Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"Yes,
yes, she's right—a vampyre may live upon blood, but cannot do without his
inside."
This
was so obvious to them all, that it was at once conceded, and a general
impression pervaded the mob that it might be Sir Francis Varney: a shout
ensued.
"Hurrah!—After
him—there's a vampyre—there he goes!—after him—catch him—burn him!"
And a
variety of other exclamations were uttered, at the same time; the victim of
popular wrath seemed to be aware that he was now discovered, and made off with
all possible expedition, towards some wood.
Away
went the mob in pursuit, hooting and hallooing like demons, and denouncing the
unfortunate being with all the terrors that could be imagined, and which
naturally added greater speed to the unfortunate man.
However,
some among the mob, seeing that there was every probability of the stranger's
escaping at a mere match of speed, brought a little cunning to bear upon
matter, and took a circuit round, and thus intercepted him.
This
was not accomplished without a desperate effort, and by the best runners, who
thus reached the spot he made for, before he could get there.
When
the stranger saw himself thus intercepted, he endeavoured to fly in a different
direction; but was soon secured by the mob, who made somewhat free with his
person, and commenced knocking him about.
"Have
mercy on me," said the stranger. "What do you want? I am not rich;
but take all I have."
"What
do you do here?" inquired twenty voices. "Come, tell us that—what do
you do here, and who are you?"
"A
stranger, quite a stranger to these parts."
"Oh,
yes! he's a stranger; but that's all the worse for him—he's a vampyre—there's
no doubt about that."
"Good
God," said the man, "I am a living and breathing man like yourselves.
I have done no wrong, and injured no man—be merciful unto me; I intend no
harm."
"Of
course not; send him to the fire—take him back to the ruins—to the fire."
"Ay,
and run a stake through his body, and then he's safe for life. I am sure he has
something to do with the vampyre; and who knows, if he ain't a vampyre, how
soon he may become one?"
"Ah!
that's very true; bring him back to the fire, and we'll try the effects of the
fire upon his constitution."
"I
tell you what, neighbour, it's my opinion, that as one fool makes many, so one
vampyre makes many."
"So
it does, so it does; there's much truth and reason in that neighbour; I am
decidedly of that opinion, too."
"Come
along then," cried the mob, cuffing and pulling the unfortunate stranger
with them.
"Mercy,
mercy!"
But
it was useless to call for mercy to men whose superstitious feelings urged them
on; for when the demon of superstition is active, no matter what form it may
take, it always results in cruelty and wickedness to all.
Various
were the shouts and menaces of the mob, and the stranger saw no hope of life
unless he could escape from the hands of the people who surrounded him.
They
had now nearly reached the ruins, and the stranger, who was certainly a
somewhat odd and remarkable looking man, and who appeared in their eyes the
very impersonation of their notions of a vampyre, was thrust from one to the
other, kicked by one, and then cuffed by the other, as if he was doomed to run
the gauntlet.
"Down
with the vampyre!" said the mob.
"I
am no vampyre," said the stranger; "I am new to these parts, and I
pray you have mercy upon me. I have done you no wrong. Hear me,—I know nothing
of these people of whom you speak."
"That
won't do; you've come here to see what you can do, I dare say; and, though you
may have been hurt by the vampyre, and may be only your misfortune, and not
your fault, yet the mischief is as great as ever it was or can be, you become,
in spite of yourself, a vampyre, and do the same injury to others that has been
done to you—there's no help for you."
"No
help,—we can't help it," shouted the mob; "he must die,—throw him on
the pile."
"Put
a stake through him first, though," exclaimed the humane female; "put
a stake through him, and then he's safe."
This
horrible advice had an electric effect on the stranger, who jumped up, and
eluded the grasp of several hands that were stretched forth to seize him.
"Throw
him upon the burning wood!" shouted one.
"And
a stake through his body," suggested the humane female again, who seemed
to have this one idea in her heart, and no other, and, upon every available
opportunity, she seemed to be anxious to give utterance to the comfortable
notion.
"Seize
him!" exclaimed one.
"Never
let him go," said another; "we've gone too far to hang back now; and,
if he escape, he will visit us in our sleep, were it only out of spite."
The
stranger made a dash among the ruins, and, for a moment, out-stripped his
pursuers; but a few, more adventurous than the rest, succeeded in driving him
into an angle formed by two walls, and the consequence was, he was compelled to
come to a stand.
"Seize
him—seize him!" exclaimed all those at a distance.
