Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"That
is true, brother; I recollect well."
"So
that, upon the whole, sister, there is little to remove."
"Well,
well, be it so. I will prepare our mother for this sudden step. Believe me, my
heart goes with it; and as a force of vengeful circumstances have induced us to
remove from this home, which was once so full of pleasant recollections, it is
certainly better, as you say, that the act should be at once consummated, than
left hanging in terror over our minds."
"Then
I'll consider that as settled," said Henry.
THE REMOVAL FROM THE HALL.—THE NIGHT WATCH, AND THE ALARM.
Mrs. Bannerworth's
consent having been already given to the removal, she said at once, when
appealed to, that she was quite ready to go at any time her children thought
expedient.
Upon
this, Henry sought the admiral, and told him as much, at the same time adding,—
"My
sister feared that we should have considerable trouble in the removal, but I
have convinced her that such will not be the case, as we are by no means
overburdened with cumbrous property."
"Cumbrous
property," said the admiral, "why, what do you mean? I beg leave to
say, that when I took the house, I took the table and chairs with it. D—n it,
what good do you suppose an empty house is to me?"
"The
tables and chairs!"
"Yes.
I took the house just as it stands. Don't try and bamboozle me out of it. I tell
you, you've nothing to move but yourselves and immediate personal
effects."
"I
was not aware, admiral, that that was your plan."
"Well,
then, now you are, listen to me. I've circumvented the enemy too often not to
know how to get up a plot. Jack and I have managed it all. To-morrow evening,
after dark, and before the moon's got high enough to throw any light, you and
your brother, and Miss Flora and your mother, will come out of the house, and
Jack and I will lead you where you're to go to. There's plenty of furniture
where you're a-going, and so you will get off free, without anybody knowing
anything about it."
"Well,
admiral, I've said it before, and it is the unanimous opinion of us all, that
everything should be left to you. You have proved yourself too good a friend to
us for us to hesitate at all in obeying your commands. Arrange everything, I
pray you, according to your wishes and feelings, and you will find there shall
be no cavilling on our parts."
"That's
right; there's nothing like giving a command to some one person. There's no
good done without. Now I'll manage it all. Mind you, seven o'clock to-morrow
evening everything is to be ready, and you will all be prepared to leave the
Hall."
"It
shall be so."
"Who's
that giving such a thundering ring at the gate?"
"Nay,
I know not. We have few visitors and no servants, so I must e'en be my own gate
porter."
Henry
walked to the gate, and having opened it, a servant in a handsome livery
stepped a pace or two into the garden.
"Well,"
said Henry.
"Is
Mr. Henry Bannerworth within, or Admiral Bell?"
"Both,"
cried the admiral. "I'm Admiral Bell, and this is Mr. Henry Bannerworth.
What do you want with us, you d——d gingerbread-looking flunkey?"
"Sir,
my master desires his compliments—his very best compliments—and he wants to
know how you are after your flurry."
"What?"
"After
your—a—a—flurry and excitement."
"Who
is your master?" said Henry.
"Sir
Francis Varney."
"The
devil!" said the admiral; "if that don't beat all the impudence I
ever came near. Our flurry! Ah! I like that fellow. Just go and tell him—"
"No,
no," said Henry, interposing, "send back no message. Say to your
master, fellow, that Mr. Henry Bannerworth feels that not only has he no claim
to Sir Francis Varney's courtesy, but that he would rather be without it."
"Oh,
ha!" said the footman, adjusting his collar; "very good. This seems a
d——d, old-fashioned, outlandish place of yours. Any ale?"
"Now,
shiver my hulks!" said the admiral.
"Hush!
hush!" said Henry; "who knows but there may be a design in this? We
have no ale."
"Oh,
ah! dem!—dry as dust, by God! What does the old commodore say? Any message, my
ancient Greek?"
"No,
thank you," said the admiral; "bless you, nothing. What did you give
for that waistcoat, d—n you? Ha! ha! you're a clever fellow."
