Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"It's
no trouble," said Henry; "and for myself, I have amply sufficient
faith, both in your judgment and in your friendship, doctor, to accede to any
request which you may make to me."
"And
I," said the admiral. "Be it so—be it so. For one week, you
say?"
"Yes—for
one week. I hope, by the end of that time, to have achieved something worth the
telling you of; and I promise you that, if I am at all disappointed in my
expectation, that I will frankly and freely communicate to you all I know and
all I suspect."
"Then
that's a bargain."
"It
is."
"And
what's to be done at once?"
"Why,
nothing, but to take the greatest possible care that Bannerworth Hall is not
left another hour without some one in it; and in order that such should be the
case, I have to request that you two will remain here until I go to the town,
and make preparations for taking quiet possession of it myself, which I will do
in the course of two hours, at most."
"Don't
be longer," said the admiral, "for I am so desperately hungry, that I
shall certainly begin to eat somebody, if you are."
"Depend
upon me."
"Very
well," said Henry; "you may depend we will wait here until you come
back."
The
doctor at once hurried from the garden, leaving Henry and the admiral to amuse
themselves as best they might, with conjectures as to what he was really about,
until his return.
THE MYSTERIOUS MEETING IN THE RUIN AGAIN.—THE VAMPYRE'S
ATTACK UPON THE CONSTABLE.
It is
now necessary that we return once more to that mysterious ruin, in the
intricacies of which Varney, when pursued by the mob, had succeeded in finding
a refuge which defied all the exertions which were made for his discovery. Our
readers must be well aware, that, connected with that ruin, are some secrets of
great importance to our story; and we will now, at the solemn hour of midnight,
take another glance at what is doing within its recesses.
At
that solemn hour it is not probable that any one would seek that gloomy place
from choice. Some lover of the picturesque certainly might visit it; but such
was not the inciting cause of the pilgrimage with those who were soon to stand
within its gloomy precincts.
Other
motives dictated their presence in that spot—motives of rapine; peradventure of
murder itself.
As
the neighbouring clocks sounded the hour of twelve, and the faint strokes were
borne gently on the wind to that isolated ruin, there might have been seen a
tall man standing by the porch of what had once been a large doorway to some
portion of the ruin.
His
form was enveloped in a large cloak, which was of such ample material that he
seemed well able to wrap it several times around him, and then leave a
considerable portion of it floating idly in the gentle wind.
He
stood as still, as calm, and as motionless as a statue, for a considerable
time, before any degree of impatience began to show itself.
Then
he took from his pocket a large antique watch, the white face of which just
enabled him to see what the time was, and, in a voice which had in it some
amount of petulance and anger, he said,—
"Not
come yet, and nearly half an hour beyond the time! What can have detained him?
This is, indeed, trifling with the most important moments of a man's
existence."
Even
as he spoke, he heard, from some distance off, the sound of a short, quick
footstep. He bent forwards to listen, and then, in a tone of satisfaction, he
said,—
"He
comes—he comes!"
But
he who thus waited for some confederate among these dim and old grey ruins,
advanced not a step to meet him. On the contrary, such seemed the amount of
cold-blooded caution which he possessed, that the nearer the man—who was
evidently advancing—got to the place, the further back did he who had preceded
him shrink into the shadow of the dim and crumbling walls, which had, for some
years now past, seemed to bend to the passing blast, and to be on the point of
yielding to the destroying hand of time.
And
yet, surely he needed not have been so cautious. Who was likely, at such an
hour as that, to come to the ruins, but one who sought it by appointment?
And,
moreover, the manner of the advancing man should have been quite sufficient to
convince him who waited, that so much caution was unnecessary; but it was a
part and parcel of his nature.
About
three minutes more sufficed to bring the second man to the ruin, and he, at
once, and fearlessly, plunged into its recesses.
"Who
comes?" said the first man, in a deep, hollow voice.
"He
whom you expect," was the reply.
"Good,"
he said, and at once he now emerged from his hiding-place, and they stood
together in the nearly total darkness with which the place was enshrouded; for
the night was a cloudy one, and there appeared not a star in the heavens, to
shed its faint light upon the scene below.
For a
few moments they were both silent, for he who had last arrived had evidently
made great exertions to reach the spot, and was breathing laboriously, while he
who was there first appeared, from some natural taciturnity of character, to
decline opening the conversation.
At
length the second comer spoke, saying,—
"I
have made some exertion to get here to my time, and yet I am beyond it, as you
are no doubt aware."
"Yes,
yes."
"Well,
such would not have been the case; but yet, I stayed to bring you some news of
importance."
"Indeed!"
"It
is so. This place, which we have, now for some time had as a quiet and
perfectly eligible one of meeting, is about to be invaded by one of those
restless, troublesome spirits, who are never happy but when they are contriving
something to the annoyance of others who do not interfere with them."
"Explain
yourself more fully."
"I
will. At a tavern in the town, there has happened some strange scenes of
violence, in consequence of the general excitement into which the common people
have been thrown upon the dreadful subject of vampyres."
"Well."
"The
consequence is, that numerous arrests have taken place, and the places of
confinement for offenders against the laws are now full of those whose heated
and angry imaginations have induced them to take violent steps to discover the
reality or the falsehood of rumours which so much affected them, their wives,
and their families, that they feared to lie down to their night's repose."
The
other laughed a short, hollow, restless sort of laugh, which had not one
particle of real mirth in it.
"Go
on—go on," he said. "What did they do?"
"Immense
excesses have been committed; but what made me, first of all, stay beyond my
time, was that I overheard a man declare his intentions this night, from twelve
till the morning, and for some nights to come, to hold watch and ward for the
vampyre."
"Indeed!"
"Yes.