The
stranger, seeing he was now nearly surrounded, and had no chance of escape,
save by some great effort, seized a long piece of wood, and struck two of his
assailants down at once, and then dashed through the opening.
He
immediately made for another part of the ruins, and succeeded in making his
escape for some short distance, but was unable to keep up the speed that was
required, for his great exertion before had nearly exhausted him, and the fear
of a cruel death before his eyes was not enough to give him strength, or lend
speed to his flight. He had suffered too much from violence, and, though he ran
with great speed, yet those who followed were uninjured, and fresher,—he had no
chance.
They
came very close upon him at the corner of a field, which he endeavoured to
cross, and had succeeded in doing, and he made a desperate attempt to scramble
up the bank that divided the field from the next, but he slipped back, almost
exhausted, into the ditch, and the whole mob came up.
However,
he got on the bank, and leaped into the next field, and then he was immediately
surrounded by those who pursued him, and he was struck down.
"Down
with the vampyre!—kill him,—he's one of 'em,—run a stake through him!"
were a few of the cries of the infuriated mob of people, who were only
infuriated because he attempted to escape their murderous intentions.
It
was strange to see how they collected in a ring as the unfortunate man lay on
the ground, panting for breath, and hardly able to speak—their infuriated
countenances plainly showing the mischief they were intent upon.
"Have
mercy upon me!" he exclaimed, as he lay on the earth; "I have no
power to help myself."
The
mob returned no answer, but stood collecting their numbers as they came up.
"Have
mercy on me! it cannot be any pleasure to you to spill my blood. I am unable to
resist—I am one man among many,—you surely cannot wish to beat me to
death?"
"We
want to hurt no one, except in our own defence, and we won't be made vampyres
of because you don't like to die."
"No,
no; we won't be vampyres," exclaimed the mob, and there arose a great
shout from the mob.
"Are
you men—fathers?—have you families? if so, I have the same ties as you have;
spare me for their sakes,—do not murder me,—you will leave one an orphan if you
do; besides, what have I done? I have injured no one."
"I
tell you what, friends, if we listen to him we shall all be vampyres, and all
our children will all be vampyres and orphans."
"So
we shall, so we shall; down with him!"
The
man attempted to get up, but, in doing so, he received a heavy blow from a
hedge-stake, wielded by the herculean arm of a peasant. The sound of the blow
was heard by those immediately around, and the man fell dead. There was a
pause, and those nearest, apparently fearful of the consequences, and hardly
expecting the catastrophe, began to disperse, and the remainder did so very
soon afterwards.
THE VAMPYRE'S FLIGHT.—HIS DANGER, AND THE LAST PLACE OF
REFUGE.
Leaving
the disorderly and vicious mob, who were thus sacrificing human life to their
excited passions, we return to the brothers Bannerworth and the doctor, who
together with Admiral Bell, still held watch over the hall.
No
indication of the coming forth of Varney presented itself for some time longer,
and then, at least they thought, they heard a window open; and, turning their
eyes in the direction whence the sound proceeded, they could see the form of a
man slowly and cautiously emerging from it.
As
far as they could judge, from the distance at which they were, that form
partook much of the appearance and the general aspect of Sir Francis Varney,
and the more they looked and noticed its movements, the more they felt
convinced that such was the fact.
"There
comes your patient, doctor," said the admiral.
"Don't
call him my patient," said the doctor, "if you please."
"Why
you know he is; and you are, in a manner of speaking, bound to look after him.
Well, what is to be done?"
"He
must not, on any account," said Dr. Chillingworth, "be allowed to
leave the place. Believe me, I have the very strongest reasons for saying
so."
"He
shall not leave it then," said Henry.
Even
as he spoke, Henry Bannerworth darted forward, and Sir Francis Varney dropped
from the window, out of which he had clambered, close to his feet.
"Hold!"
cried Henry, "you are my prisoner."
With
the most imperturbable coolness in the world, Sir Francis Varney turned upon
him, and replied,—
"And
pray, Henry Bannerworth, what have I done to provoke your wrath?"
"What
have you done?—have you not, like a thief, broken into my house? Can you ask
what you have done?"
"Ay,"
said the vampyre, "like a thief, perchance, and yet no thief. May I ask
you, what there is to steal, in the house?"
By
the time this short dialogue had been uttered, the rest of the party had come
up, and Varney was, so far as regarded numbers, a prisoner.
"Well,
gentlemen," he said, with that strange contortion of countenance which,
now they all understood, arose from the fact of his having been hanged, and
restored to life again. "Well, gentlemen, now that you have beleaguered me
in such a way, may I ask you what it is about?"
