Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"Varney,
it is astonishing to me the pains you take to assure yourself of your innocence
of this deed; no one accuses you, but still, were it not that I am impressed
with a strong conviction that you're speaking to me nothing but the truth, the
very fact of your extreme anxiety to acquit yourself, would engender
suspicion."
"I
can understand that feeling, Charles Holland; I can fully understand it. I do
not blame you for it—it is a most natural one; but when you know all, you will
feel with me how necessary it must have been to my peace to seize upon every
trivial circumstance that can help me to a belief in my own innocence."
"It
may be so; as yet, you well know, I speak in ignorance. But what could there
have been in the character of that gambler, that has made you so sympathetic
concerning his decease?"
"Nothing—nothing
whatever in his character. He was a bad man; not one of those free, open
spirits which are seduced into crime by thoughtlessness—not one of those whom
we pity, perchance, more than we condemn; but a man without a redeeming trait
in his disposition—a man so heaped up with vices and iniquities, that society gained
much by his decease, and not an individual could say that he had lost a
friend."
"And
yet the mere thought of the circumstances connected with his death seems almost
to drive you to the verge of despair."
"You
are right; the mere thought has that effect."
"You
have aroused all my curiosity to know the causes of such a feeling."
Varney
paced the apartment in silence for many minutes. He seemed to be enduring a
great mental struggle, and at length, when he turned to Charles Holland and
spoke, there were upon his countenance traces of deep emotion.
"I
have said, young man, that I will take you into my confidence. I have said that
I will clear up many seeming mysteries, and that I will enable you to
understand what was obscure in the narrative of Dr. Chillingworth, and of that
man who filled the office of public executioner, and who has haunted me so
long."
"It
is true, then, as the doctor states, that you were executed in London?"
"I
was."
"And
resuscitated by the galvanic process, put into operation by Dr.
Chillingworth?"
"As
he supposed; but there are truths connected with natural philosophy which he
dreamed not of. I bear a charmed life, and it was but accident which produced a
similar effect upon the latent springs of my existence in the house to which the
executioner conducted me, to what would have been produced had I been sufficed,
in the free and open air, to wait until the cool moonbeams fell upon me."
"Varney,
Varney," said Charles Holland, "you will not succeed in convincing me
of your supernatural powers. I hold such feelings and sensations at arm's
length. I will not—I cannot assume you to be what you affect."
"I
ask for no man's belief. I know that which I know, and, gathering experience
from the coincidences of different phenomena, I am compelled to arrive at
certain conclusions. Believe what you please, doubt what you please; but I say
again that I am not as other men."
"I
am in no condition to depute your proposition; I wish not to dispute it; but
you are wandering, Varney, from the point. I wait anxiously for a continuation
of your narrative."
"I
know that I am wandering from it—I know well that I am wandering from it, and
that the reason I do so is that I dread that continuation."
"That
dread will nor be the less for its postponement."
"You
are right; but tell me, Charles Holland, although you are young you have been
about in the great world sufficiently to form correct opinions, and to
understand that which is related to you, drawing proper deductions from certain
facts, and arriving possibly at more correct conclusions than some of maturer
years with less wisdom."
"I
will freely answer, Varney, any question you may put to me."
"I
know it; tell me then what measure of guilt you attach to me in the transaction
I have noticed to you."
"It
seems then to me that, not contemplating the man's murder, you cannot be
accused of the act, although a set of fortuitous circumstances made you appear
an accomplice to its commission."
"You
think I may be acquitted?"
"You
can acquit yourself, knowing that you did not contemplate the murder."
"I
did not contemplate it. I know not what desperate deed I should have stopped
short at then, in the height of my distress, but I neither contemplated taking
that man's life, nor did I strike the blow which sent him from existence."
"There
is even some excuse as regards the higher crime for Marmaduke
Bannerworth."
"Think
you so?"
"Yes;
he thought that you were killed, and impulsively he might have struck the blow
that made him a murderer."
"Be
it so. I am willing, extremely willing that anything should occur that should
remove the odium of guilt from any man. Be it so, I say, with all my heart; but
now, Charles Holland, I feel that we must meet again ere I can tell you all;
but in the meantime let Flora Bannerworth rest in peace—she need dread nothing
from me. Avarice and revenge, the two passions which found a home in my heart,
are now stifled for ever."
"Revenge!
did you say revenge?"
"I
did; whence the marvel, am I not sufficiently human for that?"
"But
you coupled it with the name of Flora Bannerworth."
"I
did, and that is part of my mystery."
"A
mystery, indeed, to imagine that such a being as Flora could awaken any such
feeling in your heart—a most abundant mystery."
"It
is so. I do not affect to deny it: but yet it is true, although so greatly
mysterious, but tell her that although at one time I looked upon her as one
whom I cared not if I injured, her beauty and distress changed the current of
my thoughts, and won upon me greatly, From the moment I found I had the power to
become the bane of her existence, I ceased to wish to be so, and never again
shall she experience a pang of alarm from Varney, the vampyre."
