Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
"Peace—peace!—you
shall yourself conduct me. Come to this place at sunset; be secret, and,
probably, ten times the reward you have already received may be yours,"
said the stranger.
"What,
ten half-crowns?"
"Yes,
I will keep my word with you."
"What
a go! I know what I'll do. I'll set up as a show man, and what a glorious treat
it will be, to peep through one of the holes all day myself, and get somebody
to pull the strings up and down, and when I'm tired of that, I can blaze away
upon the trumpet like one o'clock. I think I see me. Here you sees the Duke of
Marlborough a whopping of everybody, and here you see the Frenchmen flying
about like parched peas in a sifter."
THE EXCITED POPULACE.—VARNEY HUNTED.—THE PLACE OF REFUGE.
There
seemed, now a complete lull in the proceedings as connected with Varney, the
vampyre. We have reason to believe that the executioner who had been as
solicitous as Varney to obtain undisputed possession of Bannerworth Hall, has
fallen a victim to the indiscriminating rage of the mob. Varney himself is a
fugitive, and bound by the most solemn ties to Charles Holland, not only to
communicate to him such particulars of the past, as will bring satisfaction to
his mind, but to abstain from any act which, for the future, shall exercise a
disastrous influence upon the happiness of Flora.
The
doctor and the admiral, with Henry, had betaken themselves from the Hall as we
had recorded, and, in due time, reached the cottage where Flora and her mother
had found a temporary refuge.
Mrs.
Bannerworth was up; but Flora was sleeping, and, although the tidings they had
to tell were of a curious and mixed nature, they would not have her disturbed
to listen to them.
And,
likewise, they were rather pleased than otherwise, since they knew not exactly
what had become of Charles Holland, to think that they would probably be spared
the necessity of saying they could not account for his absence.
That
he had gone upon some expedition, probably dangerous, and so one which he did
not wish to communicate the particulars of to his friends, lest they should
make a strong attempt to dissuade him from it, they were induced to believe.
But
yet they had that confidence in his courage and active intellectual resources,
to believe that he would come through it unscathed, and, probably, shortly show
himself at the cottage.
In
this hope they were not disappointed, for in about two hours Charles made his
appearance; but, until he began to be questioned concerning his absence by the
admiral, he scarcely considered the kind of dilemma he had put himself into by
the promise of secrecy he had given to Varney, and was a little puzzled to
think how much he might tell, and how much he was bound in honour to conceal.
"Avast
there!" cried the admiral; "what's become of your tongue, Charles?
You've been on some cruize, I'll be bound. Haul over the ship's books, and tell
us what's happened."
"I
have been upon an adventure," said Charles, "which I hope will be
productive of beneficial results to us all; but, the fact is, I have made a
promise, perhaps incautiously, that I will not communicate what I know."
"Whew!"
said the admiral, "that's awkward; but, however, if a man said under
sealed instructions, there's an end of it. I remember when I was off Candia
once—-"
"Ha!"
interposed Jack, "that was the time you tumbled over the blessed binnacle,
all in consequence of taking too much Madeira. I remember it, too—it's an out
and out good story, that 'ere. You took a rope's end, you know, and laid into
the bowsprit; and, says you, 'Get up, you lubber,' says you, all the while a
thinking, I supposes, as it was long Jack Ingram, the carpenter's mate, laying
asleep. What a lark!"
"This
scoundrel will be the death of me," said the admiral; "there isn't
one word of truth in what he says. I never got drunk in all my life, as everybody
knows. Jack, affairs are getting serious between you and I—we must part, and
for good. It's a good many times that I've told you you've forgot the
difference between the quarter-deck and the caboose. Now, I'm serious—you're
off the ship's books, and there's an end of you."
"Very
good," said Jack; "I'm willing I'll leave you. Do you think I want to
keep you any longer? Good bye, old bloak—I'll leave you to repent, and when old
grim death comes yard-arm and yard-arm with you, and you can't shake off his
boarding-tackle, you'll say, 'Where's Jack Pringle?' says you; and then what's
his mane—oh ah! echo you call it—echo'll say, it's d——d if it knows."
Jack
turned upon his heel, and, before the admiral could make any reply he left the
place.
"What's
the rascal up to now?" said the admiral. "I really didn't think he'd
have taken me at my word."
"Oh,
then, after all, you didn't mean it, uncle?" said Charles.