"If
you will step aside with me, Sir Francis Varney, for a moment," said Dr.
Chillingworth, "I will make to you a communication which will enable you
to know what it is all about."
"Oh,
with pleasure," said the vampyre. "I am not ill at present; but
still, sir, I have no objection to hear what you have to say."
He
stepped a few paces on one side with the doctor, while the others waited, not
without some amount of impatience for the result of the communication. All that
they could hear was, that Varney said, suddenly—
"You
are quite mistaken."
And
then the doctor appeared to be insisting upon something, which the vampyre
listened to patiently; and, at the end, burst out with,—
"Why,
doctor, you must be dreaming."
At
this, Dr. Chillingworth at once left him, and advancing to his friends, he
said,—
"Sir
Francis Varney denies in toto all that I have related to you concerning him;
therefore, I can say no more than that I earnestly recommend you, before you
let him go, to see that he takes nothing of value with him."
"Why,
what can you mean?" said Varney.
"Search
him," said the doctor; "I will tell you why, very shortly."
"Indeed—indeed!"
said Sir Francis Varney. "Now, gentlemen, I will give you a chance of
behaving justly and quietly, so saving yourself the danger of acting otherwise.
I have made repeated offers to take this house, either as a tenant or as a
purchaser, all of which offers have been declined, upon, I dare say, a common
enough principle, namely, one which induces people to enhance the value of
anything they have for disposal, if it be unique, by making it difficult to
come at. Seeing that you had deserted the place, I could make no doubt but that
it was to be had, so I came here to make a thorough examination of its
interior, to see if it would suit me. I find that it will not; therefore, I
have only to apologise for the intrusion, and to wish you a remarkably good
evening."
"That
won't do," said the doctor.
"What
won't do, sir?"
"This
excuse will not do, Sir Francis Varney. You are, although you deny it, the man
who was hanged in London some years ago for a highway robbery."
Varney
laughed, and held up his hands, exclaiming,—
"Alas!
alas! our good friend, the doctor, has studied too hard; his wits, probably, at
the best of times, none of the clearest, have become hopelessly
entangled."
"Do
you deny," said Henry, "then, that you are that man?"
"Most
unequivocally."
"I
assert it," said the doctor, "and now, I will tell you all, for I
perceive you hesitate about searching, Sir Francis Varney, I tell you all why
it is that he has such an affection for Bannerworth Hall."
"Before
you do," said Varney, "there is a pill for you, which you may find
more nauseous and harder of digestion, than any your shop can furnish."
As
Varney uttered these words, he suddenly drew from his pocket a pistol, and,
levelling it at the unfortunate doctor, he fired it full at him.
The
act was so sudden, so utterly unexpected, and so stunning, that it was done
before any one could move hand or foot to prevent it. Henry Bannerworth and his
brother were the furthest off from the vampyre; and, unhappily, in the rush
which they, as soon us possible, made towards him, they knocked down the
admiral, who impeded them much; and, before they could spring over, or past him,
Sir Francis Varney was gone.
So
sudden, too, had been his departure, that they had not the least idea in which
direction he had gone; so that to follow him would have been a work of the
greatest possible difficulty.
Notwithstanding,
however, both the difficulty and the danger, for no doubt the vampyre was well
enough armed, Henry and his brother both rushed after the murderer, as they now
believed him to be, in the route which they thought it was most probable he
would take, namely, that which led towards the garden gate.
They
reached that spot in a few moments, but all was profoundly still. Not the least
trace of any one could be seen, high or low, and they were compelled, after a
cursory examination, to admit that Sir Francis Varney had again made his escape,
despite the great odds that were against him in point of numbers.
"He
has gone," said Henry. "Let us go back, and see into the state of
poor Dr. Chillingworth, who, I fear, is a dead man."
They
hurried back to the spot, and there they found the admiral looking as composed
as possible, and solacing himself with a pinch of snuff, as he gazed upon the
apparently lifeless form at his feet.
"Is
he dead?" said Henry.
"I
should say he was," replied the admiral; "such a shot as that was
don't want to be repeated. Well, I liked the doctor with all his faults. He
only had one foolish way with him, and that was, that he shirked his
grog."
"This
is an awful catastrophe," said Henry, as he knelt down by the side of the
body. "Assist me, some of you. Where is Charles?"
"I'll
be hanged," said the admiral, "if I know. He disappeared
somewhere."