"Your
message shall be faithfully delivered, and doubt not that it will be received
with grateful feelings. Nevertheless I should have much wished to have been in
a position to inform her of more particulars."
"Come
to me here at midnight to-morrow, and you shall know all. I will have no
reservation with you, no concealments; you shall know whom I have had to battle
against, and how it is that a world of evil passions took possession of my
heart and made me what I am."
"Are
you firm in this determination, Varney—will you indeed tell me no more
to-night?"
"No
more, I have said it. Leave me now. I have need of more repose, for of late
sleep has seldom closed my eyelids."
Charles
Holland was convinced, from the positive manner in which he spoke, that nothing
more in the shape of information, at that time, was to be expected from Varney;
and being fearful that if he urged this strange being too far, at a time when
he did not wish it, he might refuse all further communication, he thought it
prudent to leave him, so he said to him,—
"Be
assured, Varney, I shall keep the appointment you have made, with an
expectation when we do meet of being rewarded by a recital of some full
particulars."
"You
shall not be disappointed; farewell, farewell!"
Charles
Holland bade him adieu, and left the place.
Although
he had now acquired all the information he hoped to take away with him when Varney
first began to be communicative, yet, when he came to consider how strange and
unaccountable a being he had been in communication with, Charles could not but
congratulate himself that he had heard so much, for, from the manner of Varney,
he could well suppose that that was, indeed, the first time he had been so
communicative upon subjects which evidently held so conspicuous a place in his
heart.
And
he had abundance of hope, likewise, from what had been said by Varney, that he
would keep his word, and communicate to him fully all else that he required to
know; and when he recollected those words which Varney had used, signifying
that he knew the danger of half confidences, that hope grew into a certainty,
and Charles began to have no doubt but that on the next evening all that was
mysterious in the various affairs connected with the vampyre would become clear
and open to the light of day.
He
strolled down the lane in which the lone house was situated, revolving these
matters in his mind, and when he arrived at its entrance, he was rather
surprised to see a throng of persons hastily moving onward, with come
appearance of dismay about them, and anxiety depicted upon their countenances.
He
stopped a lad, and inquired of him the cause of the seeming tumult.
"Why,
sir, the fact is," said the boy, "a crowd from the town's been
burning down Bannerworth Hall, and they've killed a man."
"Bannerworth
Hall! you must be mistaken."
"Well,
sir, I ought not to call it Bannerworth Hall, because I mean the old ruins in
the neighbourhood that are supposed to have been originally Bannerworth Hall
before the house now called such was built; and, moreover, as the Bannerworths
have always had a garden there, and two or three old sheds, the people in the
town called it Bannerworth Hall in common with the other building."
"I
understand. And do you say that all have been destroyed?"
"Yes,
sir. All that was capable of being burnt has been burnt, and, what is more, a
man has been killed among the ruins. We don't know who he is, but the folks
said he was a vampyre, and they left him for dead."
"When
will these terrible outrages cease? Oh! Varney, Varney, you have much to answer
for; even if in your conscience you succeed in acquitting yourself of the
murder, some of the particulars concerning which you have informed me of."
THE MYSTERIOUS ARRIVAL AT THE INN.—THE HUNGARIAN
NOBLEMAN.—THE LETTER TO VARNEY.
While
these affairs are proceeding, and when there seems every appearance of Sir
Francis Varney himself quickly putting an end to some of the vexatious
circumstances connected with himself and the Bannerworth family, it is
necessary that we should notice an occurrence which took place at the same inn
which the admiral had made such a scene of confusion upon the occasion of his
first arrival in the town.
Not
since the admiral had arrived with Jack Pringle, and so disturbed the whole
economy of the household, was there so much curiosity excited as on the morning
following the interview which Charles Holland had had with Varney, the vampyre.
The
inn was scarcely opened, when a stranger arrived, mounted on a coal-black
horse, and, alighting, he surrendered the bridle into the hands of a boy who
happened to be at the inn-door, and stalked slowly and solemnly into the building.
He
was tall, and of a cadaverous aspect; in attire he was plainly apparelled, but
there was no appearance of poverty about him; on the contrary, what he really
had on was of a rich and costly character, although destitute of ornament.
He
sat down in the first room that presented itself, and awaited the appearance of
the landlord, who, upon being informed that a guest of apparently ample means,
and of some consequence, had entered the place, hastily went to him to receive
his commands.
With
a profusion of bows, our old friend, who had been so obsequious to Admiral
Bell, entered the room, and begged to know what orders the gentleman had for
him.
"I
presume," said the stranger, in a deep, solemn voice, "I presume that
you have no objection, for a few days that I shall remain in this town, to
board and lodge me for a certain price which you can name to me at once?"
