Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"The
funeral over, I took my child and carried it to a school, where I left her, and
paid in advance, promising to do so as often as the quarter came round. My wife
I had seen buried by the hands of man, and I swore I would do the best for my
child, and to keep this oath was a work of pleasure.
"I
determined also I would never more enter a gaming-house, be the extremity what
it might; I would suffer even death before I would permit myself to enter the
house in which it took place.
"'I
will,' I thought, 'obtain some employment of some kind or other. I could surely
obtain that. I have only to ask and I have it, surely—something, however
menial, that would keep me and my child. Yes, yes—she ought, she must have her
charges paid at once."
"The
effect of my wife's death was a very great shock to me, and such a one I could
not forget—one I shall ever remember, and one that at least made a lasting
impression upon me."
"Strange,
but true, I never entered a gambling-house; it was my horror and my aversion.
And yet I could obtain no employment. I took my daughter and placed her at a
boarding-school, and tried hard to obtain bread by labour; but, do what would,
none could be had; if my soul depended upon it, I could find none. I cared not
what it was—anything that was honest.
"I
was reduced low—very low; gaunt starvation showed itself in my cheeks; but I
wandered about to find employment; none could be found, and the world seemed to
have conspired together to throw me back to the gaming-table.
"But
this I would not. At last employment was offered; but what was it? The
situation of common hangman was offered me. The employment was disgusting and
horrible; but, at the same time, it was all I could get, and that was a
sufficient inducement for me to accept of it. I was, therefore, the common
executioner; and in that employment for some time earned a living. It was
terrible; but necessity compelled me to accept the only thing I could obtain.
You now know the reason why I became what I have told you."
THE VISIT OF THE VAMPIRE.—THE GENERAL MEETING.
The
mysterious friend of Mr. Chillingworth finished his narrative, and then the
doctor said to him,—
"And
that, then, is the real cause why you, a man evidently far above the position
of life which is usually that of those who occupy the dreadful post of
executioner, came to accept of it."—"The real reason, sir. I
considered, too, that in holding such a humiliating situation that I was justly
served for the barbarity of which I had been guilty; for what can be a greater
act of cruelty than to squander, as I did, in the pursuit of mad excitement,
those means which should have rendered my home happy, and conduced to the
welfare of those who were dependant upon me?"
"I
do not mean to say that your self-reproaches are unjust altogether, but—What
noise is that? do you hear anything?"—
"Yes—yes."
"What
do you take it to be?"—"It seemed like the footsteps of a number of
persons, and it evidently approaches nearer and nearer. I know not what to
think."
"Shall
I tell you?" said a deep-toned voice, and some one, through the orifice in
the back of the summer-house, which, it will be recollected, sustained some
damage at the time that Varney escaped from it, laid a hand upon Mr.
Chillingworth's shoulder. "God bless me!" exclaimed the doctor;
"who's that?" and he sprang from his seat with the greatest
perturbation in the world.
"Varney,
the vampyre!" added the voice, and then both the doctor and his companion
recognised it, and saw the strange, haggard features, that now they knew so
well, confronting them. There was a pause of surprise, for a moment or two, on
the part of the doctor, and then he said, "Sir Francis Varney, what brings
you here? I conjure you to tell me, in the name of common justice and common
feeling, what brings you to this house so frequently? You have dispossessed the
family, whose property it is, of it, and you have caused great confusion and
dismay over a whole county. I implore you now, not in the language of menace or
as an enemy, but as the advocate of the oppressed, and one who desires to see
justice done to all, to tell me what it is you require."
"There
is no time now for explanation," said Varney, "if explanations were
my full and free intent. You wished to know what noise was that you
heard?"
"I
did; can you inform me?"—"I can. The wild and lawless mob which you
and your friends first induced to interfere in affairs far beyond their or your
control, are now flushed with the desire of riot and of plunder. The noise you
hear is that of their advancing footsteps; they come to destroy Bannerworth
Hall."
"Can
that be possible? The Bannerworth family are the sufferers from all that has
happened, and not the inflictors of suffering."—"Ay, be it so; but he
who once raises a mob has raised an evil spirit, which, in the majority of
cases, it requires a far more potent spell than he is master of to quell
again."