"What's
that to you, you lubber, whether I mean it, or not, you shore-going squab? Of
course I expect everybody to desert an old hulk, rats and all—and now Jack
Pringle's gone; the vagabond, couldn't he stay, and get drunk as long as he
liked! Didn't he say what he pleased, and do what he pleased, the mutinous
thief? Didn't he say I run away from a Frenchman off Cape Ushant, and didn't I
put up with that?"
"But,
my dear uncle, you sent him away yourself."
"I
didn't, and you know I didn't; but I see how it is, you've disgusted Jack among
you. A better seaman never trod the deck of a man-of-war."
"But
his drunkenness, uncle?"
"It's
a lie. I don't believe he ever got drunk. I believe you all invented it, and
Jack's so good-natured, he tumbled about just to keep you in countenance."
"But
his insolence, uncle; his gross insolence towards you—his inventions, his exaggerations
of the truth?"
"Avast,
there—avast, there—none of that, Master Charlie; Jack couldn't do anything of
the sort; and I means to say this, that if Jack was here now, I'd stick up for
him, and say he was a good seaman.
"Tip
us your fin, then," said Jack, darting into the room; "do you think
I'd leave you, you d——d old fool? What would become of you, I wonder, if I
wasn't to take you in to dry nurse? Why, you blessed old babby, what do you
mean by it?"
"Jack,
you villain!"
"Ah!
go on and call me a villain as much as you like. Don't you remember when the
bullets were scuttling our nobs?"
"I
do, I do, Jack; tip us your fin, old fellow. You've saved my life more than
once."
"It's
a lie."
"It
ain't. You did, I say."
"You
bed——d!"
And
thus was the most serious misunderstanding that these two worthies ever had
together made up. The real fact is, that the admiral could as little do without
Jack, as he could have done without food; and as for Pringle, he no more
thought of leaving the old commodore, than of—what shall we say? forswearing
him. Jack himself could not have taken a stronger oath.
But
the old admiral had suffered so much from the idea that Jack had actually left
him, that although he abused him as usual often enough, he never again talked
of taking him off the ship's books; and, to the credit of Jack be it spoken, he
took no advantage of the circumstance, and only got drunk just as usual, and
called his master an old fool whenever it suited him.
THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN GETS INTO DANGER.—HE IS FIRED AT, AND
SHOWS SOME OF HIS QUALITY.
Considerably
delighted was the Hungarian, not only at the news he had received from the boy,
but as well for the cheapness of it. Probably he did not conceive it possible
that the secret of the retreat of such a man as Varney could have been attained
so easily.
He
waited with great impatience for the evening, and stirred not from the inn for
several hours; neither did he take any refreshment, notwithstanding he had made
so liberal an arrangement with the landlord to be supplied.
All
this was a matter of great excitement and speculation in the inn, so much so,
indeed, that the landlord sent for some of the oldest customers of his house,
regular topers, who sat there every evening, indulging in strong drinks, and
pipes and tobacco, to ask their serious advice as to what he should do, as if
it were necessary he should do anything at all.
But,
somehow or another, these wiseacres who assembled at the landlord's bidding,
and sat down, with something strong before them, in the bar parlour, never once
seemed to think that a man might, if he choosed, come to an inn, and agree to
pay four guineas a week for board and lodging, and yet take nothing at all.
No;
they could not understand it, and therefore they would not have it. It was
quite monstrous that anybody should attempt to do anything so completely out of
the ordinary course of proceeding. It was not to be borne; and as in this
country it happens, free and enlightened as we are, that no man can commit a
greater social offence than doing something that his neighbours never thought
of doing themselves, the Hungarian nobleman was voted a most dangerous
character, and, in fact, not to be put up with.
"I
shouldn't have thought so much of it" said the landlord; "but only
look at the aggravation of the thing. After I have asked him four guineas a
week, and expected to be beaten down to two, to be then told that he would not
have cared if it had been eight. It is enough to aggravate a saint."
"Well,
I agree with you there," said another; "that's just what it is, and I
only wonder that a man of your sagacity has not quite understood it
before."
"Understood
what?"
"Why,
that he is a vampyre. He has heard of Sir Francis Varney, that's the fact, and
he's come to see him. Birds of a feather, you know, flock together, and now we
shall have two vampyres in the town instead of one."