"Certainly,
sir," said the landlord; "any way you please; without wine, sir, I
presume?"
"As
you please; make your own arrangements."
"Well,
sir, as we can't tell, of course, what wine a gentleman may drink, but when we
come to consider breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper, and a bed, and all that
sort of thing, and a private sitting-room, I suppose, sir?"
"Certainly."
"You
would not, then, think, sir, a matter of four guineas a week will be too much,
perhaps."
"I
told you to name your own charge. Let it be four guineas; if you had said eight
I should have paid it."
"Good
God!" said the publican, "here's a damned fool that I am. I beg your
pardon, sir, I didn't mean you. Now I could punch my own head—will you have
breakfast at once, sir, and then we shall begin regular, you know, sir?"
"Have
what?"
"Breakfast,
breakfast, you know, sir; tea, coffee, cocoa, or chocolate; ham, eggs, or a bit
of grilled fowl, cold sirloin of roast beef, or a red herring—anything you
like, sir."
"I
never take breakfast, so you may spare yourself the trouble of providing
anything for me."
"Not
take breakfast, sir! not take breakfast! Would you like to take anything to
drink then, sir? People say it's an odd time, at eight o'clock in the morning,
to drink; but, for my part, I always have thought that you couldn't begin a
good thing too soon."
"I
live upon drink," said the stranger; "but you have none in the cellar
that will suit me."
"Indeed,
sir."
"No,
no, I am certain."
"Why,
we've got some claret now, sir," said the landlord.
"Which
may look like blood, and yet not be it."
"Like
what, sir?—damn my rags!"
"Begone,
begone."
The
stranger uttered these words so peremptorily that the landlord hastily left the
room, and going into his own bar, he gave himself so small a tap on the side of
the head, that it would not have hurt a fly, as he said,—
"I
could punch myself into bits, I could tear my hair out by the roots;" and
then he pulled a little bit of his hair, so gently and tenderly that it showed
what a man of discretion he was, even in the worst of all his agony of passion.
"The
idea," he added, "of a fellow coming here, paying four guineas a week
for board and lodging, telling me he would not have minded eight, and then not
wanting any breakfast; it's enough to aggravate half a dozen saints; but what
an odd fish he looks."
At
this moment the ostler came in, and, standing at the bar, he wiped his mouth
with his sleeve, as he said,—
"I
suppose you'll stand a quart for that, master?"
"A
quart for what, you vagabond? A quart because I've done myself up in heaps; a
quart because I'm fit to pull myself into fiddlestrings?"
"No,"
said the ostler; "because I've just put up the gentleman's horse."
"What
gentleman's horse?"
"Why,
the big-looking fellow with the white face, now in the parlour."
"What,
did he come on a horse, Sam? What sort of a looking creature is it? you may
judge of a man from the sort of horse-company he keeps."
"Well,
then, sir, I hardly know. It's coal black, and looks as knowing as possible;
it's tried twice to get a kick at me, but I was down upon him, and put the
bucket in his way. Howsomdever, I don't think it's a bad animal, as a animal,
mind you, sir, though a little bit wicious or so."
"Well,"
said the publican, as he drew the ostler half a pint instead of a quart,
"you're always drinking; take that."
"Blow
me," said the ostler, "half a pint, master!"
"Plague
take you, I can't stand parleying with you, there's the parlour bell; perhaps,
after all, he will have some breakfast."
While
the landlord was away the ostler helped himself to a quart of the strongest
ale, which, by a singular faculty that he had acquired, he poured down his
throat without any effort at swallowing, holding his head back, and the jug at
a little distance from his mouth.
Having
accomplished this feat, he reversed the jug, giving it a knowing tap with his
knuckles as though he would have signified to all the world that it was empty,
and that he had accomplished what he desired.
In
the meantime, the landlord had made his way to his strange guest, who said to
him, when he came into the room,
"Is
there not one Sir Francis Varney residing in this town?"
"The
devil!" thought the landlord; "this is another of them, I'll bet a
guinea. Sir Francis Varney, sir, did you say? Why, sir, there was a Sir Francis
Varney, but folks seem to think as how he's no better than he should be—a sort
of vampyre, sir, if you know what that is."
"I
have, certainly, heard of such things; but can you not tell me Varney's
address? I wish to see him."
"Well,
then, sir, I cannot tell it to you, for there's really been such a commotion
and such a riot about him that he's taken himself off, I think, altogether, and
we can hear nothing of him. Lord bless you, sir, they burnt down his house, and
hunted him about so, that I don't think that he'll ever show his face here
again."
"And
cannot you tell me where he was seen last?"
"That
I cannot, sir; but, if anybody knows anything about him, it's Mr. Henry
Bannerworth, or perhaps Dr. Chillingworth, for they have had more to do with
him than anybody else."