"Ah!
the old gentleman's ill. However, I'll take back his compliments, and that he's
much obliged at Sir Francis's condescension. At the same time, I suppose may
place in my eye what I may get out of either of you, without hindering me
seeing my way back. Ha! ha! Adieu—adieu."
"Bravo!"
said the admiral; "that's it—go it—now for it. D—n it, it is a
do
!"
The
admiral's calmness during the latter part of the dialogue arose from the fact
that over the flunkey's shoulder, and at some little distance off, he saw Jack
Pringle taking off his jacket, and rolling up his sleeves in that deliberate
sort of way that seemed to imply a determination of setting about some species
of work that combined the pleasant with the useful.
Jack
executed many nods to and winks at the livery-servant, and jerked his thumb
likewise in the direction of a pump near at hand, in a manner that spoke as
plainly as possible, that John was to be pumped upon.
And
now the conference was ended, and Sir Francis's messenger turned to go; but
Jack Pringle bothered him completely, for he danced round him in such a
singular manner, that, turn which way he would, there stood Jack Pringle, in
some grotesque attitude, intercepting him; and so he edged him on, till he got
him to the pump.
"Jack,"
said the admiral.
"Ay,
ay, sir."
"Don't
pump on that fellow now."
"Ay,
ay, sir; give us a hand."
Jack
laid hold of him by the two ears, and holding him under the pump, kicked his
shins until he completely gathered himself beneath the spout. It was in vain
that he shouted "Murder! help! fire! thieves!" Jack was inexorable,
and the admiral pumped.
Jack
turned the fellow's head about in a very scientific manner, so as to give him a
fair dose of hydropathic treatment, and in a few minutes, never was human being
more thoroughly saturated with moisture than was Sir Francis Varney's servant.
He had left off hallooing for aid, for he found that whenever he did so, Jack
held his mouth under the spout, which was decidedly unpleasant; so, with a
patience that looked like heroic fortitude, he was compelled to wait until the
admiral was tired of pumping.
"Very
good," at length he said. "Now, Jack, for fear this fellow catcher
cold, be so good as to get a horsewhip, and see him off the premises with
it."
"Ay,
ay, sir," said Jack. "And I say, old fellow, you can take back all
our blessed compliments now, and say you've been flurried a little yourself;
and if so be as you came here as dry as dust, d——e, you go back as wet as a
mop. Won't it do to kick him out, sir?"
"Very
well—as you please, Jack."
"Then
here goes;" and Jack proceeded to kick the shivering animal from the
garden with a vehemence that soon convinced him of the necessity of getting out
of it as quickly as possible.
How
it was that Sir Francis Varney, after the fearful race he had had, got home
again across the fields, free from all danger, and back to his own house, from
whence he sent so cool and insolent a message, they could not conceive.
But
such must certainly be the fact; somehow or another, he had escaped all danger,
and, with a calm insolence peculiar to the man, he had no doubt adopted the
present mode of signifying as much to the Bannerworths.
The
insolence of his servant was, no doubt, a matter of pre-arrangement with that
individual, however he might have set about it con amore. As for the
termination of the adventure, that, of course, had not been at all calculated
upon; but, like most tools of other people's insolence or ambition, the
insolence of the underling had received both his own punishment and his master's.
We
know quite enough of Sir Francis Varney to feel assured that he would rather
consider it as a good jest than otherwise of his footman, so that with the
suffering he endured at the Bannerworths', and the want of sympathy he was
likely to find at home, that individual had certainly nothing to congratulate
himself upon but the melancholy reminiscence of his own cleverness.
But
were the mob satisfied with what had occurred in the churchyard? They were not,
and that night was to witness the perpetration of a melancholy outrage, such as
the history of the time presents no parallel to.
