Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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"That is very true. Has anything been done to-night?"

"Nothing," said one.

"Only three half crowns," said the other; "that is the extent of the
common purse to-night."

"And I," said the third, "I have got a bottle of bad gin from the Cat
and Cabbage-stump."

"How did you manage it?"

"Why, this way. I went in, and had some beer, and you know I can give a
long yarn when I want; but it wants only a little care to deceive these
knowing countrymen, so I talked and talked, until they got quite chatty,
and then I put the gin in my pocket."

"Good."

"Well, then, the loaf and beef I took out of the safe as I came by, and
I dare say they know they have lost it by this time."

"Yes, and so do we. I expect the gin will help to digest the beef, so we
mustn't complain of the goods."

"No; give us another glass, Jim."

Jim held the glass towards him, when the doctor, animated by the spirit
of mischief, took a good sized pebble, and threw it into the glass,
smashing it, and spilling the contents.

In a moment there was a change of scene; the men were all terrified, and
started to their feet, while a sudden gust of wind caused their light to
go out; at the same time their tent-cloth was thrown down by the wind,
and fell across their heads.

"Come along," said the doctor.

There was no need of saying so, for in a moment the three were as if
animated by one spirit, and away they scudded across the fields, with
the speed of a race horse.

In a few minutes they were better than half a mile away from the spot.

"In absence of all authentic information," said the doctor, speaking as
well as he could, and blowing prodigiously between each word, as though
he were fetching breath all the way from his heels, "I think I we may
conclude we are safe from them. We ought to thank our stars we came
across them in the way we did."

"But, doctor, what in the name of Heaven induced you to make such a
noise, to frighten them, in fact, and to tell them some one was about?"

"They were too much terrified to tell whether it was one, or fifty. By
this time they are out of the county; they knew what they were talking
about."

"And perhaps we may meet them on the road where we are going, thinking
it a rare lonely spot where they can hide, and no chance of their being
found out."

[Illustration]

"No," said the doctor; "they will not go to such a place; it has by far
too bad a name for even such men as those to go near, much less stop
in."

"I can hardly think that," said Charles Holland, "for these fellows are
too terrified for their personal safety, to think of the superstitious
fears with which a place may be regarded; and these men, in such a place
as the one you speak of, they will be at home."

"Well, well, rather than be done, we must fight for it; and when you
come to consider we have one pick and two shovels, we shall be in full
force."

"Well said, doctor; how far have we to go?"

"Not more than a quarter of a mile."

They pursued their way through the fields, and under the hedge-rows,
until they came to a gate, where they stopped awhile, and began to
consult and to listen.

"A few yards up here, on the left," said the doctor; "I know the spot;
besides, there is a particular mark. Now, then, are you all ready?"

"Yes, all."

"Here," said the doctor, pointing out the marks by which the spot might
be recognized; "here is the spot, and I think we shall not be half a
foot out of our reckoning."

"Then let us begin instanter," said Henry, as he seized hold of the
pickaxe, and began to loosen the earth by means of the sharp end.

"That will do for the present," said Chillingworth; "now let me and
Charles take a turn with our shovels, and you will get on again
presently. Throw the earth up on the bank in one heap, so that we can
put it on again without attracting any attention to the spot by its
being left in clods and uneven."

"Exactly," said Henry, "else the body will be discovered."

They began to shovel away, and continued to do so, after it had been
picked up, working alternately, until at length Charles stuck his
pick-axe into something soft, and upon pulling it up, he found it was
the body.

A dreadful odour now arose from the spot, and they were at no loss to
tell where the body lay. The pick-axe had stuck into the deceased's ribs
and clothing, and thus lifted it out of its place.

"Here it is," said the doctor; "but I needn't tell you that; the
charnel-house smell is enough to convince you of the fact of where it
is."

"I think so; just show a light upon the subject, doctor, and then we can
see what we are about--do you mind, doctor--you have the management of
the lantern, you know?"

"Yes, yes," said Chillingworth; "I see you have it--don't be in a hurry,
but do things deliberately and coolly whatever you do--you will not be
so liable to make mistakes, or to leave anything undone."

"There will be nothing of any use to you here, doctor, in the way of
dissection, for the flesh is one mass of decay. What a horrible sight,
to be sure!"