"Indeed;
and can you tell me the address of the former individual?"
"That
I can't, sir, for the Bannerworths have left the Hall. As for the doctor, sir,
you'll see his house in the High-street, with a large brass plate on the door,
so that you cannot mistake it. It's No. 9, on the other side of the way."
"I
thank you for so much information," said the stranger, and rising, he
walked to the door. Before, however, he left, he turned, and added,—"You
can say, if you should by chance meet Mr. Bannerworth, that a Hungarian
nobleman wishes to speak to him concerning Sir Francis Varney, the
vampyre?"
"A
what, sir?"
"A
nobleman from Hungary," was the reply.
"The
deuce!" said the landlord, as he looked after him. "He don't seem at
all hungry here, not thirsty neither. What does he mean by a nobleman from
Hungary? The idea of a man talking about hungry, and not taking any breakfast.
He's queering me. I'll be hanged if I'll stand it. Here I clearly lose four
guineas a week, and then get made game of besides. A nobleman, indeed! I think
I see him. Why, he isn't quite so big as old Slaney, the butcher. It's a do.
I'll have at him when he comes back."
Meanwhile,
the unconscious object of this soliloquy passed down the High-street, until he
came to Dr. Chillingworth's, at whose door he knocked.
Now
Mrs. Chillingworth had been waiting the whole night for the return of the
doctor, who had not yet made his appearance, and, consequently, that lady's
temper had become acidulated to an uncommon extent and when she heard a knock
at the door, something possessed her that it could be no other than her spouse,
and she prepared to give him that warm reception which she considered he had a
right, as a married man, to expect after such conduct.
She
hurriedly filled a tolerably sized hand-basin with not the cleanest water in
the world, and then, opening the door hurriedly with one hand, she slouced the
contents into the face of the intruder, exclaiming,—
"Now
you've caught it!"
"D—n!"
said the Hungarian nobleman, and then Mrs. Chillingworth uttered a scream, for
she feared she had made a mistake.
"Oh,
sir! I'm very sorry: but I thought it was my husband."
"But
if you did," said the stranger, "there was no occasion to drown him
with a basin of soap-suds. It is your husband I want, madam, if he be Dr.
Chillingworth."
"Then,
indeed, you must go on wanting him, sir, for he's not been to his own home for
a day and a night. He takes up all his time in hunting after that beastly
vampyre."
"Ah!
Sir Francis Varney, you mean."
"I
do; and I'd Varney him if I caught hold of him."
"Can
you give me the least idea of where he can be found?"
"Of
course I can."
"Indeed!
where?" said the stranger, eagerly.
"In
some churchyard, to be sure, gobbling up the dead bodies."
With
this Mrs. Chillingworth shut the door with a bang that nearly flattened the
Hungarian's nose with his face, and he was fain to walk away, quite convinced
that there was no information to be had in that quarter.
He
returned to the inn, and having told the landlord that he would give a handsome
reward to any one who would discover to him the retreat of Sir Francis Varney,
he shut himself up in an apartment alone, and was busy for a time in writing
letters.
Although
the sum which the stranger offered was an indefinite one, the landlord
mentioned the matter across the bar to several persons; but all of them shook
their heads, believing it to be a very perilous adventure indeed to have anything
to do with so troublesome a subject as Sir Francis Varney. As the day advanced,
however, a young lad presented himself, and asked to see the gentleman who had
been inquiring for Varney.
The
landlord severely questioned and cross-questioned him, with the hope of
discovering if he had any information: but the boy was quite obdurate, and
would speak to no one but the person who had offered the reward, so that mine
host was compelled to introduce him to the Hungarian nobleman, who, as yet, had
neither eaten nor drunk in the house.
The
boy wore upon his countenance the very expression of juvenile cunning, and when
the stranger asked him if he really was in possession of any information
concerning the retreat of Sir Francis Varney, he said,—
"I
can tell you where he is, but what are you going to give?"
"What
sum do you require?" said the stranger.
"A
whole half-crown."
"It
is your's; and, if your information prove correct, come to-morrow, and I'll add
another to it, always provided, likewise, you keep the secret from any one
else."
"Trust
me for that," said the boy. "I live with my grandmother; she's
precious old, and has got a cottage. We sell milk and cakes, sticky stuff, and
pennywinkles."
"A
goodly collection. Go on."
"Well,
sir, this morning, there comes a man in with a bottle, and he buys a bottle
full of milk and a loaf. I saw him, and I knew it was Varney, the
vampyre."
"You
followed him?"
"Of
course I did, sir; and he's staying at the house that's to let down the lane,
round the corner, by Mr. Biggs's, and past Lee's garden, leaving old Slaney's
stacks on your right hand, and so cutting on till you come to Grants's meadow,
when you'll see old Madhunter a brick-field staring of you in the face; and,
arter that—"