Varney the Vampire by Thomas Preskett Prest

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"I heard nothing, dear."

"Listen again, mother. Surely I could not be deceived so often. I have
now, at least, six times heard a sound as if some one was outside by the
windows."

"No, no, my darling, do not think; your imagination is active and in a
state of excitement."

"It is, and yet--"

"Believe me, it deceives you."

"I hope to Heaven it does!"

There was a pause of some minutes' duration, and then Mrs. Bannerworth
again urged slightly the calling of some of the servants, for she
thought that their presence might have the effect of giving a different
direction to her child's thoughts; but Flora saw her place her hand upon
the bell, and she said,--

"No, mother, no--not yet, not yet. Perhaps I am deceived."

Mrs. Bannerworth upon this sat down, but no sooner had she done so than
she heartily regretted she had not rung the bell, for, before, another
word could be spoken, there came too perceptibly upon their ears for
there to be any mistake at all about it, a strange scratching noise upon
the window outside.

A faint cry came from Flora's lips, as she exclaimed, in a voice of
great agony,--

"Oh, God!--oh, God! It has come again!"

Mrs. Bannerworth became faint, and unable to move or speak at all; she
could only sit like one paralysed, and unable to do more than listen to
and see what was going on.

The scratching noise continued for a few seconds, and then altogether
ceased. Perhaps, under ordinary circumstances, such a sound outside the
window would have scarcely afforded food for comment at all, or, if it
had, it would have been attributed to some natural effect, or to the
exertions of some bird or animal to obtain admittance to the house.

But there had occurred now enough in that family to make any little
sound of wonderful importance, and these things which before would have
passed completely unheeded, at all events without creating much alarm,
were now invested with a fearful interest.

When the scratching noise ceased, Flora spoke in a low, anxious whisper,
as she said,--

"Mother, you heard it then?"

Mrs. Bannerworth tried to speak, but she could not; and then suddenly,
with a loud clash, the bar, which on the inside appeared to fasten the
shutters strongly, fell as if by some invisible agency, and the shutters
now, but for the intervention of the window, could be easily pushed open
from without.

Mrs. Bannerworth covered her face with her hands, and, after rocking to
and fro for a moment, she fell off her chair, having fainted with the
excess of terror that came over her.

For about the space of time in which a fast speaker could count twelve,
Flora thought her reason was leaving her, but it did not. She found
herself recovering; and there she sat, with her eyes fixed upon the
window, looking more like some exquisitely-chiselled statue of despair
than a being of flesh and blood, expecting each moment to have its eyes
blasted by some horrible appearance, such as might be supposed to drive
her to madness.

And now again came the strange knocking or scratching against the glass
of the window.

This continued for some minutes, during which it appeared likewise to
Flora that some confusion was going on at another part of the house, for
she fancied she heard voices and the banging of doors.

It seemed to her as if she must have sat looking at the shutters of that
window a long time before she saw them shake, and then one wide hinged
portion of them slowly opened.

Once again horror appeared to be on the point of producing madness in
her brain, and then, as before, a feeling of calmness rapidly ensued.

She was able to see plainly that something was by the window, but what
it was she could not plainly discern, in consequence of the lights she
had in the room. A few moments, however, sufficed to settle that
mystery, for the window was opened and a figure stood before her.

One glance, one terrified glance, in which her whole soul was
concentrated, sufficed to shew her who and what the figure was. There
was the tall, gaunt form--there was the faded ancient apparel--the
lustrous metallic-looking eyes--its half-opened month, exhibiting the
tusk-like teeth! It was--yes, it was--_the vampyre!_

It stood for a moment gazing at her, and then in the hideous way it had
attempted before to speak, it apparently endeavoured to utter some words
which it could not make articulate to human ears. The pistols lay before
Flora. Mechanically she raised one, and pointed it at the figure. It
advanced a step, and then she pulled the trigger.

A stunning report followed. There was a loud cry of pain, and the
vampyre fled. The smoke and the confusion that was incidental to the
spot prevented her from seeing if the figure walked or ran away. She
thought she heard a crashing sound among the plants outside the window,
as if it had fallen, but she did not feel quite sure.

It was no effort of any reflection, but a purely mechanical movement,
that made her raise the other pistol, and discharge that likewise in the
direction the vampyre had taken. Then casting the weapon away, she rose,
and made a frantic rush from the room. She opened the door, and was
dashing out, when she found herself caught in the circling arms of some
one who either had been there waiting, or who had just at that moment
got there.