The
party looked rather blank at this suggestion, which, indeed, seemed rather
uncomfortable probably. The landlord had just opened his mouth to make some
remark, when he was stopped by the violent ringing of what he now called the
vampyre's bell, since it proceeded from the room where the Hungarian nobleman
was.
"Have
you an almanack in the house?" was the question of the mysterious guest.
"An
almanack, sir? well, I really don't know. Let me see, an almanack."
"But,
perhaps, you can tell me. I was to know the moon's age."
"The
devil!" thought the landlord; "he's a vampyre, and no mistake. Why,
sir, as to the moon's age, it was a full moon last night, very bright and
beautiful, only you could not see it for the clouds."
"A
full moon last night," said the mysterious guest, thoughtfully; "it
may shine, then, brightly, to-night, and if so, all will be well. I thank
you,—leave the room."
"Do
you mean to say, sir, you don't want anything to eat now?"
"What
I want I'll order."
"But
you have ordered nothing."
"Then
presume that I want nothing."
The
discomfited landlord was obliged to leave the room, for there was no such a
thing as making any answer to this, and so, still further confirmed in his
opinion that the stranger was a vampyre that came to see Sir Francis Varney
from a sympathetic feeling towards him, he again reached the bar-parlour.
"You
may depend," he said, "as sure as eggs is eggs, that he is a vampyre.
Hilloa! he's going off,—after him—after him; he thinks we suspect him. There he
goes—down the High-street."
The
landlord ran out, and so did those who were with him, one of whom carried his
brandy and water in his hand, which, being too hot for him to swallow all at
once, he still could not think of leaving behind.
It
was now gelling rapidly dark, and the mysterious stranger was actually
proceeding towards the lane to keep his appointment with the boy who had
promised to conduct him to the hiding-place of Sir Francis Varney.
He
had not proceeded far, however, before he began to suspect that he was
followed, as it was evident on the instant that he altered his course; for,
instead of walking down the lane, where the boy was waiting for him, he went
right on, and seemed desirous of making his way into the open country between
the town and Bannerworth Hall.
His
pursuers—for they assumed that character—when they saw this became anxious to
intercept him; and thinking that the greater force they had the better, they
called out aloud as they passed a smithy, where a man was shoeing a horse,—
"Jack
Burdon, here is another vampyre!"
"The
deuce there is!" said the person who was addressed. "I'll soon settle
him. Here's my wife gets no sleep of a night as it is, all owing to that
Varney, who has been plaguing us so long. I won't put up with another."
So
saying, he snatched from a hook on which it hung, an old fowling-piece, and
joined the pursuit, which now required to be conducted with some celerity, for
the stranger had struck into the open country, and was getting on at good
speed.
The
last remnants of the twilight were fading away, and although the moon had
actually risen, its rays were obscured by a number of light, fleecy clouds,
which, although they did not promise to be of long continuance, as yet
certainly impeded the light.
"Where
is he going?" said the blacksmith. "He seems to be making his way
towards the mill-stream."
"No,"
said another; "don't you see he is striking higher up towards the old
ford, where the stepping-stones are!"
"He
is—he is," cried the blacksmith. "Run on—run on; don't you see he is
crossing it now? Tell me, all of you, are you quite sure he is a vampyre, and
no mistake? He ain't the exciseman, landlord, now, is he?"
"The
exciseman, the devil! Do you think I want to shoot the exciseman?"
"Very
good—then here goes," exclaimed the Smith.
He
stooped, and just as the brisk night air blew aside the clouds from before the
face of the moon, and as the stranger was crossing the slippery stones, he fired
at him.
How
silently and sweetly the moon's rays fall upon the water, upon the meadows, and
upon the woods. The scenery appeared the work of enchantment, some fairy land,
waiting the appearance of its inhabitants. No sound met the ear; the very wind was
hushed; nothing was there to distract the sense of sight, save the power of
reflection.
This,
indeed, would aid the effect of such a scene. A cloudless sky, the stars all
radiant with beauty, while the moon, rising higher and higher in the heavens,
increasing in the strength and refulgence of her light, and dimming the very
stars, which seemed to grow gradually invisible as the majesty of the queen of
night became more and more manifest.
The
dark woods and the open meadows contrasted more and more strongly; like light
and shade, the earth and sky were not more distinct and apart; and the ripling
stream, that rushed along with all the impetuosity of uneven ground.