"It
is so. That is a melancholy truth; but you address me, Sir Francis Varney, as
if I led on the mob, when in reality I have done all that lay in my power, from
the very first moment of their rising on account of this affair, which, in the
first instance, was your work, to prevent them from proceeding to acts of
violence."—"It may be so; but if you have now any regard for your own
safety you will quit this place. It will too soon become the scene of a bloody
contention. A large party of dragoons are even now by another route coming
towards it, and it will be their duty to resist the aggressions of the mob;
then should the rioters persevere, you can guess the result."—"I can,
indeed."
"Retire
then while you may, and against the bad deeds of Sir Francis Varney at all
events place some of his good ones, that he may not seem wholly without one
redeeming trait."—"I am not accustomed," said the doctor,
"to paint the devil blacker than he really is; but yet the cruel
persecutions that the Bannerworth family have endured call aloud for justice.
You still, with a perseverance which shows you regardless of what others suffer
so that you compass your own ends, hover round a spot which you have rendered
desolate."
"Hark,
sir; do you not hear the tramp of horses' feet?"—"I do."
The
noise made by the feet of the insurgents was now almost drowned in the louder
and more rapid tramp of the horses' feet of the advancing dragoons, and, in a
few moments more, Sir Francis Varney waved his arm, exclaiming,—
"They
are here. Will you not consult your safety by flight?"—"No,"
said Mr. Chillingworth's companion; "we prefer remaining here at the risk
even of whatever danger may accrue to us."
"Fools,
would you die in a chance
melee
between an infuriated populace and
soldiery?"—"Do not leave," whispered the ex-hangman to Mr.
Chillingworth; "do not leave, I pray you. He only wants to have the Hall
to himself."
There
could be no doubt now of the immediate appearance of the cavalry, and, before
Sir Francis Varney could utter another word, a couple of the foremost of the
soldiers cleared the garden fence at a part where it was low, and alighted not
many feet from the summer-house in which this short colloquy was taking place.
Sir Francis Varney uttered a bitter oath, and immediately disappeared in the
gloom.
"What
shall we do?" said the hangman.—"You can do what you like, but I
shall avow my presence to the military, and claim to be on their side in the
approaching contest, if it should come to one, which I sincerely hope it will
not."
The
military detachment consisted of about twenty-five dragoons, who now were all
in the gardens. An order was given by the officer in command for them to
dismount, which was at once obeyed, and the horses were fastened by their
bridles to the various trees with which the place abounded.
"They
are going to oppose the mob on foot, with their carbines," said the
hangman; "there will be sad work here I am afraid."—"Well, at
all events," said Mr. Chillingworth, "I shall decline acting the part
of a spy here any longer; so here goes."
"Hilloa!
a friend,—a friend here, in the summer-house!"
"Make
it two friends," cried the hangman, "if you please, while you are
about it."
A
couple of the dragoons immediately appeared, and the doctor, with his
companion, were marched, as prisoners, before the officer in command.
"What
do you do here?" he said; "I was informed that the Hall was deserted.
Here, orderly, where is Mr. Adamson, the magistrate, who came with
me?"—"Close at hand sir, and he says he's not well."
"Well,
or ill, he must come here, and do something with these people."
A
magistrate of the district who had accompanied the troops, and been
accommodated with a seat behind one of the dragoons, which seemed very much to
have disagreed with him, for he was as pale as death, now stepped forward.
"You
know me, Mr. Adamson?" said the doctor; "I am Mr.
Chillingworth."—"Oh! yes; Lord bless you! how came you here?"
"Never
mind that just now; you can vouch for my having no connection with the
rioters."—"Oh! dear, yes; certainly. This is a respectable gentleman,
Captain Richardson, and a personal friend of mine."
"Oh!
very good."—"And I," said the doctor's companion, "am
likewise a respectable and useful member of society, and a great friend of Mr.
Chillingworth."
"Well,
gentlemen," said the captain in command, "you may remain here, if you
like, and take the chances, or you may leave."
They
intimated that they preferred remaining, and, almost at the moment that they
did so, a loud shout from many throats announced the near approach of the
mob.—"Now, Mr. Magistrate, if you please," said the officer;
"you will be so good as to tell the mob that I am here with my troop,
under your orders, and strongly advise them to be off while they can, with
whole skins, for if they persevere in attacking the place, we must persevere in
defending it; and, if they have half a grain of sense among them, they can
surely guess what the result of that will be."