The thought that it was the vampyre, who by some mysterious means, had
got there, and was about to make her his prey, now overcame her
completely, and she sunk into a state of utter insensibility on the
moment.

CHAPTER X.

THE RETURN FROM THE VAULT.--THE ALARM, AND THE SEARCH AROUND THE HALL.

[Illustration]

It so happened that George and Henry Bannerworth, along with Mr.
Marchdale, had just reached the gate which conducted into the garden of
the mansion when they all were alarmed by the report of a pistol. Amid
the stillness of the night, it came upon them with so sudden a shock,
that they involuntarily paused, and there came from the lips of each an
expression of alarm.

"Good heavens!" cried George, "can that be Flora firing at any
intruder?"

"It must be," cried Henry; "she has in her possession the only weapons
in the house."

Mr. Marchdale turned very pale, and trembled slightly, but he did not
speak.

"On, on," cried Henry; "for God's sake, let us hasten on."

As he spoke, he cleared the gate at a bound, and at a terrific pace he
made towards the house, passing over beds, and plantations, and flowers
heedlessly, so that he went the most direct way to it.

Before, however, it was possible for any human speed to accomplish even
half of the distance, the report of the other shot came upon his ears,
and he even fancied he heard the bullet whistle past his head in
tolerably close proximity. This supposition gave him a clue to the
direction at all events from whence the shots proceeded, otherwise he
knew not from which window they were fired, because it had not occurred
to him, previous to leaving home, to inquire in which room Flora and his
mother were likely to be seated waiting his return.

He was right as regarded the bullet. It was that winged messenger of
death which had passed his head in such very dangerous proximity, and
consequently he made with tolerable accuracy towards the open window
from whence the shots had been fired.

The night was not near so dark as it had been, although even yet it was
very far from being a light one, and he was soon enabled to see that
there was a room, the window of which was wide open, and lights burning
on the table within. He made towards it in a moment, and entered it. To
his astonishment, the first objects he beheld were Flora and a stranger,
who was now supporting her in his arms. To grapple him by the throat was
the work of a moment, but the stranger cried aloud in a voice which
sounded familiar to Harry,--

"Good God, are you all mad?"

Henry relaxed his hold, and looked in his face.

"Gracious heavens, it is Mr. Holland!" he said.

"Yes; did you not know me?"

Henry was bewildered. He staggered to a seat, and, in doing so, he saw
his mother, stretched apparently lifeless upon the floor. To raise her
was the work of a moment, and then Marchdale and George, who had
followed him as fast as they could, appeared at the open window.

Such a strange scene as that small room now exhibited had never been
equalled in Bannerworth Hall. There was young Mr. Holland, of whom
mention has already been made, as the affianced lover of Flora,
supporting her fainting form. There was Henry doing equal service to his
mother; and on the floor lay the two pistols, and one of the candles
which had been upset in the confusion; while the terrified attitudes of
George and Mr. Marchdale at the window completed the strange-looking
picture.

"What is this--oh! what has happened?" cried George.

"I know not--I know not," said Henry. "Some one summon the servants; I
am nearly mad."

Mr. Marchdale at once rung the bell, for George looked so faint and ill
as to be incapable of doing so; and he rung it so loudly and so
effectually, that the two servants who had been employed suddenly upon
the others leaving came with much speed to know what was the matter.

"See to your mistress," said Henry. "She is dead, or has fainted. For
God's sake, let who can give me some account of what has caused all this
confusion here."

"Are you aware, Henry," said Marchdale, "that a stranger is present in
the room?"

He pointed to Mr. Holland as he spoke, who, before Henry could reply,
said,--

"Sir, I may be a stranger to you, as you are to me, and yet no stranger
to those whose home this is."

"No, no," said Henry, "you are no stronger to us, Mr. Holland, but are
thrice welcome--none can be more welcome. Mr. Marchdale, this is Mr
Holland, of whom you have heard me speak."

"I am proud to know you, sir," said Marchdale.

"Sir, I thank you," replied Holland, coldly.

It will so happen; but, at first sight, it appeared as if those two
persons had some sort of antagonistic feeling towards each other, which
threatened to prevent effectually their ever becoming intimate friends.