The
banks are clothed with verdure; the tall sedges, here and there, lined the
sides; beds of bulrushes raised their heads high above all else, and threw out
their round clumps of blossoms like tufts, and looked strange in the light of
the moon.
Here
and there, too, the willows bent gracefully over the stream, and their long
leaves were wafted and borne up and down by the gentler force of the stream.
Below,
the stream widened, and ran foaming over a hard, stony bottom, and near the
middle is a heap of stones—of large stones, that form the bed of the river,
from which the water has washed away all earthy particles, and left them by
themselves.
These
stones in winter could not be seen, they were all under water, and the stream
washed over in a turbulent and tumultuous manner. But now, when the water was
clear and low, they are many of them positively out of the water, the stream
running around and through their interstices; the water-weeds here and there
lying at the top of the stream, and blossoming beautifully.
The
daisy-like blossoms danced and waved gently on the moving flood, at the same
time they shone in the moonlight, like fairy faces rising from the depths of
the river, to receive the principle of life from the moon's rays.
'Tis
sweet to wander in the moonlight at such an hour, and it is sweet to look upon
such a scene with an unruffled mind, and to give way to the feelings that are
engendered by a walk by the river side.
See,
the moon is rising higher and higher, the shadows grow shorter and shorter; the
river, which in places was altogether hidden by the tall willow trees, now
gradually becomes less and less hidden, and the water becomes more and more lit
up.
The
moonbeams play gracefully on the rippling surface, here and there appearing
like liquid silver, that each instant changed its position and surface exposed
to the light.
Such
a moment—such a scene, were by far too well calculated to cause the most solemn
and serious emotions of the mind, and he must have been but at best insensible,
who could wander over meadow and through grove, and yet remain untouched by the
scene of poetry and romance in which he breathed and moved.
At
such a time, and in such a place, the world is alive with all the finer
essences of mysterious life. 'Tis at such an hour that the spirits quit their
secret abodes, and visit the earth, and whirl round the enchanted trees.
'Tis
now the spirits of earth and air dance their giddy flight from flower to
flower. 'Tis now they collect and exchange their greetings; the wood is filled
with them, the meadows teem with them, the hedges at the river side have them
hidden among the deep green leaves and blades.
But
what is that yonder, on the stones, partially out of the water—what can it be?
The more it is looked at, the more it resembles the human form—and yet it is
still and motionless on the hard stones—and yet it is a human form. The legs
are lying in the water, the arms appear to be partially in and partially out,
they seem moved by the stream now and then, but very gently—so slightly,
indeed, that it might well be questioned if it moved at all.
The
moon's rays had not yet reached it; the bank on the opposite side of the stream
was high, and some tall trees rose up and obscured the moon. But she was rising
higher and higher each moment, and, finally, when it has reached the tops of
those trees, then the rays will reach the middle of the river, and then, by
degrees, it will reach the stones in the river, and, finally, the body that
lies there so still and so mysteriously.
How
it came there it would be difficult to say. It appeared as though, when the
waters were high, the body had floated down, and, at the subsidence of the
waters, it had been left upon the stones, and now it was exposed to view.
It
was strange and mysterious, and those who might look upon such a sight would
feel their blood chill, and their body creep, to contemplate the remains of
humanity in such a place, and in such a condition as that must be in.
A
human life had been taken! How? Who could tell? Perhaps accident alone was the
cause of it; perhaps some one had taken a life by violent means, and thrown the
body in the waters to conceal the fact and the crime.
The
waters had brought it down, and deposited it there in the middle of the river,
without any human creature being acquainted with the fact.
But
the moon rises—the beams come trembling through the tree tops and straggling
branches, and fall upon the opposite bank, and there lies the body, mid stream,
and in comparative darkness.
By
the time the river is lit up by the moon's rays, then the object on the stones
will be visible, then it can be ascertained what appears now only probable,
namely, is the dark object a human form or not?
In
the absence of light it appears to be so, but when the flood of silver light
falls upon it, it would be placed then beyond a doubt.
The
time is approaching—the moon each moment approaches her meridian, and each
moment do the rays increase in number and in strength, while the shadows
shorten.
The
opposite bank each moment becomes more and more distinct, and the side of the
stream, the green rushes and sedges, all by degrees come full into view.
Now
and then a fish leaps out of the stream, and just exhibits itself, as much as
to say, "There are things living in the stream, and I am one of
them."