"It is; but hasten the search."

"Well, I must; though, to confess the truth, I'd sooner handle anything
than this."

"It is not the most pleasant thing in the world, for there is no knowing
what may be the result--what creeping thing has made a home of it."

"Don't mention anything about it."

Henry and Charles Holland now began to search the pockets of the clothes
of the dead body, in one of which was something hard, that felt like a
parcel.

"What have you got there?" said Chillingworth, as he held his lantern up
so that the light fell upon the ghastly object that they were handling.

"I think it is the prize," said Charles Holland; "but we have not got it
out yet, though I dare say it won't be long first, if this wind will but
hold good for about five minutes, and keep the stench down."

They now tore open the packet and pulled out the papers, which appeared
to have been secreted upon his person.

"Be sure there are none on any other part of the body," said
Chillingworth, "because what you do now, you had better do well, and
leave nothing to after thought, because it is frequently impracticable."

"The advice is good," said Henry, who made a second search, but found
nothing.

"We had better re-bury him," said the doctor; "it had better be done
cleanly. Well, it is a sad hole for a last resting-place, and yet I do
not know that it matters--it is all a matter of taste--the fashion of
the class, or the particular custom of the country."

There was but little to be said against such an argument, though the
custom of the age had caused them to look upon it more as a matter of
feeling than in such a philosophical sense as that in which the doctor
had put it.

"Well, there he is now--shovel the earth in, Charles," said Henry
Bannerworth, as he himself set the example, which was speedily and
vigorously followed by Charles Holland, when they were not long before
the earth was thrown in and covered up with care, and trodden down so
that it should not appear to be moved.

"This will do, I think," said Henry.

"Yes; it is not quite the same, but I dare say no one will try to make
any discoveries in this place; besides, if the rain continues to come
down very heavy, why, it will wash much of it away, and it will make it
look all alike."

There was little inducement to hover about the spot, but Henry could not
forbear holding up the papers to the light of the lantern to ascertain
what they were.

"Are they all right?" inquired the doctor.

"Yes," replied Henry, "yes. The Dearbrook estate. Oh! yes; they are the
papers I am in want of."

"It is singularly fortunate, at least, to be successful in securing
them. I am very glad a living person has possession of them, else it
would have been very difficult to have obtained it from them."

"So it would; but now homeward is the word, doctor; and on my word there
is reason to be glad, for the rain is coming on very fast now, and there
is no moon at all--we had better step out."

They did, for the three walked as fast as the nature of the soil would
permit them, and the darkness of the night.

CHAPTER LXXXIX.

TELLS WHAT BECAME OF THE SECOND VAMPYRE WHO SOUGHT VARNEY.

[Illustration]

We left the Hungarian nobleman swimming down the stream; he swam slowly,
and used but little exertion in doing so. He appeared to use his hands
only as a means of assistance.

The stream carried him onwards, and he aided himself so far that he kept
the middle of the stream, and floated along.

Where the stream was broad and shallow, it sometimes left him a moment
or two, without being strong enough to carry him onwards; then he would
pause, as if gaining strength, and finally he would, when he had rested,
and the water came a little faster, and lifted him, make a desperate
plunge, and swim forward, until he again came in deep water, and then he
went slowly along with the stream, as he supported himself.

It was strange thus to see a man going down slowly, and without any
effort whatever, passing through shade and through moonlight--now lost
in the shadow of the tall trees, and now emerging into that part of the
stream which ran through meadows and cornfields, until the stream
widened, and then, at length, a ferry-house was to be seen in the
distance.

Then came the ferryman out of his hut, to look upon the beautiful
moonlight scene. It was cold, but pure, and brilliantly light. The
chaste moon was sailing through the heavens, and the stars diminished in
their lustre by the power of the luminous goddess of night.

There was a small cottage--true, it was somewhat larger than was
generally supposed by any casual observer who might look at it. The
place was rambling, and built chiefly of wood; but in it lived the
ferryman, his wife, and family; among these was a young girl about
seventeen years of age, but, at the same time, very beautiful.

They had been preparing their supper, and the ferryman himself walked
out to look at the river and the shadows of the tall trees that stood on
the hill opposite.