"I
will do the best I can, as Heaven is, my judge," said the magistrate,
"to produce a peaceable recall,—more no man can do."
"Hurrah!
hurrah!"' shouted the mob, "down with the Vampyre! down with the
Hall!" and then one, more candid than his fellows, shouted,—"Down
with everything and everybody!"
"Ah!"
remarked the officer; "that fellow now knows what he came about."
A
great number of torches and links were lighted by the mob, but the moment the
glare of light fell upon the helmets and accoutrements of the military, there
was a pause of consternation on the part of the multitude, and Mr. Adamson,
urged on by the officer, who, it was evident, by no means liked the service he
was on, took advantage of the opportunity, and, stepping forward, he said,—
"My
good people, and fellow townsmen, let me implore you to listen to reason, and
go to your homes in peace. If you do not, but, on the contrary, in defiance of
law and good order, persist in attacking this house, it will become my painful
duty to read the riot act, and then the military and you will have to fight it
out together, which I beg you will avoid, for you know that some of you will be
killed, and a lot more of you receive painful wounds. Now disperse, let me beg
of you, at once."
There
seemed for a moment a disposition among the mob to give up the contest, but
there were others among them who were infuriated with drink, and so regardless
of all consequences. Those set up a shout of "Down with the red coats; we
are Englishmen, and will do what we like." Some one then threw a heavy
stone, which struck one of the soldiers, and brought blood from his cheek. The
officer saw it, but he said at once,—
"Stand
firm, now, stand firm. No anger—steady."
"Twenty
pounds for the man who threw that stone," said the
magistrate.—"Twenty pound ten for old Adamson, the magistrate," cried
a voice in the crowd, which, no doubt came from him who had cast the missile.
Then,
at least fifty stones were thrown, some of which hit the magistrate, and the
remainder came rattling upon the helmets of the dragoons, like a hail shower.
"I
warn you, and beg of you to go," said Mr. Adamson; "for the sake of
your wives and families, I beg of you not to pursue this desperate game."
Loud
cries now arose of "Down with the soldiers; down with the vampyre. He's in
Bannerworth Hall. Smoke him out." And then one or two links were hurled
among the dismounted dragoons. All this was put up with patiently; and then
again the mob were implored to leave, which being answered by fresh taunts, the
magistrate proceeded to read the riot act, not one word of which was audible
amid the tumult that prevailed.
"Put
out all the lights," cried a voice among the mob. The order was obeyed,
and the same voice added; "they dare not fire on us. Come on:" and a
rush was made at the garden wall.
"Make
ready—present," cried the officer. And then he added, in an under tone,
"above their heads, now—fire."
There
was a blaze of light for a moment, a stunning noise, a shout of dismay from the
mob, and in another moment all was still.
"There,"
said Dr. Chillingworth, "that this is, at all events, a bloodless
victory."
"You
may depend upon that," said his companion; "but is not there some one
yet remaining? Look there, do you not see a figure clambering over the
fence?"
"Yes,
I do, indeed. Ah, they have him a prisoner, at all events. Those two dragoons
have him, fast enough; we shall now, perhaps, hear from this fellow who is the
actual ringleader in such an affair, which, but for the pusillanimity of the
mob, might have turned out to be really most disastrous."
It
was strange how one man should think it expedient to attack the military post
after the mob had been so completely routed at the first discharge of
fire-arms, but so it was. One man did make an attempt to enter the garden, and
it was so rapid and so desperate an one, that he rather seemed to throw himself
bodily at the fence, which separated it from the meadows without, than to
clamber over it, as any one under ordinary circumstances, who might wish to
effect an entrance by that means, would have done.
He
was no sooner, however, perceived, than a couple of the dismounted soldiers
stepped forward and made a prisoner of him.
"Good
God!" exclaimed Mr. Chillingworth, as they approached nearer with him.
"Good God! what is the meaning of that? Do my eyes deceive me, or are
they, indeed, so blessed?"
"Blessed
by what?" exclaimed the hangman.
"By
a sight of the long lost, deeply regretted Charles Holland. Charles—Charles, is
that indeed you, or some unsubstantial form in your likeness?"
Charles
Holland, for it was, indeed, himself, heard the friendly voice of the doctor,
and he called out to him.
"Speak
to me of Flora. Oh, speak to me of Flora, if you would not have me die at once
of suspense, and all the torture of apprehension."