The appeal of Henry to the servants to know if they could tell him what
had occurred was answered in the negative. All they knew was that they
had heard two shots fired, and that, since then, they had remained where
they were, in a great fright, until the bell was rung violently. This
was no news at all and, therefore, the only chance was, to wait
patiently for the recovery of the mother, or of Flora, from one or the
other of whom surely some information could be at once then procured.

Mrs. Bannerworth was removed to her own room, and so would Flora have
been; but Mr. Holland, who was supporting her in his arms, said,--

"I think the air from the open window is recovering her, and it is
likely to do so. Oh, do not now take her from me, after so long an
absence. Flora, Flora, look up; do you not know me? You have not yet
given me one look of acknowledgment. Flora, dear Flora!"

The sound of his voice seemed to act as the most potent of charms in
restoring her to consciousness; it broke through the death-like trance
in which she lay, and, opening her beautiful eyes, she fixed them upon
his face, saying,--

"Yes, yes; it is Charles--it is Charles."

She burst into a hysterical flood of tears, and clung to him like some
terrified child to its only friend in the whole wide world.

"Oh, my dear friends," cried Charles Holland, "do not deceive me; has
Flora been ill?"

"We have all been ill," said George.

"All ill?"

"Ay, and nearly mad," exclaimed Harry.

Holland looked from one to the other in surprise, as well he might, nor
was that surprise at all lessened when Flora made an effort to extricate
herself from his embrace, as she exclaimed,--

"You must leave me--you must leave me, Charles, for ever! Oh! never,
never look upon my face again!"

"I--I am bewildered," said Charles.

"Leave me, now," continued Flora; "think me unworthy; think what you
will, Charles, but I cannot, I dare not, now be yours."

"Is this a dream?"

"Oh, would it were. Charles, if we had never met, you would be
happier--I could not be more wretched."

"Flora, Flora, do you say these words of so great cruelty to try my
love?"

"No, as Heaven is my judge, I do not."

"Gracious Heaven, then, what do they mean?"

Flora shuddered, and Henry, coming up to her, took her hand in his
tenderly, as he said,--

"Has it been again?"

"It has."

"You shot it?"

"I fired full upon it, Henry, but it fled."

"It did--fly?"

"It did, Henry, but it will come again--it will be sure to come again."

"You--you hit it with the bullet?" interposed Mr. Marchdale. "Perhaps
you killed it?"

"I think I must have hit it, unless I am mad."

Charles Holland looked from one to the other with such a look of intense
surprise, that George remarked it, and said at once to him,--

"Mr. Holland, a full explanation is due to you, and you shall have it."

"You seem the only rational person here," said Charles. "Pray what is it
that everybody calls '_it_?'"

"Hush--hush!" said Henry; "you shall hear soon, but not at present."

"Hear me, Charles," said Flora. "From this moment mind, I do release you
from every vow, from every promise made to me of constancy and love; and
if you are wise, Charles, and will be advised, you will now this moment
leave this house never to return to it."

"No," said Charles--"no; by Heaven I love you, Flora! I have come to say
again all that in another clime I said with joy to you. When I forget
you, let what trouble may oppress you, may God forget me, and my own
right hand forget to do me honest service."

[Illustration]

"Oh! no more--no more!" sobbed Flora.

"Yes, much more, if you will tell me of words which shall be stronger
than others in which to paint my love, my faith, and my constancy."

"Be prudent," said Henry. "Say no more."

"Nay, upon such a theme I could speak for ever. You may cast me off,
Flora; but until you tell me you love another, I am yours till the
death, and then with a sanguine hope at my heart that we shall meet
again, never, dearest, to part."

Flora sobbed bitterly.

"Oh!" she said, "this is the unkindest blow of all--this is worse than
all."

"Unkind!" echoed Holland.

"Heed her not," said Henry; "she means not you."

"Oh, no--no!" she cried. "Farewell, Charles--dear Charles."

"Oh, say that word again!" he exclaimed, with animation. "It is the
first time such music has met my ears."

"It must be the last."

"No, no--oh, no."

"For your own sake I shall be able now, Charles, to show you that I
really loved you."

"Not by casting me from you?"

"Yes, even so. That will be the way to show you that I love you."

She held up her hands wildly, as she added, in an excited voice,--

"The curse of destiny is upon me! I am singled out as one lost and
accursed. Oh, horror--horror! would that I were dead!"