While thus employed, he heard a plashing in the water, and on turning
towards the quarter whence the sound proceeded for a few yards, he came
to the spot where he saw the stranger struggling in the stream.

"Good God!" he muttered to himself, as he saw the struggle continued;
"good God! he will sink and drown."

As he spoke, he jumped into his boat and pushed it off, for the purpose
of stopping the descent of the body down the stream, and in a moment or
two it came near to him. He muttered,--

"Come, come--he tries to swim; life is not gone yet--he will do now, if
I can catch hold of him. Swimming with one's face under the stream
doesn't say much for his skill, though it may account for the fact that
he don't cry out."

As the drowning man neared, the ferryman held on by the boat-hook, and
stooping down, he seized the drowning man by the hair of the head, and
then paused.

After a time, he lifted him up, and placed him across the edge of the
boat, and then, with some struggling of his own, he was rolled over into
the boat.

"You are safe now," muttered the ferryman.

The stranger spoke not, but sat or leaned against the boat's head,
sobbing and catching at his breath, and spitting off his stomach the
water it might be presumed he had swallowed.

The ferryman put back to the shore, when he paused, and secured his
boat, and then pulled the stranger out, saying,--

"Do you feel any better now?"

"Yes," said the stranger; "I feel I am living--thanks to you, my good
friend; I owe you my life."

"You are welcome to that," replied the ferryman; "it costs me nothing;
and, as for my little trouble, I should be sorry to think of that, when
a fellow-being's life was in danger."

"You have behaved very well--very well, and I can do little more now
than thank you, for I have been robbed of all I possessed about me at
the moment."

"Oh! you have been robbed?"

"Aye, truly, I have, and have been thrown into the water, and thus I
have been nearly murdered."

"It is lucky you escaped from them without further injury," said the
ferryman; "but come in doors, you must be mad to stand here in the
cold."

"Thank you; your hospitality is great, and, at this moment, of the
greatest importance to me."

"Such as we have," said the honest ferryman, "you shall be welcome to.
Come in--come in."

He turned round and led the way to the house, which he entered,
saying--as he opened the small door that led into the main apartment,
where all the family were assembled, waiting for the almost only meal
they had had that day, for the ferryman had not the means, before the
sun had set, of sending for food, and then it was a long way before it
could be found, and then it was late before they could get it,--

"Wife, we have a stranger to sleep with us to-night, and for whom we
must prepare a bed."

"A stranger!" echoed the wife--"a stranger, and we so poor!"

"Yes; one whose life I have saved, and who was nearly drowned. We cannot
refuse hospitality upon such an occasion as that, you know, wife."

The wife looked at the stranger as he entered the room, and sat down by
the fire.

"I am sorry," he said, "to intrude upon you; but I will make you amends
for the interruption and inconvenience I may cause you; but it is too
late to apply elsewhere, and yet I am doubtful, if there were, whether I
could go any further."

"No, no," said the ferryman; "I am sure a man who has been beaten and
robbed, and thrown into a rapid and, in some parts, deep stream, is not
fit to travel at this time of night."

"You are lonely about here," said the stranger, as he shivered by the
fire.

"Yes, rather; but we are used to it."

"You have a family, too; that must help to lighten the hours away, and
help you over the long evenings."

"So you may think, stranger, and, at times, so it is; but when food runs
short, it is a long while to daylight, before any more money can be had.
To be sure, we have fish in the river, and we have what we can grow in
the garden; but these are not all the wants that we feel, and those
others are sometimes pinching. However, we are thankful for what we
have, and complain but little when we can get no more; but sometimes we
do repine--though I cannot say we ought--but I am merely relating the
fact, whether it be right or wrong."

"Exactly. How old is your daughter?"

"She is seventeen come Allhallow's eve."

"That is not far hence," said the stranger. "I hope I may be in this
part of the country--and I think I shall--I will on that eve pay you a
visit; not one on which I shall be a burden to you, but one more useful
to you, and more consonant to my character."

"The future will tell us all about that," said the ferryman; "at present
we will see what we can do, without complaining, or taxing anybody."

The stranger and the ferryman sat conversing for some time before the
fire, and then the latter pointed out to him which was his bed--one made
up near the fire, for the sake of its warmth; and then the ferryman
retired to the next room, a place which was merely divided by an
imperfect partition.

