shaw explains his desire to stage the piece as it was intended