Charles staggered back a pace or two until he came to the table, at
which he clutched for support. He turned very pale as he said, in a
faint voice,--

"Is--is she mad, or am I?"

"Tell him I am mad, Henry," cried Flora. "Do not, oh, do not make his
lonely thoughts terrible with more than that. Tell him I am mad."

"Come with me," whispered Henry to Holland. "I pray you come with me at
once, and you shall know all."

"I--will."

"George, stay with Flora for a time. Come, come, Mr. Holland, you ought,
and you shall know all; then you can come to a judgment for yourself.
This way, sir. You cannot, in the wildest freak of your imagination,
guess that which I have now to tell you."

Never was mortal man so utterly bewildered by the events of the last
hour of his existence as was now Charles Holland, and truly he might
well be so. He had arrived in England, and made what speed he could to
the house of a family whom he admired for their intelligence, their high
culture, and in one member of which his whole thoughts of domestic
happiness in this world were centered, and he found nothing but
confusion, incoherence, mystery, and the wildest dismay.

Well might he doubt if he were sleeping or waking--well might he ask if
he or they were mad.

And now, as, after a long, lingering look of affection upon the pale,
suffering face of Flora, he followed Henry from the room, his thoughts
were busy in fancying a thousand vague and wild imaginations with
respect to the communication which was promised to be made to him.

But, as Henry had truly said to him, not in the wildest freak of his
imagination could he conceive of any thing near the terrible strangeness
and horror of that which he had to tell him, and consequently he found
himself closeted with Henry in a small private room, removed from the
domestic part of the hall, to the full in as bewildered a state as he
had been from the first.

CHAPTER XI.

THE COMMUNICATIONS TO THE LOVER.--THE HEART'S DESPAIR.

[Illustration]

Consternation is sympathetic, and any one who had looked upon the
features of Charles Holland, now that he was seated with Henry
Bannerworth, in expectation of a communication which his fears told him
was to blast all his dearest and most fondly cherished hopes for ever,
would scarce have recognised in him the same young man who, one short
hour before, had knocked so loudly, and so full of joyful hope and
expectation, at the door of the hall.

But so it was. He knew Henry Bannerworth too well to suppose that any
unreal cause could blanch his cheek. He knew Flora too well to imagine
for one moment that caprice had dictated the, to him, fearful words of
dismissal she had uttered to him.

Happier would it at that time have been for Charles Holland had she
acted capriciously towards him, and convinced him that his true heart's
devotion had been cast at the feet of one unworthy of so really noble a
gift. Pride would then have enabled him, no doubt, successfully to
resist the blow. A feeling of honest and proper indignation at having
his feelings trifled with, would, no doubt, have sustained him, but,
alas! the case seemed widely different.

True, she implored him to think of her no more--no longer to cherish in
his breast the fond dream of affection which had been its guest so long;
but the manner in which she did so brought along with it an irresistible
conviction, that she was making a noble sacrifice of her own feelings
for him, from some cause which was involved in the profoundest mystery.

But now he was to hear all. Henry had promised to tell him, and as he
looked into his pale, but handsomely intellectual face, he half dreaded
the disclosure he yet panted to hear.

"Tell me all, Henry--tell me all," he said. "Upon the words that come
from your lips I know I can rely."

"I will have no reservations with you," said Henry, sadly. "You ought to
know all, and you shall. Prepare yourself for the strangest revelation
you ever heard."

"Indeed!"

"Ay. One which in hearing you may well doubt; and one which, I hope, you
will never find an opportunity of verifying."

"You speak in riddles."

"And yet speak truly, Charles. You heard with what a frantic vehemence
Flora desired you to think no more of her?"

"I did--I did."

"She was right. She is a noble-hearted girl for uttering those words. A
dreadful incident in our family has occurred, which might well induce
you to pause before uniting your fate with that of any member of it."

"Impossible. Nothing can possibly subdue the feelings of affection I
entertain for Flora. She is worthy of any one, and, as such, amid all
changes--all mutations of fortune, she shall be mine."

"Do not suppose that any change of fortune has produced the scene you
were witness to."

"Then, what else?"

"I will tell you, Holland. In all your travels, and in all your reading,
did you ever come across anything about vampyres?"

"About what?" cried Charles, drawing his chair forward a little. "About
what?"

"You may well doubt the evidence of your own ears, Charles Holland, and
wish me to repeat what I said. I say, do you know anything about
vampyres?"