"This
is a night of mystery as well as terror. Alas! poor Dr. Chillingworth! I little
thought that you would have fallen a victim to the man whom you preserved from
death. How strange it is that you should have snatched from the tomb the very
individual who was, eventually, to take your own life."
The
brothers gently raised the body of the doctor, and carried it on to the glass
plot, which was close at hand.
"Farewell,
kind and honest-hearted Chillingworth," said Henry; "I shall, many
and many a time, feel your loss; and now I will rest not until I have delivered
up to justice your murderer. All consideration, or feeling, for what seemed to
be latent virtues in that strange and inexplicable man, Varney, shall vanish,
and he shall reap the consequences of the crime he has now committed."
"It
was a cold blooded, cowardly murder," said his brother.
"It
was; but you may depend the doctor was about to reveal something to us, which
Varney so much dreaded, that he took his life as the only effectual way, at the
moment, of stopping him."
"It
must be so," said Henry.
"And
now," said the admiral, "it's too late, and we shall not know it at
all. That's the way. A fellow saves up what he has got to tell till it is too
late to tell it, and down he goes to Davy Jones's locker with all his secrets
aboard."
"Not
always," said Dr. Chillingworth, suddenly sitting bolt upright—"not
always."
Henry
and his brother started back in amazement, and the admiral was so taken by
surprise, that had not the resuscitated doctor suddenly stretched out his hand
and laid hold of him by the ankle, he would have made a precipitate retreat.
"Hilloa!
murder!" he cried. "Let me go! How do I know but you may be a vampyre
by now, as you were shot by one."
Henry
soonest recovered from the surprise of the moment, and with the most unfeigned
satisfaction, he cried,—
"Thank
God you are unhurt, Dr. Chillingworth! Why he must have missed you by a
miracle."
"Not
at all," said the doctor. "Help me up—thank you—all right. I'm only a
little singed about the whiskers. He hit me safe enough."
"Then
how have you escaped?"
"Why
from the want of a bullet in the pistol, to be sure. I can understand it all
well enough. He wanted to create sufficient confusion to cover a desperate
attempt to escape, and he thought that would be best done by seeming so shoot
me. The suddenness of the shock, and the full belief, at the moment, that he
had sent a bullet into my brains, made me fall, and produced a temporary
confusion of ideas, amounting to insensibility."
"From
which you are happily recovered. Thank Heaven that, after all, he is not such a
villain as this act would have made him."
"Ah!"
said the admiral, "it takes people who have lived a little in these
affairs to know the difference in sound between a firearm with a bullet in it,
and one without. I knew it was all right."
"Then
why did you not say so, admiral?"
"What
was the use? I thought the doctor might be amused to know what you should say
of him, so you see I didn't interfere; and, as I am not a good hand at
galloping after anybody, I didn't try that part of the business, but just
remained where I was."
"Alas!
alas!" cried the doctor, "I much fear that, by his going, I have lost
all that I expected to be able to do for you, Henry. It's of not the least use
now telling you or troubling you about it. You may now sell or let Bannerworth
Hall to whomever you please, for I am afraid it is really worthless."
"What
on earth do you mean?" said Henry. "Why, doctor, will you keep up
this mystery among us? If you have anything to say, why not say it at
once?"
"Because,
I tell you it's of no use now. The game is up, Sir Francis Varney has escaped;
but still I don't know that I need exactly hesitate."
"There
can be no reason for your hesitating about making a communication to us,"
said Henry. "It is unfriendly not to do so."
"My
dear boy, you will excuse me for saying that you don't know what you are
talking about."
"Can
you give any reason?"
"Yes;
respect for the living. I should have to relate something of the dead which
would be hurtful to their feelings."
Henry
was silent for a few moments, and then he said,—
"What
dead? And who are the living?"
"Another
time," whispered the doctor to him; "another time, Henry. Do not
press me now. But you shall know all another time."
"I
must be content. But now let us remember that another man yet lingers in
Bannerworth Hall. I will endure suspense on his account no longer. He is an
intruder there; so I go at once to dislodge him."
No
one made any opposition to this move, not even the doctor; so Henry preceded
them all to the house. They passed through the open window into the long hall,
and from thence into every apartment of the mansion, without finding the object
of their search. But from one of the windows up to which there grew great
masses of ivy, there hung a rope, by which any one might easily have let
himself down; and no doubt, therefore, existed in all their minds that the
hangman had sufficiently profited by the confusion incidental to the supposed
shooting of the doctor, to make good his escape from the place.