However, they all fell soundly asleep. The hours on that day had been
longer than usual; there was not that buoyancy of spirit; when they
retired, they fell off into a heavy, deep slumber.

From this they were suddenly aroused by loud cries and piercing screams
from one of the family.

So loud and shrill were the cries, that they all started up, terrified
and bewildered beyond measure, unable to apply their faculties to any
one object.

"Help--help, father!--help!" shrieked the voice of the young girl whom
we have before noticed.

The ferryman jumped up, and rushed to the spot where his daughter lay.

"Fanny," he said--"Fanny, what ails thee--what ails thee? Tell me, my
dear child."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, almost choked--"oh, father! are we all alone? I am
terrified."

"What ails thee--what ails thee? Tell me what caused you to scream out
in such a manner?"

"I--I--that is I, father, thought--but no, I am sure it was reality.
Where is the stranger?"

"A light--a light!" shouted the fisherman.

In another moment a light was brought him, and he discovered the
stranger reclining in his bed, but awake, and looking around him, as if
in the utmost amazement.

"What has happened?" he said--"what has happened?"

"That is more than I know as yet," the man replied. "Come, Fanny," he
added, "tell me what it is you fear. What caused you to scream out in
that dreadful manner?"

"Oh, father--the vampyre!"

"Great God! what do you mean, Fanny, by that?"

"I hardly know, father. I was fast asleep, when I thought I felt
something at my threat; but being very sound asleep, I did not
immediately awake. Presently I felt the sharp pang of teeth being driven
into the flesh of my neck--I awoke, and found the vampyre at his repast.
Oh, God! oh, God! what shall I do?"

"Stay, my child, let us examine the wound," said the fisherman, and he
held the candle to the spot where the vampyre's teeth had been applied.
There, sure enough, were teeth marks, such as a human being's would make
were they applied, but no blood had been drawn therefrom.

"Come, come, Fanny; so far, by divine Providence, you are not injured;
another moment, and the mischief would have been done entire and
complete, and you would have been his victim."

Then turning to the stranger, he said,--

"You have had some hand in this. No human being but you could come into
this place. The cottage door is secured. You must be the vampyre."

"I!"

"Yes; who else could?"

"I!--As Heaven's my judge--but there, it's useless to speak of it; I
have not been out of my bed. In this place, dark as it is, and less used
to darkness than you, I could not even find my way about.--It is
impossible."

"Get out of your bed, and let me feel," said the ferryman,
peremptorily--"get out, and I will soon tell."

The stranger arose, and began to dress himself, and the ferryman
immediately felt the bed on which he had been lying; but it was ice
cold--so cold that he started upon his legs in an instant, exclaiming
with vehemence,--

"It is you, vile wretch! that has attempted to steal into the cottage of
the poor man, and then to rob him of his only child, and that child of
her heart's blood, base ingrate!"

"My friend, you are wrong, entirely wrong. I am not the creature you
believe me. I have slept, and slept soundly, and awoke not until your
daughter screamed."

"Scoundrel!--liar!--base wretch! you shall not remain alive to injure
those who have but one life to lose."

As he spoke, the ferryman made a desperate rush at the vampyre, and
seized him by the throat, and a violent struggle ensued, in which the
superior strength of the ferryman prevailed, and he brought his
antagonist to the earth, at the same time bestowing upon him some
desperate blows.

"Thou shall go to the same element from which I took thee," said the
ferryman, "and there swim or sink as thou wilt until some one shall drag
thee ashore, and when they do, may they have a better return than I."

As he spoke, he dragged along the stranger by main force until they came
to the bank of the river, and then pausing, to observe the deepest part,
he said,--

"Here, then, you shall go."

The vampyre struggled, and endeavoured to speak, but he could not; the
grasp at his throat prevented all attempts at speech; and then, with a
sudden exertion of his strength, the ferryman lifted the stranger up,
and heaved him some distance into the river.

Then in deep water sank the body.

The ferryman watched for some moments, and farther down the stream he
saw the body again rise upon the current and struggling slightly, as for
life--now whirled around and around, and then carried forward with the
utmost velocity.

This continued as far as the moonlight enabled the ferryman to see, and
then, with a slow step and clouded brow, he returned to his cottage,
which he entered, and closed the door.