Charles Holland looked curiously in Henry's face, and the latter
immediately added,--

"I can guess what is passing in your mind at present, and I do not
wonder at it. You think I must be mad."

"Well, really, Henry, your extraordinary question--"

"I knew it. Were I you, I should hesitate to believe the tale; but the
fact is, we have every reason to believe that one member of our own
family is one of those horrible preternatural beings called vampyres."

"Good God, Henry, can you allow your judgment for a moment to stoop to
such a supposition?"

"That is what I have asked myself a hundred times; but, Charles Holland,
the judgment, the feelings, and all the prejudices, natural and
acquired, must succumb to actual ocular demonstration. Listen to me, and
do not interrupt me. You shall know all, and you shall know it
circumstantially."

Henry then related to the astonished Charles Holland all that had
occurred, from the first alarm of Flora, up to that period when he,
Holland, caught her in his arms as she was about to leave the room.

"And now," he said, in conclusion, "I cannot tell what opinion you may
come to as regards these most singular events. You will recollect that
here is the unbiassed evidence of four or five people to the facts, and,
beyond that, the servants, who have seen something of the horrible
visitor."

"You bewilder me, utterly," said Charles Holland.

"As we are all bewildered."

"But--but, gracious Heaven! it cannot be."

"It is."

"No--no. There is--there must be yet some dreadful mistake."

"Can you start any supposition by which we can otherwise explain any of
the phenomena I have described to you? If you can, for Heaven's sake do
so, and you will find no one who will cling to it with more tenacity
than I."

"Any other species or kind of supernatural appearance might admit of
argument; but this, to my perception, is too wildly improbable--too much
at variance with all we see and know of the operations of nature."

"It is so. All that we have told ourselves repeatedly, and yet is all
human reason at once struck down by the few brief words of--'We have
seen it.'"

"I would doubt my eyesight."

"One might; but many cannot be labouring under the same delusion."

"My friend, I pray you, do not make me shudder at the supposition that
such a dreadful thing as this is at all possible."

"_I_ am, believe me, Charles, most unwilling to oppress anyone with the
knowledge of these evils; but you are so situated with us, that you
ought to know, and you will clearly understand that you may, with
perfect honour, now consider yourself free from all engagements you have
entered into with Flora."

"No, no! By Heaven, no!"

"Yes, Charles. Reflect upon the consequences now of a union with such a
family."

"Oh, Henry Bannerworth, can you suppose me so dead to all good feeling,
so utterly lost to honourable impulses, as to eject from my heart her
who has possession of it entirely, on such a ground as this?"

"You would be justified."

"Coldly justified in prudence I might be. There are a thousand
circumstances in which a man may be justified in a particular course of
action, and that course yet may be neither honourable nor just. I love
Flora; and were she tormented by the whole of the supernatural world, I
should still love her. Nay, it becomes, then, a higher and a nobler duty
on my part to stand between her and those evils, if possible."

"Charles--Charles," said Henry, "I cannot of course refuse to you my
meed of praise and admiration for your generosity of feeling; but,
remember, if we are compelled, despite all our feelings and all our
predilections to the contrary, to give in to a belief in the existence
of vampyres, why may we not at once receive as the truth all that is
recorded of them?"

"To what do you allude?"

"To this. That one who has been visited by a vampyre, and whose blood
has formed a horrible repast for such a being, becomes, after death, one
of the dreadful race, and visits others in the same way."

"Now this must be insanity," cried Charles.

"It bears the aspect of it, indeed," said Henry; "oh, that you could by
some means satisfy yourself that I am mad."

"There may be insanity in this family," thought Charles, with such an
exquisite pang of misery, that he groaned aloud.

"Already," added Henry, mournfully, "already the blighting influence of
the dreadful tale is upon you, Charles. Oh, let me add my advice to
Flora's entreaties. She loves you, and we all esteem you; fly, then,
from us, and leave us to encounter our miseries alone. Fly from us,
Charles Holland, and take with you our best wishes for happiness which
you cannot know here."

"Never," cried Charles; "I devote my existence to Flora. I will not play
the coward, and fly from one whom I love, on such grounds. I devote my
life to her."

Henry could not speak for emotion for several minutes, and when at
length, in a faltering voice, he could utter some words, he said,--

"God of heaven, what happiness is marred by these horrible events? What
have we all done to be the victims of such a dreadful act of vengeance?"