The
finding of a brick in the coffin of the butcher, instead of the body of that
individual, soon spread as a piece of startling intelligence all over the
place; and the obvious deduction that was drawn from the circumstance, seemed
to be that the deceased butcher was unquestionably a vampyre, and out upon some
expedition at the time when his coffin was searched.
How
he had originally got out of that receptacle for the dead was certainly a
mystery; but the story was none the worse for that. Indeed, an ingenious
individual found a solution for that part of the business, for, as he said,
nothing was more natural, when anybody died who was capable of becoming a
vampyre, than for other vampyres who knew it to dig him up, and lay him out in
the cold beams of the moonlight, until he acquired the same sort of vitality
they themselves possessed, and joined their horrible fraternity.
In
lieu of a better explanation—and, after all, it was no bad one—this theory was
generally received, and, with a shuddering horror, people asked themselves, if
the whole of the churchyard were excavated, how many coffins would be found
tenantless by the dead which had been supposed, by simple-minded people, to
inhabit them.
The
presence, however, of a body of dragoons, towards evening, effectually
prevented any renewed attack upon the sacred precincts of the churchyard, and
it was a strange and startling thing to see that country town under military
surveillance, and sentinels posted at its principal buildings.
This
measure smothered the vengeance of the crowd, and insured, for a time, the
safety of Sir Francis Varney; for no considerable body of persons could
assemble for the purpose of attacking his house again, without being followed;
so such a step was not attempted.
It
had so happened, however, that on that very day, the funeral of a young man was
to have taken place, who had put up for a time at that same inn where Admiral
Bell was first introduced to the reader. He had become seriously ill, and,
after a few days of indisposition, which had puzzled the country practitioners,
breathed his last.
He
was to have been buried in the village churchyard on the very day of the riot
and confusion incidental to the exhumation of the coffin of the butcher, and
probably from that circumstance we may deduce the presence of the clergyman in
canonicals at the period of the riot.
When
it was found that so disorderly a mob possessed the churchyard, the idea of
burying the stranger on that day was abandoned; but still all would have gone
on quietly as regarded him, had it not been for the folly of one of the
chamber-maids at the tavern.
This
woman, with all the love of gossip incidental to her class, had, from the
first, entered so fully into all the particulars concerning vampyres, that she
fairly might be considered to be a little deranged on that head. Her
imagination had been so worked upon, that she was in an unfit state to think of
anything else, and if ever upon anybody a stern and revolting superstition was
calculated to produce direful effects, it was upon this woman.
The
town was tolerably quiet; the presence of the soldiery had frightened some and
amused others, and no doubt the night would have passed off serenely, had she
not suddenly rushed into the street, and, with bewildered accents and frantic
gestures shouted,—
"A
vampyre—a vampyre—a vampyre!"
These
words soon collected a crowd around her, and then, with screaming accents,
which would have been quite enough to convince any reflecting person that she
had actually gone distracted upon that point, she cried,—
"Come
into the house—come into the house! Look upon the dead body, that should have
been in its grave; it's fresher now than it was the day on which it died, and
there's a colour in its cheeks! A vampyre—a vampyre—a vampyre! Heaven save us
from a vampyre!"
The
strange, infuriated, maniacal manner in which these words were uttered,
produced an astonishingly exciting effect among the mob. Several women
screamed, and some few fainted. The torch was laid again to the altar of
popular feeling, and the fierce flame of superstition burnt brightly and
fiercely.
Some
twenty or thirty persons, with shouts and exclamations, rushed into the inn,
while the woman who had created the disturbance still continued to rave,
tearing her hair, and shrieking at intervals, until she fell exhausted upon the
pavement.
Soon,
from a hundred throats, rose the dreadful cry of "A vampyre—a
vampyre!" The alarm was given throughout the whole town; the bugles of the
military sounded; there was a clash of arms—the shrieks of women; altogether,
the premonitory symptoms of such a riot as was not likely to be quelled without
bloodshed and considerable disaster.