CHAPTER XC.

DR. CHILLINGWORTH AT THE HALL.--THE ENCOUNTER OF MYSTERY.--THE
CONFLICT.--THE RESCUE, AND THE PICTURE.

[Illustration]

There have been many events that have passed rapidly in this our
narrative; but more have yet to come before we can arrive at that point
which will clear up much that appears to be most mysterious and
unaccountable.

Doctor Chillingworth, but ill satisfied with the events that had yet
taken place, determined once more upon visiting the Hall, and there to
attempt a discovery of something respecting the mysterious apartment in
which so much has already taken place.

He communicated his design to no one; he resolved to prosecute the
inquiry alone. He determined to go there and await whatever might turn
up in the shape of events. He would not for once take any companion;
such adventures were often best prosecuted alone--they were most easily
brought to something like an explanatory position, one person can often
consider matters more coolly than more. At all events, there is more
secrecy than under any other circumstances.

Perhaps this often is of greater consequence than many others; and,
moreover, when there is more than one, something is usually overdone.
Where one adventurous individual will rather draw back in a pursuit,
more than one would induce them to urge each other on.

In fact, one in such a case could act the part of a spy--a secret
observer; and in that case can catch people at times when they could not
under any other circumstances be caught or observed at all.

"I will go," he muttered; "and should I be compelled to run away again,
why, nobody knows anything about it and nobody will laugh at me."

This was all very well; but Mr. Chillingworth was not the man to run
away without sufficient cause. But there was so much mystery in all this
that he felt much interested in the issue of the affair. But this issue
he could not command; at the same time he was determined to sit and
watch, and thus become certain that either something or nothing was to
take place.

Even the knowledge of that much--that some inexplicable action was still
going on--was far preferable to the uncertainty of not knowing whether
what had once been going on was still so or not, because, if it had
ceased, it was probable that nothing more would ever be known concerning
it, and the mystery would still be a mystery to the end of time.

"It shall be fathomed if there be any possibility of its being
discovered," muttered Chillingworth. "Who would have thought that so
quiet and orderly a spot as this, our quiet village, would have suffered
so much commotion and disturbance? Far from every cause of noise and
strife, it is quite as great a matter of mystery as the vampyre business
itself.

"I have been so mixed up in this business that I must go through with
it. By the way, of the mysteries, the greatest that I have met with is
the fact of the vampyre having anything to do with so quiet a family as
the Bannerworths."

Mr. Chillingworth pondered over the thought; but yet he could make
nothing of it. It in no way tended to elucidate anything connected with
the affair, and it was much too strange and singular in all its parts to
be submitted to any process of thought, with any hope of coming to
anything like a conclusion upon the subject--that must remain until some
facts were ascertained, and to obtain them Mr. Chillingworth now
determined to try.

This was precisely what was most desirable in the present state of
affairs; while things remained in the present state of uncertainty,
there would be much more of mystery than could ever be brought to light.

One or two circumstances cleared up, the minor ones would follow in the
same train, and they would be explained by the others; and if ever that
happy state of things were to come about, why, then there would be a
perfect calm in the town.

As Mr. Chillingworth was going along, he thought he observed two men
sitting inside a hedge, close to a hay-rick, and thinking neither of
them had any business there, he determined to listen to their
conversation, and ascertain if it had any evil tendency, or whether it
concerned the late event.

Having approached near the gate, and they being on the other side, he
got over without any noise, and, unperceived by either of them, crept
close up to them.

"So you haven't long come from sea?"

"No; I have just landed."

"How is it you have thrown aside your seaman's clothes and taken to
these?"

"Just to escape being found out."

"Found out! what do you mean by that? Have you been up to anything?"

"Yes, I have, Jack. I have been up to something, worse luck to me; but
I'm not to be blamed either."

"What is it all about?" inquired his companion. "I always thought you
were such a steady-going old file that there was no going out of the
even path with you."

"Nor would there have been, but for one simple circumstance."

"What was that?"

"I will tell you, Jack--I will tell you; you will never betray me, I am
sure."

"Never, by heavens!"

"Well, then, listen--it was this. I had been some time aboard our
vessel. I had sailed before, but the captain never showed any signs of
being a bad man, and I was willing enough to sail with him again.