He did but stay, at the earnest solicitation of his comrades, to take yet
another glass, ere he came upon his expedition."
"He
must be met. The idiot! what business is it of his?"
"There
are always people who will make everything their business, whether it be so or
not."
"There
are. Let us retire further into the recesses of the ruin, and there consider as
well what is to be done regarding more important affairs, as with this rash
intruder here."
They
both walked for some twenty paces, or so, right into the ruin, and then he who
had been there first, said, suddenly, to his companion,—
"I
am annoyed, although the feeling reaches no further than annoyance, for I have
a natural love of mischief, to think that my reputation has spread so widely,
and made so much noise."
"Your
reputation as a vampyre, Sir Francis Varney, you mean?"
"Yes;
but there is no occasion for you to utter my name aloud, even here where we are
alone together."
"It
came out unawares."
"Unawares!
Can it be possible that you have so little command over yourself as to allow a
name to come from your lips unawares?"
"Sometimes."
"I
am surprised."
"Well,
it cannot be helped. What do you now propose to do?"
"Nay,
you are my privy councillor. Have you no deep-laid, artful project in hand? Can
you not plan and arrange something which may yet have the effect of
accomplishing what at first seemed so very simple, but which has, from one
unfortunate circumstance and another, become full of difficulty and pregnant
with all sorts of dangers?"
"I
must confess I have no plan."
"I
listen with astonishment."
"Nay,
now, you are jesting."
"When
did you ever hear of me jesting?"
"Not
often, I admit. But you have a fertile genius, and I have always, myself, found
it easier to be the executive than to plan an elaborate course of action for
others."
"Then
you throw it all on me?"
"I
throw a weight, naturally enough, upon the shoulders which I think the best adapted
to sustain it."
"Be
it so, then—be it so."
"You
are, I presume, from what you say, provided with a scheme of action which shall
present better hopes of success, at less risk, I hope. Look what great danger
we have already passed through."
"Yes,
we have."
"I
pray you avoid that in the next campaign."
"It
is not the danger that annoys and troubles me, but it is that, notwithstanding
it, the object is as far off as ever from being attained."
"And
not only so, but, as is invariably the case under such circumstances, we have
made it more difficult of execution because we have put those upon their guard
thoroughly who are the most likely to oppose us."
"We
have—we have."
"And
placed the probability of success afar off indeed."
"And
yet I have set my life upon the cast, and I will stand the hazard. I tell you I
will accomplish this object, or I will perish in the attempt."
"You
are too enthusiastic."
"Not
at all. Nothing has been ever done, the execution of which was difficult,
without enthusiasm. I will do what I intend, or Bannerworth Hall shall become a
heap of ruins, where fire shall do its worst work of devastation, and I will
myself find a grave in the midst."
"Well,
I quarrel with no man for chalking out the course he intends to pursue; but
what do you mean to do with the prisoner below here?"
"Kill
him."
"What?"
"I
say kill him. Do you not understand me?"
"I
do, indeed."
"When
everything else is secured, and when the whole of that which I so much court,
and which I will have, is in my possession, I will take his life, or you shall.
Ay, you are just the man for such a deed. A smooth-faced, specious sort of roan
are you, and you like not danger. There will be none in taking the life of a
man who is chained to the floor of a dungeon."
"I
know not why," said the other, "you take a pleasure on this
particular night, of all others, in saying all you can which you think will be
offensive to me."
"Now,
how you wrong me. This is the reward of confidence."
"I
don't want such confidence."
"Why,
you surely don't want me to flatter you."
"No;
but—"
"Psha!
Hark you. That admiral is the great stumbling-block in my way. I should ere
this have had undisturbed possession of Bannerworth Hall but for him. He must
be got out of the way somehow."
"A
short time will tire him out of watching. He is one of those men of impulse who
soon become wearied of inaction."
"Ay,
and then the Bannerworths return to the Hall."
"It
may be so."
"I
am certain of it. We have been out-generalled in this matter, although I grant
we did all that men could do to give us success."
"In
what way would you get rid of this troublesome admiral?"
"I
scarcely know. A letter from his nephew might, if well put together, get him to
London."
"I
doubt it. I hate him mortally. He has offended me more than once most
grievously."
"I
know it. He saw through you."
"I
do not give him so much credit. He is a suspicious man, and a vain and a
jealous one."
"And
yet he saw through you. Now, listen to me. You are completely at fault, and
have no plan of operations whatever in your mind. What I want you to do is, to
disappear from the neighbourhood for a time, and so will I. As for our prisoner
here below, I cannot see what else can be done with him than—than—"
"Than
what? Do you hesitate?"
"I
do."
"Then
what is it you were about to say?"
"I
cannot but feel that all we have done hitherto, as regards this young prisoner
of ours, has failed. He has, with a determined obstinacy, set at naught, as
well you know, all threats."
"He
has."
"He
has refused to do one act which could in any way aid me in my objects. In fact,
from the first to the last, he has been nothing but an expense and an
encumbrance to us both."
"All
that is strictly true."
"And
yet, although you, as well as I, know of a marvellously ready way of getting
rid of such encumbrances, I must own, that I shrink with more than a feeling of
reluctance from the murder of the youth."
"You
contemplated it then?" asked the other.
"No;
I cannot be said to have contemplated it. That is not the proper sort of
expression to use."
"What
is then?"
"To
contemplate a deed seems to me to have some close connexion to the wish to do
it."
"And
you have no such wish?"
"I
have no such wish, and what is more I will not do it."
"Then
that is sufficient; and the only question that remains for you to confide, is,
what you will do. It is far easier in all enterprises to decide upon what we
will not do, than upon what we will. For my own part I must say that I can
perceive no mode of extricating ourselves from this involvement with anything
like safety."